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i am the vanguard of your destruction
He's tired, battered, and confused.
He'd set fire to his dreams, he'd set fire to the air itself—he'd very nearly set fire to Ophelia. It hung like a weight between his ribs, a heavy ache in his mind, forcing his thoughts down and inwards as he trailed after the broken angel. Fire had never been his. He had always been winter, the snow and the cold, the slow, steady movement and grudges, longevity. Fire had belonged to his eldest sister, Eldrúna, just like the winds belonged to Sarazheha.
The only brother of blood he had left. The wars had taken the rest.
The wars had taken nearly everything from him.
He swallowed, moved along in her wake with a lopsided kind of amble. Two ugly slashes, crusted over and stiff, marred the marbled perfection of his left shoulder, and each step was short, so as to not tear the healing edges open and start the process all again. The skin on his chest and neck was seared, mottled with minor burns.
But it didn't matter. It didn't matter as long as he still had her in his sights, the ghost he fled after on aching legs. It didn't matter where they went, either. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to, off its Edge and into the oceans if she bade him.
Irma and Diego left the space above him, sped forth on broad, silent wings, their minds whispering that they remembered, they had seen this before, it had given them the holly branch last time they saw it, this odd tree of lights and glitter and things. It drew them in. It drew everyone in.
He still only had eyes for her. Silently he limped up on her other side, offering Kahlua a long look of tired greeting before settling. Apologizing with his silence. Close enough to be near, not near enough to be close.
He didn't want to hurt her anymore.
Irma angled away, set her sights on a red bay and a hellhound—swept in low to settle on his broad cherry ass.
He'd set fire to his dreams, he'd set fire to the air itself—he'd very nearly set fire to Ophelia. It hung like a weight between his ribs, a heavy ache in his mind, forcing his thoughts down and inwards as he trailed after the broken angel. Fire had never been his. He had always been winter, the snow and the cold, the slow, steady movement and grudges, longevity. Fire had belonged to his eldest sister, Eldrúna, just like the winds belonged to Sarazheha.
The only brother of blood he had left. The wars had taken the rest.
The wars had taken nearly everything from him.
He swallowed, moved along in her wake with a lopsided kind of amble. Two ugly slashes, crusted over and stiff, marred the marbled perfection of his left shoulder, and each step was short, so as to not tear the healing edges open and start the process all again. The skin on his chest and neck was seared, mottled with minor burns.
But it didn't matter. It didn't matter as long as he still had her in his sights, the ghost he fled after on aching legs. It didn't matter where they went, either. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to, off its Edge and into the oceans if she bade him.
Irma and Diego left the space above him, sped forth on broad, silent wings, their minds whispering that they remembered, they had seen this before, it had given them the holly branch last time they saw it, this odd tree of lights and glitter and things. It drew them in. It drew everyone in.
He still only had eyes for her. Silently he limped up on her other side, offering Kahlua a long look of tired greeting before settling. Apologizing with his silence. Close enough to be near, not near enough to be close.
He didn't want to hurt her anymore.
Irma angled away, set her sights on a red bay and a hellhound—swept in low to settle on his broad cherry ass.
