there's no going back
when you cross the line
He has long-since given up on the idea of sleep as something that was necessary for survival; after all, he spent so little time sleeping that it seemed as though the need was simply a cruel joke of some sort. Seeing a friendly face at least gives the appearance of lifting away some of his exhaustion, however, no matter how the boy might try to hide it -- his ears perk forward, just slightly, and the curve of his mouth traces out the hint of a smile, just enough to keep from showing the sharp teeth that his lips hide.when you cross the line
He peers at the sketchbook, at first politely and then with more interest, his amber gaze moving across the elegant ink swirls and lines. “This is amazing, Septimus. I didn’t know you could draw so well.” Even the antlered man’s handwriting is pretty, looping across the page in a dark scrawl, and when he gets the chance he does his best to pick out the words that he’s familiar with, although his attention is quickly caught by the man’s question.
“I was not, no,” His tail moves from side to side, a slowly serpentine in its motion as he holds it low against the ground. It is, perhaps, the key to his strange moods, when his face only ever seemed to carry that exhausted air that overshadowed everything else. He considers the ink dragon for a few long moments, considers exactly how much he can reveal without exposing his own raw nerves, and then bites down the temptation to blurt out every nightmare he’s ever had.
He’s used to it -- Septimus makes him feel strangely safe, as though the scholarly man wouldn’t judge him for his crime, as though he wouldn’t be shown a cold shoulder once he confessed, or worse, as though his crimes wouldn’t be exposed so that everyone would know them. It was better to swallow down that strange impulse, to lock the words inside his ribcage and hold them there where they couldn’t break free, couldn’t condemn him before he found the key to controlling his magic.
“I’ve never actually met a God. Not here, nor the place I was born.” Not that he can remember, that is. His wild, cursed magic was apparently supposed to be a gift from a god, from Shishira himself when he had only been a newborn child, but whether Shishira himself had actually appeared to bestow the magic; well, he certainly couldn’t remember, and the tavern owner had been strangely tight-lipped about whatever had happened. “I don’t think I’d want to, honestly. They never seem to be up to any good.”
That might be an understatement, actually.
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