I THINK IT'S TIME THAT
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON
YOU CRAWL BACK HOME SON
His sides heave, violent, and if there had been anything in his stomach he might have lost it upon the sands. Instead, bile burns at the back of his throat and makes his eye water, acidic against his tongue as he hacks it out upon the sands. He has killed before, had torched an entire kingdom, and yet his stomach still turns at the sight of the corpse before him.
He has always thought it a weakness, this aversion to killing things, but perhaps it could be a sign that he is not so much of the monster he might claim he is.
Or perhaps he is simply unable to do anything properly, even when he is doing what he is best at,
“I’m fine,” The words snap out with razer-sharp precision, so practiced he almost doesn’t realize he’s going to speak until the words have left his mouth. An admittance of his own weakness would be a fatal flaw, one that he’s built up an armor against; if nothing else, he’s certainly practiced in the art of pretending to be okay, pretending that his mind isn’t tearing itself apart each day.
The vulture laughs, and the sound claws at his ears. It knows, it knows the way he’s struggling even now to keep a solid grip on reality, every shake step forward threatening to send his mind hurtling back to Zion. “Don’t touch me,” The words snarl out, his teeth baring in a warning -- he doesn’t know what he might do, doesn’t know if he’d shatter apart beneath the comfort or if he would simply turn on the grey stallion as well, like the wild animal that he is.
He wishes he knew how to be something that wasn’t made of teeth and violence.
When he finally steps towards the Oasis, his legs are no longer shaking. He snatches up the saddlebags he had dropped onto the sands, retrieving the canteens from within and beginning to fill them, keeping a wary eye on the grey stallion. Would his companion realize that he is gathering supplies for two, not just one -- enough water to get two horses far away from Solterra and this wretched war?
“--Delumine.” He grunts out after a moment of pause, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the canteens as he arranges them within the saddlebags he drapes over his gaunt flanks. In his mind flashes an image of Sam’s face, and he lets out the breath he hasn’t been aware that he’s holding with it, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders.
They’re not out of danger yet, but the hardest part is over.
“Speaking.”
He has always thought it a weakness, this aversion to killing things, but perhaps it could be a sign that he is not so much of the monster he might claim he is.
Or perhaps he is simply unable to do anything properly, even when he is doing what he is best at,
“I’m fine,” The words snap out with razer-sharp precision, so practiced he almost doesn’t realize he’s going to speak until the words have left his mouth. An admittance of his own weakness would be a fatal flaw, one that he’s built up an armor against; if nothing else, he’s certainly practiced in the art of pretending to be okay, pretending that his mind isn’t tearing itself apart each day.
The vulture laughs, and the sound claws at his ears. It knows, it knows the way he’s struggling even now to keep a solid grip on reality, every shake step forward threatening to send his mind hurtling back to Zion. “Don’t touch me,” The words snarl out, his teeth baring in a warning -- he doesn’t know what he might do, doesn’t know if he’d shatter apart beneath the comfort or if he would simply turn on the grey stallion as well, like the wild animal that he is.
He wishes he knew how to be something that wasn’t made of teeth and violence.
When he finally steps towards the Oasis, his legs are no longer shaking. He snatches up the saddlebags he had dropped onto the sands, retrieving the canteens from within and beginning to fill them, keeping a wary eye on the grey stallion. Would his companion realize that he is gathering supplies for two, not just one -- enough water to get two horses far away from Solterra and this wretched war?
“--Delumine.” He grunts out after a moment of pause, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the canteens as he arranges them within the saddlebags he drapes over his gaunt flanks. In his mind flashes an image of Sam’s face, and he lets out the breath he hasn’t been aware that he’s holding with it, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders.
They’re not out of danger yet, but the hardest part is over.
“Speaking.”
@
