to die upon the hand i love so well
Ever since his arrival, Novus had been nothing short of a continent of surprises. It delivered to him things he never thought to see in his life: a diverse array of flora and fauna; breathtaking landscapes and vistas stretching as far as the eye could see; and people in all shapes, colors, and sizes.
Just when Atlas figured he'd seen it all, something new popped up. Here he was, out drifting on his own sandy ocean of bittersweet memories, certifiably sure he was the only ship out to sea, when he hears, in the sand, the determined, strong stomping of another.
It was a bit of a sudden realization that he was not alone in the middle of the desert, and it kicked him in the ass at the last moment. His meager but comfortable life in Terrastella, even for so brief a time, had made him soft: Atlas had forgotten to be afraid.
He pulls his eyes away from the snake, its tawny, diamond-painted body writhing in the sand. He squints into the soft, white morning sun, looking to the top of a nearby dune where he is certain the noise is coming from. There, atop the dune, stands a daunting shadow. They crown the dune as opposed to simply standing there, a blackened jewel in a golden facet, dropped against a white-gold sunburst.
He does a mental check of his physical facilities, but his drinking has been well-regulated and recent, and he is not overly warm; there are no physical signs to point to a hallucination.
The stranger is here, and they are very real.
Snakes do not care for... there is a pause as the voice falls upon him like thunder, and all at once his stomach clenches, feeling all the world like a young boy caught stealing cookies from the jar... curtsies. Atlas swallows hard, brown eyes wide with fear... but more of it is awe, a wonder, a reverence set to a terrible boiling point.
He always felt this way around women who could kill him without blinking an eye, she realized.
Atlas was so overcome with her sudden appearance, as though the desert parted before her and rose a hillock to lift her up, the very sharp, very deadly weapon was a secondary detail. The top plane of the spearpoint flashed in the sun and Atlas swallowed for a second time.
With great effort, he breaks his eyes away from the stranger and follows the line of the spear down to the snake. He side-steps a bit away from it; the small viper recedes into the sand, drawing an undulating line just beneath the surface grit as it slithers hastily away.
There. It was only scared for its life; now it is no danger to anybody. There didn't need to be any dying today.
This is how you wait for your death?
Except for him, maybe.
Atlas opens his mouth to speak-- it is a poignant remark. Is this how he waits for his death? Wandering, alone, out in the desert, with his memories, his melancholy, and the serpents?
Well. Isn't this how she waits for her death? Wandering, alone, out in the desert, with her weapon, her withering gaze, and... him, apparently?
He wants to parrot the question back at her but he can't bring himself to be quite so disrespectful.
He faces her, heaves what he feels may very well be his final sigh, and...
Curtsies.
Just when Atlas figured he'd seen it all, something new popped up. Here he was, out drifting on his own sandy ocean of bittersweet memories, certifiably sure he was the only ship out to sea, when he hears, in the sand, the determined, strong stomping of another.
It was a bit of a sudden realization that he was not alone in the middle of the desert, and it kicked him in the ass at the last moment. His meager but comfortable life in Terrastella, even for so brief a time, had made him soft: Atlas had forgotten to be afraid.
He pulls his eyes away from the snake, its tawny, diamond-painted body writhing in the sand. He squints into the soft, white morning sun, looking to the top of a nearby dune where he is certain the noise is coming from. There, atop the dune, stands a daunting shadow. They crown the dune as opposed to simply standing there, a blackened jewel in a golden facet, dropped against a white-gold sunburst.
He does a mental check of his physical facilities, but his drinking has been well-regulated and recent, and he is not overly warm; there are no physical signs to point to a hallucination.
The stranger is here, and they are very real.
Snakes do not care for... there is a pause as the voice falls upon him like thunder, and all at once his stomach clenches, feeling all the world like a young boy caught stealing cookies from the jar... curtsies. Atlas swallows hard, brown eyes wide with fear... but more of it is awe, a wonder, a reverence set to a terrible boiling point.
He always felt this way around women who could kill him without blinking an eye, she realized.
Atlas was so overcome with her sudden appearance, as though the desert parted before her and rose a hillock to lift her up, the very sharp, very deadly weapon was a secondary detail. The top plane of the spearpoint flashed in the sun and Atlas swallowed for a second time.
With great effort, he breaks his eyes away from the stranger and follows the line of the spear down to the snake. He side-steps a bit away from it; the small viper recedes into the sand, drawing an undulating line just beneath the surface grit as it slithers hastily away.
There. It was only scared for its life; now it is no danger to anybody. There didn't need to be any dying today.
This is how you wait for your death?
Except for him, maybe.
Atlas opens his mouth to speak-- it is a poignant remark. Is this how he waits for his death? Wandering, alone, out in the desert, with his memories, his melancholy, and the serpents?
Well. Isn't this how she waits for her death? Wandering, alone, out in the desert, with her weapon, her withering gaze, and... him, apparently?
He wants to parrot the question back at her but he can't bring himself to be quite so disrespectful.
He faces her, heaves what he feels may very well be his final sigh, and...
Curtsies.
@AVDOTYA | atlas | rip atlas august 2019-september 2019
