resurrect the saint within the wretch
As the starlight deepens so does the darkness, almost writhing as early evening gives way into the dead stillness of night. The world around them ebbs and flows like it always does as if impervious to their conversation and the deadliness that is trapped along Warden’s hardened jawline; as if the future didn’t affect the chirping crickets or the steady howl of a mournful gale through the pines. It’s almost as if they alone (both of them now, when it used to just be the Watcher to carry such burdens) are the only ones aware of the passage of time, the onward march forward into destruction and death and mayhem. Warden’s lips twitch passively, but there is darkness brewing in the deep navy of his eyes; a darkness that is not unfamiliar, shadowing his face and reminding him of exactly who he is and who he has been created to be. His gaze slides to Lilliana, expressionless besides the haunting shadow that perches there.
He doesn’t mean to be so bitter, so disheartened. But the barbs are there, pressing in at all sides, reminding him of his mortality and that of those around him; of dragon fire seen in a dream and the struggling breath of a stranger gasping for air, or shattered ruby glass by the seashore. It is all encompassing and though there is anger in his heart, it gives way to hopelessness. What can be done? He had been cursed with the power of foresight but with not abilities to do anything; only horns and the jewels encrusting his chest and the blue-black of his opaled hooves, and the perfectly white wings perched alongside his topline.
Lilliana’s voice is slick with warning and it makes the stallion lift his chin slightly, surveying her with a tip of his horned head. He says nothing, of course, because it seems the finality in his words only causes more anguish, and he decides that falling into silence might be the best choice at the moment; especially with that dangerous gleam in her normally warm (albiet sad) eyes.
Do you know what it’s like? she dares him and the Watcher’s eyes narrow. His chin lowers, shadows from his horns and Leonidas’ light making him look menacing as he remains silent, preparing himself for whatever may come next - he knows she isn’t foolish enough to accuse him of not knowing pain and suffering, but he continues to watch her intently, wondering how long it would take before the walls she has built up comes crumbling down.
Warden’s fell long ago on a winter’s night when he was only a colt. He had been rebuilding ever since and perhaps that is why he appears to be made of stone.
Maybe that is why when her words fly so vehemently from her lips, there is no surprise or anger that finds the sharp angles of his pale face.
However, he had so easily forgotten her ability to share memories and to read his own; he takes a visible step back when she shares intrusively, causing his dark ears to fall into the tangles of his mane. It felt like a vision taking over, he remembers from their first encounter, and panic hangs tightly in his chest. His jaw clenches, his deep blue-black hooves digging into the earth as if her very memory will send him reeling into the darkness just behind him. When it fades (just barely, still seared into his mind like a vision itself), his eyes refocus on her, dark and wary. She is glowing, adding to the silver-blue light that Leonidas sheds above them.
The Watcher surveys her with knowing eyes, despite the fervor that burns in the depths of her own.
“Nobody should,” he replies uncannily, without emotion, “but they still do.” Warden pauses, feeling the pulsing heat of her glow and trying to resettle himself from the waves of her memories (that he cannot admit still sit ill with him). “Did you?” He asks suddenly, curious, contemplative. “Carry those burdens on your own?”
@[lilliana]
