[private] every rule we follow was also made to break;

[violence]

violence

 
Motherhood is not a language Violence speaks fluently, if she speaks it at all. Her own mother had born children out of practicality, breeding with her monster consort to see what things she could produce. Violence, the first, had been a letdown – she lacked the monstrous shape of her father, unlike the sisters that came after. Never mind that she was powerful – she could raise the dead, make bones walk, take over others’ minds – she was simply not of interest to her mother. Violence never felt as if she was missing out – she had not longed for a mother’s kind touch, or loving words – but she had begrudged that her mother refused to enhance her when Violence had asked.
Violence had no interest in bearing her own children. She ignored her heats, when they came, because she had no interest in taking such a thing on, no desire to bear and feed a child. She was content with her bone-creation, her thing made of a dozen different species that she animates for no reason other than the fact that she can.
 
But she had slipped. He’d been all darkness and power, and had been pleasant enough to talk to, and so she had let him cover her. She’d hoped, after, that it wouldn’t take, but her barrel grew and soon she could not deny what was brewing inside her.
She’d assumed, when labor finally came and the dark, wretched thing slipped out of her, that it would be a girl. Her mother had borne only girls (at least as long as Violence had stuck around to see them), and Violence had assumed she would, too. There was no logic behind this assumption, but when she realized that she had, in fact, given birth to a son, she felt unmoored in a way she could not quite articulate.
She names him prime, because it seems as good a name as any.
 
She does not love him, but she lets him suckle, her only real acquiescence to motherhood. She should have been pleased – the days pass and the boy is handsome, black with gold about him. More importantly, he’s powerful – a necromancer, like her, with a taste of the demonic, like his father.
It’s his father she seeks now, the child at her heels. She isn’t sure that she’ll find him – she knows little about him, other than his name, and the fact he’s a magician – but Violence often gets what she wants, so she goes into the forest expecting to find him, dual shadows trailing behind her and her son.
 

these violent delights bring violent ends

@firion

[firion]

FIRION

Firion walks a fine line between despair and arrogance—between wanting to be a presence in the life of his children and being convinced he would bring nothing but trouble. It is his certainty in his own faults that wins out in the end and he does his best to forget the seasons where he had acted without regard. The seasons where he covered numerous women. He convinces himself that nothing had taken and even though Fyr shares his coloring, he convinces himself that it is a coincidence. Nothing more.

But when Violence walk up to him, trailed by the boy who is so clearly a combination of the two, he knows. He knows and it settles like a stone in his chest—the fear rising up, the need to run.

He doesn’t though, and he considers that a testament to how much he has changed.

How much he wants to change.

Instead he remains still as he watches her, his golden eyes unreadable beneath the shifting gold of his forelock, his back leg cocked as though relaxed. “Violence,” he says her name simply, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth, and the shadow that accompanies him raises its head from where it curls on his back. She was one of the more interesting ones that he had met in those seasons, smelling of the death that so often chased him, and he makes no move to disappear or slip through the air like smoke.

He turns his attention toward the child, watching him carefully, before looking back up.

“He looks like a consequence,” wry humor on the edge of his mouth. “Does he have a name?”

so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)

@violence