01-17-2017, 01:31 PM
For the first time in his short life, he is free - free!
Sinew does not look after him and Famine does not follow him;
Feast can do as he pleases.
His pinkish upper lip curls away from his baby teeth and his gray lower lip.
Feast bares his teeth in a grin, but there is no good nature in it - just glut and greed, as he savors the idea of having no sickly twin to stalk his side, or the overbearing eyes of their mother upon him. He can do as he pleases, and the idea sinks into his brain in rich wormy pleasure until he is fat and happy from it. Feast thinks of a grand adventure away from the dusty spine and sallow stomach of a ravaged Pangea, a prince’s kingdom of rot and ruin - he loves it, as best as one like him can love a land as dry and disgusting as that, but the idea of the dark forest and her sable temptations curls a twiggy finger at him and he can do little more than give in to her suggestion.
Come, the forest beckons, fat and full of promise of things like beetles and skeletons.
Feast goes to her, loses himself in the crooks of her thorny and bracken-y arms and becomes crowned in the bloodied scratches and dirty kisses of her hard love. His eyes, black like his mother’s, are hard and bright like berries in his face as they leap from shadow to branch to rocks on the path before his cloven feet. He moves brutishly, uncaringly, though the forest’s dark gut until he emerges in a great showy cloud of snow thrown upwards by his sudden halt. Feast laughs aloud, pleased at himself, his own gut fit to burst in a prince’s first foolish taste of pride.
(Colts will be colts; a proud and foolish lot that think there are no limits to their life and strength of self. No limits, no ends, only them - large and overripe.)
Feast turns his black eyes to a beast he almost takes to be his father, but the shape is a tad smaller as if it has not achieved its full height and it certainly has none of the roughness of father’s ilk - a life lived fully, completely, gluttonously and gloriously. No, not quite, he tells himself because he is smart enough to realize that this must be some relation of his, halved only because it is no foal of Sinew’s - he knows their like, strange beasts, all of them. Strange too, this silver-dark goat-brother of his that sniffs the ground like a dog, how beneath him!
“What are you doing?” he asks, lacking a trace of curiosity in his tone.
Sinew does not look after him and Famine does not follow him;
Feast can do as he pleases.
His pinkish upper lip curls away from his baby teeth and his gray lower lip.
Feast bares his teeth in a grin, but there is no good nature in it - just glut and greed, as he savors the idea of having no sickly twin to stalk his side, or the overbearing eyes of their mother upon him. He can do as he pleases, and the idea sinks into his brain in rich wormy pleasure until he is fat and happy from it. Feast thinks of a grand adventure away from the dusty spine and sallow stomach of a ravaged Pangea, a prince’s kingdom of rot and ruin - he loves it, as best as one like him can love a land as dry and disgusting as that, but the idea of the dark forest and her sable temptations curls a twiggy finger at him and he can do little more than give in to her suggestion.
Come, the forest beckons, fat and full of promise of things like beetles and skeletons.
Feast goes to her, loses himself in the crooks of her thorny and bracken-y arms and becomes crowned in the bloodied scratches and dirty kisses of her hard love. His eyes, black like his mother’s, are hard and bright like berries in his face as they leap from shadow to branch to rocks on the path before his cloven feet. He moves brutishly, uncaringly, though the forest’s dark gut until he emerges in a great showy cloud of snow thrown upwards by his sudden halt. Feast laughs aloud, pleased at himself, his own gut fit to burst in a prince’s first foolish taste of pride.
(Colts will be colts; a proud and foolish lot that think there are no limits to their life and strength of self. No limits, no ends, only them - large and overripe.)
Feast turns his black eyes to a beast he almost takes to be his father, but the shape is a tad smaller as if it has not achieved its full height and it certainly has none of the roughness of father’s ilk - a life lived fully, completely, gluttonously and gloriously. No, not quite, he tells himself because he is smart enough to realize that this must be some relation of his, halved only because it is no foal of Sinew’s - he knows their like, strange beasts, all of them. Strange too, this silver-dark goat-brother of his that sniffs the ground like a dog, how beneath him!
“What are you doing?” he asks, lacking a trace of curiosity in his tone.