[private] every rule we follow was also made to break;

[firion]

FIRION

Firion walks a fine line between despair and arrogance—between wanting to be a presence in the life of his children and being convinced he would bring nothing but trouble. It is his certainty in his own faults that wins out in the end and he does his best to forget the seasons where he had acted without regard. The seasons where he covered numerous women. He convinces himself that nothing had taken and even though Fyr shares his coloring, he convinces himself that it is a coincidence. Nothing more.

But when Violence walk up to him, trailed by the boy who is so clearly a combination of the two, he knows. He knows and it settles like a stone in his chest—the fear rising up, the need to run.

He doesn’t though, and he considers that a testament to how much he has changed.

How much he wants to change.

Instead he remains still as he watches her, his golden eyes unreadable beneath the shifting gold of his forelock, his back leg cocked as though relaxed. “Violence,” he says her name simply, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth, and the shadow that accompanies him raises its head from where it curls on his back. She was one of the more interesting ones that he had met in those seasons, smelling of the death that so often chased him, and he makes no move to disappear or slip through the air like smoke.

He turns his attention toward the child, watching him carefully, before looking back up.

“He looks like a consequence,” wry humor on the edge of his mouth. “Does he have a name?”

so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)

@violence