 | "And we who seek to balance pleasure and pain We blow against the wind and spit against the rain" The cruelty of the world has carved stories into his skin. It has left him with scars, some tiny and some huge, scattered across his body like constellations. Still-- and he has only realized this recently-- still he has hope. From this hope comes kindness, and it comes gentleness, and he tells himself that this, too, is a strength, even when it feels like it isn't. Eik can't quite get a grasp of Sloane. Maybe his magic would help, but he feels too inebriated to use it properly. Anyway, a stubborn part of him wants to think that he can still be plain-- not an emissary, not a magician, not ablaze with love. "Oh, I don't," he says quickly in response to "I suppose, if you actually liked and enjoyed singing." He laughs quietly at how nonsensical the statement is, even though it makes sense to him. He hiccups, too. He simply shrugs as she declines his offer. He can respect her caution, although he thinks she might be suggesting he's the blundering fool, and he does not know what germs are, and "Poison?" He snorts, incredulous. "'nly a coward uses poison." His voice, normally calm, is made animate by liquor. Despite his drunkenness, the wise man in him bites his tongue before he can say what he's thinking- "If I wanted to kill you I'd do it with my hooves, not a drink." His soul is a song of mourning, sad and sweet-- until it isn't. He wonders... What is this woman doing here? It isn't the song, or drink... it can't be his ass-ish company. She reminds him of himself, really, before Novus sank its teeth in. His first festival, where he hovered on the outskirts, a boy who did not know if he was welcome. She doesn't belong here. Neither does he, not really. But here they stand. "For what could be more real than sweat and dust and sun? And what more sure than night and death and sleep?" |
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Time makes fools of us all
