06-02-2024, 12:39 PM
YOU'RE WALKING IN THE SHADOWS OF YOUR FEAR AND YOU'RE HEADED
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
It does not take long for Beyza to find him. His eyes are drawn to her glowing white form — thinking how it reminds him of starlight, and for a moment he is once again struck out how she is such a contrast to him — but almost instantly they stray from her and fall to the two small boys at her side. His chest squeezes tightly, but his expression remains unchanged, and mostly unreadable thanks to the shifting shadows. He can see immediately that they are like him, but also so curiously similar to their mother, with pale coloring swathed in shadow. This does little to alleviate the guilt that he feels crawling up his skin.
He wonders if they already feel it — the insatiable cravings, the undeniable feeling that they are different. He had not been born a bodach; he does not know what it’s like to be one when it is all you’ve ever known.
Perhaps it is easier, and he pities them (no; pities himself) for no reason.
He forces his gaze to lift, recognizing that he has stared at them for too long, fixing his red eyes to her peculiar white ones. “Beyza,” he returns her greeting, though it is awkwardly delayed. Beneath the shadows of his brow there is a frown, but he recognizes it and smooths it away, not wanting her to think that he is displeased by their children. He is not; he has never denied or disliked any of them. “I’m sorry I did not find you sooner,” he says, though he isn’t sure why. Somehow she has found herself in the small category of individuals that he thinks about when he is not being held captive by the infinite hunger.
Now, he looks back to the boys; Harrowed and Evade, she had named them. He lowers his head, though he does not step towards them, simply tells them, “I’m your father, Torryn.”
He wonders if they already feel it — the insatiable cravings, the undeniable feeling that they are different. He had not been born a bodach; he does not know what it’s like to be one when it is all you’ve ever known.
Perhaps it is easier, and he pities them (no; pities himself) for no reason.
He forces his gaze to lift, recognizing that he has stared at them for too long, fixing his red eyes to her peculiar white ones. “Beyza,” he returns her greeting, though it is awkwardly delayed. Beneath the shadows of his brow there is a frown, but he recognizes it and smooths it away, not wanting her to think that he is displeased by their children. He is not; he has never denied or disliked any of them. “I’m sorry I did not find you sooner,” he says, though he isn’t sure why. Somehow she has found herself in the small category of individuals that he thinks about when he is not being held captive by the infinite hunger.
Now, he looks back to the boys; Harrowed and Evade, she had named them. He lowers his head, though he does not step towards them, simply tells them, “I’m your father, Torryn.”
T O R R Y N
@
Beyza