He is made of scars and bones and dust, a mere fraction of his former self, and as the sun beats down upon him he almost feels like he is the mirage in the distance. He is a fractured mess of parts, all angles and sharp edges meant to drive away anyone who ever got close enough, and he is so bitingly lonely he feels it like a pit in his chest where his ambitions used to rest. Once, he’d had great plans for himself -- the bastard prince who had craved a crown, the dark soldier turned away at the door, the mercenary with a bag of coins on his hip -- once, he had existed on something more than the madness that threatened to consume him every day. He knows he cannot continue on this path and survive, and yet, he doesn’t know how to turn around or forge his own path elsewhere. A shimmering mirage in the distance moves in time with the sands, and even while he watches it solidifies into the shape of a woman wearing a collar around her neck and the color of fog upon her coat. When she draws close enough to speak, the statue finally moves -- his head swings slowly to face her with his good eye, one ear tipping forward. “You’re a long way from the Courts,” His voice, cracked and hoarse from lack of use, is still something closer to polite than his usual harsh rage. Quite honestly, he’s too tired to even be angry at this unexpected intrusion. |
