03-07-2022, 02:52 PM
T U M U L T
He does not wilt beneath her appraisal but instead seems to harden, his jaw clenching. He tries not to imagine all the flaws she is finding. He tries not to wonder if she can look at him and see all the things he cannot do—that he cannot shape storms to his every whim, that his wings grow useless in the sunshine, that the lightning in the clouds of his coat is only for show. As far as he can tell the most useful thing he can do is create electricity, but for one that rarely sought to bring harm to anyone else, it was a useless skill for him.
Her wings shift to match his, and his gray eyes narrow as he tries to silently decipher what this means. Perhaps it is meant to be mocking; to rub salt into the wound of all that he cannot do. He realizes though, quickly, that his suspicions are not only unfounded, but unfair. She is merely a girl—younger than he is, based on the youthful brightness to her face. Not only that, but she is a stranger. His assumptions come from his own insecurities, and he wonders how low he must be to feel threatened by a young girl.
And just like that, the negativity diminishes, washed away like a storm.
“Aios,” he repeats her name, tasting the rain and fog of it, wrapping it in the thunder of his own voice. “My name is Tumult,” a name that speaks of chaos and clatter, when he is merely a rainstorm.
“I have never met another like you,” he tells her, honestly, and it is only then that a small smile flickers across his lips, similar to the lightning.
Her wings shift to match his, and his gray eyes narrow as he tries to silently decipher what this means. Perhaps it is meant to be mocking; to rub salt into the wound of all that he cannot do. He realizes though, quickly, that his suspicions are not only unfounded, but unfair. She is merely a girl—younger than he is, based on the youthful brightness to her face. Not only that, but she is a stranger. His assumptions come from his own insecurities, and he wonders how low he must be to feel threatened by a young girl.
And just like that, the negativity diminishes, washed away like a storm.
“Aios,” he repeats her name, tasting the rain and fog of it, wrapping it in the thunder of his own voice. “My name is Tumult,” a name that speaks of chaos and clatter, when he is merely a rainstorm.
“I have never met another like you,” he tells her, honestly, and it is only then that a small smile flickers across his lips, similar to the lightning.
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
@aios