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08-06-2012, 01:37 AM
(I apologize for this being the furthest thing from fancy-looking ever. XD I'm not smart enough to figure it out yet.)
Nevin isn't sure if he believes in angels. Doesn't know if he can weave a believable story out of servants to an unseen deity, both benevolent and catastrophic in the same breath, with many pairs of wings and faces so beautiful (or else terrifying) that just to gaze upon them would drive a man to madness. He supposes that, if there are angels out there, he is one of them.
But Nevin doesn't believe in angels.
He doesn't believe in much of anything.
Didn't believe that the world could collapse beneath him even as he walked upon it, or that the elements themselves could relent. He has seen tragedy. Has seen chaos. He has tasted armageddon and found is strangely saccharine, as if it were candy on his tongue. When he is alone, the spidery horse sometimes dreams of the apocalypse, of angels and their lunatic faces, and imagines that he might be the one to bring it about. Stand before it with his eyelashes highlighted by fire in his hands and smile fondly at it as if it were a child. A masterpiece, even.
They say he has gone mad. Perhaps they are right. If asked, however, Nevin would just shrug and shake his head. He is far too proud, far too deluded, to entertain the fancies of strangers. Desperation alone has driven him to Helovia with his coat dirty and his eyes dull. A kinder man may have accepted the help of strangers. May have taken the girl that loved him and run away with her, fulfilling all of those flippant promises to hand her the world on a string (so long as he was holding it). But she has left him.
Left because Nevin, one night, presses his lips against her ear and asked for the world.
She delivered it on a silver platter.
He had only sneered and asked for gold.
But the fact of the matter is that he is dirty and dead-eyed and drags himself through over the threshold with a quiet grunt of dissatisfaction. He has come a long way. Been ruined and rebuilt himself into something he sees as perfect. He has yet to realize just how wrong he is.
But Nevin doesn't believe in angels.
He doesn't believe in much of anything.
Didn't believe that the world could collapse beneath him even as he walked upon it, or that the elements themselves could relent. He has seen tragedy. Has seen chaos. He has tasted armageddon and found is strangely saccharine, as if it were candy on his tongue. When he is alone, the spidery horse sometimes dreams of the apocalypse, of angels and their lunatic faces, and imagines that he might be the one to bring it about. Stand before it with his eyelashes highlighted by fire in his hands and smile fondly at it as if it were a child. A masterpiece, even.
They say he has gone mad. Perhaps they are right. If asked, however, Nevin would just shrug and shake his head. He is far too proud, far too deluded, to entertain the fancies of strangers. Desperation alone has driven him to Helovia with his coat dirty and his eyes dull. A kinder man may have accepted the help of strangers. May have taken the girl that loved him and run away with her, fulfilling all of those flippant promises to hand her the world on a string (so long as he was holding it). But she has left him.
Left because Nevin, one night, presses his lips against her ear and asked for the world.
She delivered it on a silver platter.
He had only sneered and asked for gold.
But the fact of the matter is that he is dirty and dead-eyed and drags himself through over the threshold with a quiet grunt of dissatisfaction. He has come a long way. Been ruined and rebuilt himself into something he sees as perfect. He has yet to realize just how wrong he is.
