|
Just the man I wanted to see echoed across his ears, and the sudden, impulsive urge to laugh seared through him – an intoxicating maelstrom of sadness, depravity, and guilt, because it should’ve been his father here, it should’ve been the mighty sentinel, the monstrous, bestial guardian, instead of his son, uncertain, unsure, and so ill-equipped to do anything but stare, smile, and nod. Why would anyone have need of the broken prince, the boy who sauntered across seas and oceans, the boy who could only conquer himself? She reached out to him, this femme he barely knew, a healer from shells and gulls, and there was a moment where the position before him seemed wholly insurmountable, even after days of tutoring his soldiers with trees and saplings, even after laboring and toiling, skirmishing and practicing, ready for the day his annihilation and abhorrence would mean something. Then he leaned forward, a forlorn acceptance, tipping his grin upwards so no one could see how far he’d plunged, not in front of strangers, not in front of menders, not in front of the wide, desolate world. They’d know soon enough anyway – whether he stumbled and fell, incapable of rising, or achieved greatness in the glimpse of an ever-shifting empire.
His eyes flickered back to the unknown femme, with her broad shoulders, her entangled, notched horns (made to pierce, made to stab, made to lacerate – and he could appreciate those for the vigor, for the brawn, for the tenacious edge they could give and grant to battles): Wessex notched into his memory for future acknowledgments and scrutiny. “A fellow soldier! My favorite rank!” The young General laughed, pretended it didn’t sound so haunted, so damned, meticulous, charismatic stare lingering along her figure – hoping she’d be strong, durable, obstinate, and defiant towards the rest of the world’s order, stubborn, willing to fight for the icy walls and the rising mountains, just as his sire had done for eons, just as he’d promised on the day he’d taken up the mantle, the shield, the sword. At her sir he nearly flinched, surprised, a bit startled; but smiling all the while, straightening out his shoulders too, his virile frame, the posture he’d honed for war (for vengeance, for justice, for all the lives spoiled by another, for all his friends massacred and destroyed). He dropped his head before her, swift and quick, before raising it again, bestowing an honor to another beast of warfare, then obliged with his charms, with his light vocals, with his curious, impish tones. “Are you experienced in fighting, Wessex?” There were moments unsaid too, coveted by the tone, by the unholy vows, by the rising of violence: are you capable of taking down another?
| |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
