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He wanted a greater instauration of knowledge, to fulfill the disjointed pieces of his patchy understanding of Helovia. After the elusive understanding he came, chasing fulfillment, hungry for words that would heal and mend, repair and restore, reconstruct and and refurbish; soothing sentences to sew shut the gaping wound of confusion in his head.
Who would be the first to come?
The air, chilled and frosted more than the temperate-rainforest boy enjoyed, burned in his cold lungs. It slithered and slipped, wallowing about in his chest, and he imagined, as he so often did, that it slowly killing him, that with each inhale he took more of the toxins caught and gathered, poisoning, choking, murdering. Carnesîr had had this obsession for a far longer time than any other aspect of his ever-changing persona; an eccentric infatuation with death. Not so much death itself as the idea of it, the reason for it, the concept. How could the intricate tapestry of the soul, the delicate identity full of histories and bursting with connections, simply disappear? How could the candle's light go out in less than a heartbeat? What happened after? Did one turn to a ghost, phantom, always walking and never able to speak? Was it, as his mother believed, that they tread the path of the sky and lived in the sparkling, distant stars? Or was it his father's thought, that there was an utter nothingness? It was a concept too huge to wrap his mind around; and that was the flaw in his mortal body, the inability to understand and accept the inevitable thing of nothing.
A voice, soft, richly layered with quiet charisma, lilting and shifting as the voice of his people, broke into his thoughts. No, that was too harsh a word for this subtle song- it just appeared, beautiful a sound as the source. It was, naturally, a mare; only mares had he met in this land so far, except for the lordly Deimos, haughty and beguiling, frozen and stiff of mouth. Her coat was a rich hue, of the rare chocolate his mother occasionally bought at the vividly-hued marketplace, her mane and tail spun of silken shadow, and crowning her forehead a curving horn chipped from obsidian and crafted into what he strikes him of a writing utensil rather than sword cut for battle. Ink is mightier than the alicorn, her mother once told him when he returned, splattered in the blood of his sister.
Then she wept and fled his presence.
"Not impressive much as foolish," Carnesîr answered, tipping his brow to her politely, a smile gracing his charcoal lips for her (who was a Her, certainly.) "But thank you. Carnesîr am I. Boe ammen veriad lîn." In his native language, words flow like water, so unlike the crudely cut language of Helovia. They are soft words, tiny and small.
He wants her to ask what they mean.
The card games and ease with the bitter salt of blood
I was in but I want out
My mother's love is choking me
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