They take turns speaking, exchanging useless information and bartering with identities, some demands are made and Skywalker finds himself amidst it all, bored already. He is efficient with his time, has always been, and this lazy manner in which they acquaint themselves with each other settles on his shoulders, an aggravating itch. They should have better things to occupy themselves with, he thinks sullenly as the pouch-carrying Oxy dawdles in petty hostilities. But he remains quiet and his face does not bear testimony of his disapproval. Instead he glances at the Pegasus huddling in the shadow of the glass-horned mare, he lingers with her for a moment, as if he were a wolf of slathering jaws made aware of it’s prey. The moment, however, is brief and his attention soon shifts to the mare that is addressing him – he ignores the rest of their company; while she has not given him her name she has betrayed her authority by the simple whim of her demand. He narrows his eyes, fixating her in the stinking dark, and they are like rain falling slowly. Then follows another smile: a mockery of the sentiment it is supposed to convey. “I am not so much tortured,” he answers coolly and raises his ugly head to a proud, haughty inclination without ever releasing her gaze, “as I am obsessed.”
He does not care to explain further, as he doubts that any of them would truly understand the fever that constantly haunts him, the desire that he can never abandon, the lack of sleep, the hunger and the constancy of his irrationale. How could they possibly begin to fathom the immensity of his sickness; that fearful ambition turned into murderous plight – that godforsaken thing that never relinquishes its steely grip around his throat? No, they will not understand, and nor will they want to when they realize that whatever it is that drives him relentlessly onwards is the selfsame thing that, in time, will bring them glory, supremacy, irrevocability.
Skywalker, terrible engine of death and pestilence, is come unto them, a messiah.
S K Y W A L K E R.
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[O] [[Asylum]]Sometimes, I imagine six impossible things before breakfast.
