resurrect the saint within the wretch
He likes to pretend that ancestors are not involved in the current events that have come to pass - that their watchful eye in the stars have not played a hand in each terrible thing he has witnessed, or simply watched as death and destruction wields its infinite sword. It swings much like a clock, time ticking away without anyone to stop its solemn march forward, deliberate and relentless. It’s covered in blood and tears and sweat, a thing that Warden had become familiar with far too soon and far too long. He nearly greets it like a friend, welcoming the sabotage that runs rampant like a plague. He can do nothing so he does nothing, yet in this moment beneaeth the winking starlight and darkness, he wonders if he should.
Do something.
Powerless is something he has always felt; dark and lonely and on the verge of collapse. Torn between what keeps him whole and what tears him in half. There is always hope for the future yet he cannot bring himself to fully live in that hope, knowing that the future will not change once he has seen it.
It always comes.
The horned stallion’s throat is tight with emotion, but he remains stoic and placid beneath the flickering starlight that spreads silver light between the two of them. The sadness in her eyes match his own and his dark blue eyes fill with unshed tears - the ones he saves for the departed he has yet to know, the ones he witnesses in the future but not in his own time. Her voice comes to him and it is not how he remembers - she is broken, unlike their last encounter. He scowls, disliking the way that darkness has come to shroud the brightness she once gave him, his ears falling into the darkness of his mane on his neck.
“Maybe,” he replies darkly, not believing her but not wishing to speak against her. He cannot imagine that anyone should see what he sees - but he will not strip her of this if that is what she wishes to cling to. He will not tear her down when there is so much that already has. He turns his ivory face away from her, staring into the darkness of the forest and allowing the cold to seep deeper into his bones and in his chest.
A single ear pricks towards her, his dark gaze flickering towards her. “The cycle can’t be broken.” His voice is flat and even, deliberate and with a sharpened edge that he carries wearily. There is finality in his voice, grave and full of caution. His face turns to her once again, the deep blue opal of his horns sparkling in the light of Leonidas’ glow.
“But perhaps it can be bent.”
@[lilliana]