you shouldn't have to pay for your love
with your bones and your flesh
with your bones and your flesh
There have been few people in his life willing to extend their time to him, never one who has almost been a stranger, and there is something stirring in his breast that he is too cautious to label as hope. He thinks, maybe, she knows what it was like -- to be surrounded by darkness and unable to find the light, to believe there was nothing left to live for.
“Anzhelo,” He murmurs, and he thinks that his name might be the best place to begin his story -- for after all, it was where everything had started, wasn’t it? “My mother named me… at least, that’s what Father always told me. I never knew her -- I killed her, when I was being born. She bled too much.” His words are in the hushed tones of a confession, of a guilt that he’s worn since he was old enough to understand that his birth had been the death of his mother, that he’d been born something wrong.
“It’s funny, really,” and his smile is the wrong kind of smile, full of grief that says there is nothing truly funny about the words coming from his mouth. “My daughter -- she nearly killed me, when she was born. The gods must have found it funny -- gave me the ability to carry her, but not to birth her, the same way they once promised I would be able to meet my mother if I just completed one more quest, and instead sent my father to find me again after he'd tried to kill me.” His laughter is bitter, ears pinning themselves back against his skull at the thought of the Gods he’s met, how every single one of them has been nothing but trouble and trauma. How many of his scars had been from their meddling -- the neat lines from the dragon’s spiked tail, the wicked scar across his abdomen as the midwife had struggled to save both dam and child, the teeth marks around his ankle in the shape of a dire wolf’s mouth?
“I guess I must just be some sort of cosmic playtoy.”
@
you were only a boy,
when you were thrown into a war.
when you were thrown into a war.
