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
A fever has spread amongst the streets of Denocte, burning brightly in each citizen until it seemed like they might each ignite beneath the hallowed dusk. Every step he makes is echoed by the whispers of a nation knocked off-balance and clamoring for justice, for their queen to be returned home to them, and he can feel the very pulse of his home thrumming beneath his skin.
He has little to offer, but he knows that he cannot live with himself if he does nothing -- this is perhaps his truest home, the place where he has found himself and his own inner peace, where he has shed the weight of his past into something far more manageable -- and he has seen what happens when men might believe that they are gods instead of mortals.
(He has also seen what happens when Gods pretend at being mortals, the games that they play when they are bored, and he has learned to avoid their attention like it might contain a plague.)
“I am not a soldier,” and his words are equal parts apology and explanation as he falls into step beside her, his shoulder almost near enough to brush against hers, and his voice is as soft as the wind that creeps along the cobblestone streets. “But -- people don’t notice me, not easily.” He knows this is dangerous, that what he proposes could mean his own death -- and maybe it might be his way to drive out those demons for good, and maybe it might be him surrendering instead to his demons -- but he does not falter, even without the dragon scale to bolster him.
He knows she is smart enough to understand what he is offering.
@
you were only a boy,
when you were thrown into a war.
when you were thrown into a war.
