jamie
03-10-2021, 02:07 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
It is not pride he feels, not exactly.
The shadow thing had never had any use for such a useless emotion. (What had there ever been that was worth being proud of? He had been born weak. Crippled. It shows still in the way the breath wheezes and rattles. The power he has attained is not worth pride either, is it? No, it is only the natural progression of things.)
It is not pride, but it is something like it.
A glow that starts in the cavern of his chest and spreads steadily outward. A kind of warmth that only his beloved sister can inspire. The same feeling that had consumed him when she had stepped between him and the sun, protecting him without him having to ask.
It is not pride, but he flashes that ink-black, shark-tooth smile all the same.
He is not responsible for the darkness, not directly, but he thrives in it. The thrill of it hums electric in the network of his mottled veins. (He is still not convinced that he is made from flesh and blood and sinew, only that he had been made so in order to battle his way through the Alliance by some strange magic.)
“I cannot take responsibility for the darkness, can I?” he asks, still grinning, freakish yellow eyes glowing something brilliant in those terrible shadows. It had been Beyza that he had sought out in the immediate aftermath. Beyza who had told him of the sacrifice she had made, Beyza who had made good on her promise to bring his true home to Beqanna. “It was Beyza,” he says and sighs some great rasping sigh. The great white magician.
But he tilts his peculiar head at what she says next, a strange twinge in his chest. Are there secrets between them? He does not try to reach into his beloved sister’s mind. He would not betray her this way. Instead, he curls himself sweetly around her. Fog and smoke. It has always been them. Before anything else, it was just the two of them.
“There is no score between us, Livinia,” he murmurs, insistent regardless of whether or not she had been teasing. “There will never be any score between us.”
He drags in a long, wheezing breath and feeds her the memory of the three of them as children: the white magician glowing bright as a small sun, the shadow thing averting his weary gaze, and his beloved sister wedged between them. “But if there were, we would always be even.”
The shadow thing had never had any use for such a useless emotion. (What had there ever been that was worth being proud of? He had been born weak. Crippled. It shows still in the way the breath wheezes and rattles. The power he has attained is not worth pride either, is it? No, it is only the natural progression of things.)
It is not pride, but it is something like it.
A glow that starts in the cavern of his chest and spreads steadily outward. A kind of warmth that only his beloved sister can inspire. The same feeling that had consumed him when she had stepped between him and the sun, protecting him without him having to ask.
It is not pride, but he flashes that ink-black, shark-tooth smile all the same.
He is not responsible for the darkness, not directly, but he thrives in it. The thrill of it hums electric in the network of his mottled veins. (He is still not convinced that he is made from flesh and blood and sinew, only that he had been made so in order to battle his way through the Alliance by some strange magic.)
“I cannot take responsibility for the darkness, can I?” he asks, still grinning, freakish yellow eyes glowing something brilliant in those terrible shadows. It had been Beyza that he had sought out in the immediate aftermath. Beyza who had told him of the sacrifice she had made, Beyza who had made good on her promise to bring his true home to Beqanna. “It was Beyza,” he says and sighs some great rasping sigh. The great white magician.
But he tilts his peculiar head at what she says next, a strange twinge in his chest. Are there secrets between them? He does not try to reach into his beloved sister’s mind. He would not betray her this way. Instead, he curls himself sweetly around her. Fog and smoke. It has always been them. Before anything else, it was just the two of them.
“There is no score between us, Livinia,” he murmurs, insistent regardless of whether or not she had been teasing. “There will never be any score between us.”
He drags in a long, wheezing breath and feeds her the memory of the three of them as children: the white magician glowing bright as a small sun, the shadow thing averting his weary gaze, and his beloved sister wedged between them. “But if there were, we would always be even.”
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD
@[Livinia]