Whatever softness may have been born in him died quickly.
Whatever may have dulled his edges and brought out the beauty of nature instead of the violence of it died the second that Starsin told him the truth. It died the second that Kensa was honest with him. It left him crueler than before—more hateful because it was easier to let it slip out instead of swallowing it.
He ends up, eventually, by the river where the roar of it can almost dull out the screaming in his head. His wings are still useless and charcoal by his side, jagged and heavy and rough, leaving his merlot sides scraped and raw. His expression is furious, heavy, and he feels the heat of it rise up in his throat.
How ridiculous of him to think that he would ever get a happy ending.
How ridiculous of him to think that he would ever be able to fall in love.
The poison of his disappointment, of that brutal and toxic hopelessness, seeps through him until he is nearly swollen with it—every inch of him seeping in the strange, feral rage that consumes him. For a second he closes his light grey eyes and tilts his head back, feeling the starlight fall down on him and catching the cold bite of autumn as the spray of the river carries through the wind to his red chest.
He considers stepping into the water until it rushes around his legs and cleans the droplets of blood from his side. He considers if it will make him feel cleaner; if maybe he could walk away new.
But such things are futile hopes now.
Once, he had told her that she would maybe help him sleep through the night. Now, with the heartache so fresh a wound and her memory a dagger in his ribs, he knows she will be the reason that it rarely comes.
BRIGADE
when I was a man I thought it ended when I knew love's perfect ache
but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake
