hello {Tarnished only}

[Tarnished]

I watch you fast asleep,
All I fear means nothing.

Tarnished has spent his time in the sun, forged like a sword in its fire and raised in the heat of a jungle and a desert; it taught him to find comfort in rainy days, it made him welcome the dark instead of being afraid of it; there isn’t a crown in the world that rests easy on his head and a heart that doesn’t flutter when his family is mentioned. Most of them have known power since the day they were born, his cousin Straia is a fine example—and while he admires their drive, their absolute thirst for success, he often finds himself not sharing their sentiments.

Should he?

His mother had wanted him to, groomed him to.

She’d wanted him to rule the Deserts; be a protector, a guardian.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t.

He refuses to lift a finger to please her, if he can help it. Let her writhe around in her grave about it. About how an alliance she’d used her body to create never came to fruition. About how the son she’d poured all of her memories into hated her—because he knew, he knew what an awful creature she was.

But I digress.

If someone were to spot Tarnished among the sea of bodies in the meadow, they would notice his size first—a seventeen hands high stallion isn’t hard to notice, after all. They might take a look at his eyes and admire the intense gold, centered in the middle by black slits for pupils; they might notice he’s handsome, might notice the scars, the damage—no one ever notices the way he moves. It’s unlike the others in the sense that it’s more fluid, too quiet for a creature his size. He slinks between bodies like a wolf among sheep and in reality, he is.

He’s quite the successful hunter and can lay waste the entire meadow, if he wants to—if someone he loves should will it. It’s what made him so valuable to the cult and their cause; strength, coupled with agility is such a deadly combination. A fact they learned too little, too late. He is beautiful, but in a different sense—beautiful because there is something about danger and death that captivates the mind. A person might get torn asunder, but their soul shivers—anticipating sweet release.

She’s a small thing in comparison, a black thing, he might have mistook her for a mere shadow among the trees if she didn’t move so suddenly; he turns his head and matches her stare, equally analytical—equally curious. But she grows nervous before he does and starts looking around, almost as if she didn’t belong. He knows he doesn’t. So Tarnished moves in for a closer look, smiling—he might have even looked half-charming, if not for the sunlight glinting off his fangs. “Lost?” He asks, though he doesn’t really give off the impression that he’s going to help if she is. He’s never much cared for being a woman’s white knight, really; it’s only ever bad luck that he always finds himself filling the role. “Name’s Tarnished, or Nish, if you prefer.”

tarnished