HAD ERASMUS PAUSED TO CONSIDER THE PROSPECTS OF REVENGE UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THIS SUDDEN EPISODE OF UNNAMED DEFEAT, HE MAY HAVE CAUGHT THE WAY THE NUANCE OF LOVE WAS UTTERED SO HEAVILY, SO PRECARIOUSLY, THAT IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN COINCIDENCE. THAT THE WAY IN WHICH IT TOMED LIKE A BELL OF A SILVER TONGUE COULD HAVE INFLUENCED THE MOST SULLEN OF MARTYRS, COULD HAVE DRIVEN A SPELL OF CURIOSITY FROM THE HEART OF ROMANTICS. THAT REVENGE COULD BE PORTRAYED AS SOMETHING SO SELFLESS, AND WHOLLY SELFISH, SO AS TO PROCURE ITS MEASURE IN THE NAME OF LOVE. FOR WHAT? ERASMUS COULD HAVE CONSIDERED THE WORD AND ITS NATURE, AND WITH TOO FEW LOFTY ATTEMPTS TO UNDERSTAND HOW REVENGE COULD BE WARRANTED BY SUCH – HE WOULD BE LEFT AT A LOSS. HE WOULD THINK OF THE WORD, OF THE NOTION, AND TRY HIS BEST TO EMPATHIZE WITH THE CADENCE. BUT WHEN LOVE IS SOMETHING THAT IS MENTIONED INTO THE CRAGS AND THE CRACKS OF THE SHADOWS OF HIS MIND, THERE ARE ONLY TOOTHY PRECISIONS OF WHAT IT COULD MEAN. LUST, MAYBE. OR THAT FEELING YOU HAD WHEN YOU WERE TUCKED CLOSE TO YOUR MOTHER, SCABBED AND BRUISED AND WORN, COVERED IN THE BLOOD OF ANOTHER COLT. IT WAS THE WARMTH, THE SECURITY, AND THE LAPSE OF FEAR THAT CAME FROM KNOWING THERE WAS ONLY COLDNESS BEYOND THAT SPACE.
ERASMUS, IF HE CHOSE TO DWELL ON THE IDEA, MAY HAVE THOUGHT TO THE MOMENT HE RAN WILD THROUGH THE BRUSH WHILE HIS MOTHER'S ACHING SCREAMS CAME TO AN AWFUL GURGLING AND TO SILENCE. HE WOULD TRY, TRY TO THINK OF WHAT HE FELT THEN, IF IT WAS LOVE. IF IT WAS A DESIRE FOR REVENGE, IN THE NAME OF LOVE. HE WOULD REMEMBER DEVISING A PLOT TO RETURN AND GUT THE CHIEFTAN AND HIS CORRUPTED ADVISORS. BUT HE COULD NOT RECALL THE INKLING OF LOVE. HIS MOTHER WAS A NECESSARY MARTYR, AND SHE KNEW THIS. INDEED, HE HAD ONCE CONSIDERED REVENGE – BUT IT A SELFISH NOTION HE COULD SUPPOSE, A REVENGE AGAINST THE CORRUPT SYSTEM THAT HAD WITHHELD THEM FROM THE WISDOM OF SAGES WHO ONLY WANTED PAWNS.
HE DID NOT CONSIDER IT, HOWEVER. HE LET THE BURDEN OF THE WORD SLIP FROM HIS MIND AS SOON AS IT SLID OVER THE EMPTY SPACE WHERE A BLADE SHOULD HAVE BEEN. HE DOES NOT THINK OF LOVE OR BETRAYAL OR DEFEAT. THE CROWD HAS NOW FILTERED INTO THE ONCE QUIET BACK STREETS FROM THE FINALE OF THE PARADE, EACH FACE A BLUR OF DIRTY SCOWLS AND DESPERATE SADNESS THAT HOLLOWS SOCKETS DEEP. THEY ARE PILLARS OF SALT AND DUST IN HIS PERIPHERAL, AND ALL HE CAN THINK ABOUT IS THE WAY THIS MAN'S SKIN SHIFTS AND PEELS INTO THE SPROUTING OF GREAT, HEAVING WINGS. THE WAY ITS PALLOR CLEAVES FOR METALLIC SHEEN, AND THE WAY THE QUICKSILVER GLIMMERS IN THE BEAMING SUNLIGHT. AND THOSE BLUE, BLUE EYES THAT WATCH HIM WITH A MOROSE AMUSEMENT, AND THE CREEPING SUDDENNESS OF ABHORRENCE THAT POISONS HIS BLOOD WITH A FURIOUS HEAT.
THEY RUN. THOSE HIDEOUS FACES AND DISJOINTED PATRONS OF SQUALOR, OF DEPRAVITY, OF POVERTY. THEY SHRIEK, THEY GASP, THEY FALL BACK AGAINST THEMSELVES AND POINT THEIR NOSES TO THE SKY THAT HAS BEEN BLOTTED WITH THE SHADOW OF THEIR TYRANT KING. ERASMUS STANDS STILL AS THE WIND WHIPS THE SAND FROM ITS RESTS AND BRUSHES CRUDELY OVER HIS SKIN LIKE RAKES, AND HE BEHOLDS. THE TERROR OF A SKINWALKER. THE HORROR OF A TYRANT KING. HE BEHOLDS THE WAY THE SHADOWS FALL BETWEEN HIS RIBS, OR THE WAY THAT SOME SHALLOW MADNESS LEAKS INTO HIS SUNKEN SOCKETS, THE GRANDEUR OF HIS WINGS THAT SEEM AT THE TIME TOO BIG, TOO MAGNIFICIENT.
