this small boy with his hungry mouth, burning,
for a scrap of armor, blazing for a shard of love
for a scrap of armor, blazing for a shard of love
He is beginning to think that his letter had been lost, or that Toro had simply decided not to come, when he finally spots the figure on the horizon, and the feeling that rises in his chest is too close to hope to call it anything but. There is relief, as well, the half-formed thought that perhaps he had been mistaken -- that Toro would not want to be his friend, that he had misread everything they have said to each other
“Toro,” He calls back from the darkness, emerging from the cave that tries to drown him if he doesn’t place his feet just right on the hidden rocks (he has had plenty of time to learn where they are, his journey less strenuous than his companion’s path) and his smile is brilliant when he comes fully into the late morning sunlight.
“I’m glad you made it here safely.” He is glad that Toro has made it here at all, that he had answered the call of a God and has survived unscathed (or what seems to be so), but he knows not how to say it without baring his own throat to the sharp jaws of doubt. So he swallows back those uncertain words, to the back of his throat where they stick like burrs, and he lets the sunlight bathe over the both of them before he speaks once more.
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
@El Toro
you were only a boy,
when you were thrown into a war.
when you were thrown into a war.
