i hold hope like water; any

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever   He doesn’t know who he is, without them. He builds his identity on other things – on monsters and magicians and oh, his perfect son – and then they are gone and he is left behind, hollow. He doesn’t know how to be, how to move and act and think without someone to kneel before, someone to worship, in whatever form that takes. He is meant to belong to others, and when the others are gone, he is simply…there.   Still, he moves, because if he stands still for too long he thinks he might go mad, teeth gnashing and screams building, so he walks and twists and turns and moves with no plan in mind. Today it’s the meadow, and it’s spring, flowers blooming and he is alone. The turmoil is not so obvious on the outside – Rapt is handsome enough, golden as sunlight, a strength to his build (a remnant of the draft breeding of his grandfather). He’s desert-bred, but prefers the richness of the meadows and forests to the aching heat of the sands. There’s a smile on his face, tight and false, but there. He pretends that he is not hollow, that he is the kind of man who is capable of making something of himself, that he doesn’t long to kneel before whoever would have him.   rapt caius x else