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08-15-2015, 04:13 PM
When, Fractures
He loved me so much
He loved me I
I can't think
but I know that he
loved me, he
loved me he
once stood right here
like this, once stood
once lived
once breathed,
once touched
his nose to that
last lock
I once touched to his
he was breathing,
I was standing
we were standing
then he died.
ASHAMIN
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
BEAUTY IS PERCEPTION
Deimos was... odd. Ashamin respected him, would likely follow his leadership to the very border of morality and sin, but there was something undeniably off about the herd's lead. He still kept a distance between them, as if they were not family. And weren't they, family? That was what Hotaru had said, anyway. But perhaps the lords and ladies all valued their underlings differently.
Ashamin didn't really see Deimos as the kind of fellow to kick back with. He was too tense, as if something was always bothering him. And he had that dark look, that tired look, as if he were constantly being drained of life. Ashamin nodded, partly to himself, at the other man's grunt. He hoped for, but did not expect, anything more. Something to fill in the silence between the waves' crashing, a comment to alleviate the tension.
Absently, slowly, subtly, Ashamin moved closer to the reaper. Lochan kicked out as Ashamin approached, loosening the sarong's grip about his neck, but he only bent lower and nudged the little creature to be still. And he felt too tired, too weak, to fight more than that. Had he always felt so aching, so winded? Even as he stepped closer to Deimos, approaching from behind a man who would surely cause him no harm, he felt the sensation of a tightening around his heart, a pulling at his legs. Maybe it was just the sand, unfamiliar beneath his tread, causing him to sink, to fall lower, deeper, into a state of exhaustion.
The paint tried to focus on something else. Deimos liked the sea, then, did he? Yes, it was certainly something to look at. "I'm not... terribly familiar with it..." Ashamin murmured, his voice sounding almost raspy, his throat catching as he spoke. He tried to clear it, tried to catch his breath, but nothing helped. Surely he was overtired, then, surely he just needed rest.
Lochan kept kicking, kicking like struggling, struggling like choking, choking like dying. And all the while the Haruspex shook his head, felt his lids drop as the effort to raise them became more difficult and the distance between himself and his lord grew shorter. He felt the need to steady himself, but also impulsively to touch this beast, this reaper, whom he had never seen cared for or tended to. Ashamin remembered, through a haze, how his father had touched him, so gently and tenderly, at the point on his neck where his black hair parted into a small section of white. And he remembered too how he had returned that gesture and touched his own nose to his father's white forelock and the strong, horned brow beneath it. How kind that brush of nose to neck and crest had felt, how much he longed for it now.
Could Deimos be that to him, then? A father? Was he desperate or delirious, exhausted or filled with longing? Or did that one lock of white, draped so loosely across the reaper's neck, simply remind him of Veril?
Lochan kicked violently, gasping as the distance grew shorter, the air between dangerously thin. The sarong loosened, the knot slipped, and in a flash the companion tumbled to the earth, awoke completely, and tried to warn his bonded of the danger.
But it was too late--Ashamin was already reaching out, seeking to touch that deadly lock of white.
Table by Jen, with help from Avis
See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
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