RAUM INVITES HIM TO SPEAK OF HIS FABLED REVENGE. BUT ERASMUS LOOKS ON AT THE EMPTY SPACE WHERE HE HAS ONCE HOVERED, AND WATCHES THE FEATHERS DRIFT DOWN, DOWN LIKE A RAIN OF ASH. HE TURNS BEFORE THE LAST FEATHER DRIFTS SADLY TO THE SLATE STREET, AND HE KNOWS THAT HE WILL NEVER RETURN TO PROD A MADMAN ABOUT AMBITIONS OR REVENGE OR LOVE.
finite.
ERASMUS, IF HE CHOSE TO DWELL ON THE IDEA, MAY HAVE THOUGHT TO THE MOMENT HE RAN WILD THROUGH THE BRUSH WHILE HIS MOTHER'S ACHING SCREAMS CAME TO AN AWFUL GURGLING AND TO SILENCE. HE WOULD TRY, TRY TO THINK OF WHAT HE FELT THEN, IF IT WAS LOVE. IF IT WAS A DESIRE FOR REVENGE, IN THE NAME OF LOVE. HE WOULD REMEMBER DEVISING A PLOT TO RETURN AND GUT THE CHIEFTAN AND HIS CORRUPTED ADVISORS. BUT HE COULD NOT RECALL THE INKLING OF LOVE. HIS MOTHER WAS A NECESSARY MARTYR, AND SHE KNEW THIS. INDEED, HE HAD ONCE CONSIDERED REVENGE – BUT IT A SELFISH NOTION HE COULD SUPPOSE, A REVENGE AGAINST THE CORRUPT SYSTEM THAT HAD WITHHELD THEM FROM THE WISDOM OF SAGES WHO ONLY WANTED PAWNS.
HE DID NOT CONSIDER IT, HOWEVER. HE LET THE BURDEN OF THE WORD SLIP FROM HIS MIND AS SOON AS IT SLID OVER THE EMPTY SPACE WHERE A BLADE SHOULD HAVE BEEN. HE DOES NOT THINK OF LOVE OR BETRAYAL OR DEFEAT. THE CROWD HAS NOW FILTERED INTO THE ONCE QUIET BACK STREETS FROM THE FINALE OF THE PARADE, EACH FACE A BLUR OF DIRTY SCOWLS AND DESPERATE SADNESS THAT HOLLOWS SOCKETS DEEP. THEY ARE PILLARS OF SALT AND DUST IN HIS PERIPHERAL, AND ALL HE CAN THINK ABOUT IS THE WAY THIS MAN'S SKIN SHIFTS AND PEELS INTO THE SPROUTING OF GREAT, HEAVING WINGS. THE WAY ITS PALLOR CLEAVES FOR METALLIC SHEEN, AND THE WAY THE QUICKSILVER GLIMMERS IN THE BEAMING SUNLIGHT. AND THOSE BLUE, BLUE EYES THAT WATCH HIM WITH A MOROSE AMUSEMENT, AND THE CREEPING SUDDENNESS OF ABHORRENCE THAT POISONS HIS BLOOD WITH A FURIOUS HEAT.
THEY RUN. THOSE HIDEOUS FACES AND DISJOINTED PATRONS OF SQUALOR, OF DEPRAVITY, OF POVERTY. THEY SHRIEK, THEY GASP, THEY FALL BACK AGAINST THEMSELVES AND POINT THEIR NOSES TO THE SKY THAT HAS BEEN BLOTTED WITH THE SHADOW OF THEIR TYRANT KING. ERASMUS STANDS STILL AS THE WIND WHIPS THE SAND FROM ITS RESTS AND BRUSHES CRUDELY OVER HIS SKIN LIKE RAKES, AND HE BEHOLDS. THE TERROR OF A SKINWALKER. THE HORROR OF A TYRANT KING. HE BEHOLDS THE WAY THE SHADOWS FALL BETWEEN HIS RIBS, OR THE WAY THAT SOME SHALLOW MADNESS LEAKS INTO HIS SUNKEN SOCKETS, THE GRANDEUR OF HIS WINGS THAT SEEM AT THE TIME TOO BIG, TOO MAGNIFICIENT.
RAUM INVITES HIM TO SPEAK OF HIS FABLED REVENGE. BUT ERASMUS LOOKS ON AT THE EMPTY SPACE WHERE HE HAS ONCE HOVERED, AND WATCHES THE FEATHERS DRIFT DOWN, DOWN LIKE A RAIN OF ASH. HE TURNS BEFORE THE LAST FEATHER DRIFTS SADLY TO THE SLATE STREET, AND HE KNOWS THAT HE WILL NEVER RETURN TO PROD A MADMAN ABOUT AMBITIONS OR REVENGE OR LOVE.
finite.
