BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
OF MOVING ON
OF MOVING ON
It doesn’t shock him to see Eight amid the chaos. He knows his grandfather, has heard his burly voice above the silence in the Valley. Their meeting had been brief, lackluster, but Tiphon’s curiosity is piqued in this moment as their world is reborn. The jagged peaks that outlined the Valley and Dale have merged and shifted. The Deserts have been flooded and likely destroyed, but what has been spared in this turmoil? Tiphon spares a sideways glance to the trees towering above them noting how they groan with the strong winter gusts. With the world eating itself the seasons have also shifted and he wonders how much life will be impacted.
”We’re normal,” he says it almost painfully when the distance between them closes. Eight, although still with wings perched from his shoulder blades, lacks his finesse and horn; Tiphon can only assume that he has also undergone the same transformations. What halo had once surrounded him has dulled and he can no longer phase into their world. All that remains are wings, but even those are foreign. Tiphon peers back at them, his eyes reduced to narrow slits. It’s as though he has been tossed into another body, stripped of everything he has ever known. It’s frightening; the uncertainty of it all grips and chokes him, but he does well to mask it. His face his stern, his eyes searching. ”Shit has officially hit the fan,” a drawn out breath expels from his lungs not in defeat, but in concern. Their homes, their friends, their families; where are they and what happened?
Their eyes meet for the first time in years, except now they are equals (but can a grandfather and grandson ever be equals?) and stand in front of each other with nothing to display, no powers to behold. For the first time in their lives, they are normal, they are just Eight and Tiphon.
”We’re normal,” he says it almost painfully when the distance between them closes. Eight, although still with wings perched from his shoulder blades, lacks his finesse and horn; Tiphon can only assume that he has also undergone the same transformations. What halo had once surrounded him has dulled and he can no longer phase into their world. All that remains are wings, but even those are foreign. Tiphon peers back at them, his eyes reduced to narrow slits. It’s as though he has been tossed into another body, stripped of everything he has ever known. It’s frightening; the uncertainty of it all grips and chokes him, but he does well to mask it. His face his stern, his eyes searching. ”Shit has officially hit the fan,” a drawn out breath expels from his lungs not in defeat, but in concern. Their homes, their friends, their families; where are they and what happened?
Their eyes meet for the first time in years, except now they are equals (but can a grandfather and grandson ever be equals?) and stand in front of each other with nothing to display, no powers to behold. For the first time in their lives, they are normal, they are just Eight and Tiphon.
TIPHON
STARLACE AND INFECTION
@[hanna]