08-12-2021, 08:47 PM
kensley
i swore the days were over of courting empty dreams
This is what he has learned:
the things that have died do not always stay dead.
(He had been dead, you see, or something like it. There had been a heart in his chest but it did not beat. There had been lungs, too, but they had reeked of decay.)
He has learned, too, that there is nothing more painful than what it means to live again when death has feasted on the things that make you a living thing. He carries it with him, even still, the pain of rot in his joints and the stench of death on his breath.
He smells more of it now than he ever did when he was dead and maybe this is the strangest thing of all. (It was the frost that kept him from ever smell like a dead thing, you see. It preserved the body. He smells out of it now because the breath forces the smell up out of his lungs, the air carves it up out of his chest and this is not something he can help, no matter how sorry he is for it.)
Things have changed in such strange ways, haven’t they?
Because he had been dead and then he had been made whole again and now…
Now what is he?
He can hardly be called whole now, can he?
With the way the fog rolls off him in pale tendrils. And it is not just that it hugs him, no. It is him and he is it. He had awoken one morning to find that the fog had become him and this had made even less sense than emerging from the underworld already dead. There had been no explanation at all for it.
If he were being honest he would have to admit that he is too much of a coward to go looking for the answers.
So he simply wanders, just as he always has. He wanders and the fog follows in his wake and curls away from his body. And he finds that if he does not like the weather, he can change it and it really is that simple for him now.
He finds himself in the meadow now, which seems to be where he always ends up whether he means to or not. He is not seeking anyone out, for he almost never does, but he finds a familiar face anyway. Though the last time he saw her she was very small and he was dead and the heart started out frozen but had thawed with a painful twinge by the time they parted ways.
He goes to her without making the decision to.
“Aela,” he says, remembering how she had pressed the memory into his mind, remembering how she had been unable (or unwilling) to speak then. And he is so different now that he adds, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Kensley, we met once a long time ago.”
the things that have died do not always stay dead.
(He had been dead, you see, or something like it. There had been a heart in his chest but it did not beat. There had been lungs, too, but they had reeked of decay.)
He has learned, too, that there is nothing more painful than what it means to live again when death has feasted on the things that make you a living thing. He carries it with him, even still, the pain of rot in his joints and the stench of death on his breath.
He smells more of it now than he ever did when he was dead and maybe this is the strangest thing of all. (It was the frost that kept him from ever smell like a dead thing, you see. It preserved the body. He smells out of it now because the breath forces the smell up out of his lungs, the air carves it up out of his chest and this is not something he can help, no matter how sorry he is for it.)
Things have changed in such strange ways, haven’t they?
Because he had been dead and then he had been made whole again and now…
Now what is he?
He can hardly be called whole now, can he?
With the way the fog rolls off him in pale tendrils. And it is not just that it hugs him, no. It is him and he is it. He had awoken one morning to find that the fog had become him and this had made even less sense than emerging from the underworld already dead. There had been no explanation at all for it.
If he were being honest he would have to admit that he is too much of a coward to go looking for the answers.
So he simply wanders, just as he always has. He wanders and the fog follows in his wake and curls away from his body. And he finds that if he does not like the weather, he can change it and it really is that simple for him now.
He finds himself in the meadow now, which seems to be where he always ends up whether he means to or not. He is not seeking anyone out, for he almost never does, but he finds a familiar face anyway. Though the last time he saw her she was very small and he was dead and the heart started out frozen but had thawed with a painful twinge by the time they parted ways.
He goes to her without making the decision to.
“Aela,” he says, remembering how she had pressed the memory into his mind, remembering how she had been unable (or unwilling) to speak then. And he is so different now that he adds, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Kensley, we met once a long time ago.”
i worshipped at the altar of losing everything
@Aela