DIGGER, LISTENER, RUNNER
PRINCE WITH THE SWIFT WARNING
PRINCE WITH THE SWIFT WARNING
Arrogance is a speciality of his, it is true.
Stupidity—or, carelessness, as it is—was never a deliberate thing, so much as an inclination he had from a very young age. It is the consequence of unchecked privilege; the trappings of an unattended prince. Mother and father, doting as they were—prideful, well-intentioned—never did the things they needed to in order to set him straight. They let him go instead, flying of on the wind like an errant ember, setting fires where he settled.
It could be argued that this is as much their fault as it is his.
He doesn’t though. Of those redeemable things in the content of his character, that he takes full responsibility for his current predicament is one of them.
At some point, for what it is worth, he had found himself subsumed by a shuffling, almost zombie-like quest to self-destruct. With that in mind, it could be said that it is utterly ingenious of him to end up wandering through Mors. Except, of course, an ego like this only likes the idea of death because it feels ultimate and immortal—in truth, if he were to perish here in the vast desert, the sun-bleached house of bones left behind would mean nothing to anyone that passed them by, without so much as a glance. What a waste.
He can tell she isn’t a lesser girl—he has met many of them. They are much the same. Don’t get it wrong, he adores them. They are chiffon and rosewater. This woman is not. Perhaps because she has spent too much time in this place—hardened and made coppery-metallic by the weight of an unforgiving sun. Or, maybe she had been born that way—as he had been born cock-grinning and swaggering. His sharp, pink-ish eyes travel down the cleave of that scar on her face. Impressive. He has no scars. He is clean and silvery, but then, this body has not been his for so very long.
Yes, they are different. Mirroring each other like a sun and a moon might. But, so are there similarities. Those similarities, however, are poised like dry kindling, waiting to be lit a fire—the mischief, hubris, vanity, charm, cunning. No. these two are made to be a friend or foe, in the most extreme. (But, then, everything is extreme to Maximus—where is the fun without the stakes?) “Yes,” he agrees, with that smooth, prying tone, ears twisting away. Tail wiggling. “Bexley, hmmm?” (he holds the urge to call her ‘Bex’ back like a man leashing a rabid dog—she got there first,) “Pleasure.”
He turns his bright gaze across the desert. From here, there are no signs of sandstone ramparts, spartan and strong, but a hinterland that has no welcome in its soul. She is right about another thing: he is not used to this kind of climate. He is used to damp earth and forest. But then, it was from damp earth and forest he was turned away most cruelly, so perhaps that needs to change. “Day Court?” his brow furrows curiously, “you mean, this isn’t just an endless death trap?”
Under the jest, there is a genuine interest flaring.
Neither rabbit nor equine were made to be alone.
IMAGE
