PRAVDA
WHAT IF I READ YOU A STORY CALLED ONCE UPON A TIME, AND YOU REALISED IT WAS YOUR LIFE, SPELLED OUT ON EVERY LINE.
ravda is taken aback by the young man’s blatant disappointment. He feels hurt for a moment, childishly, and cannot explain the sentiment. He looks past Pravda, toward the sailors and their docked ships, and Pravda cannot keep his brows from furrowing. He was thinking of easy rebuttals. Well, I’m a scholar! That had to be worth more than sailing, didn’t it? Casting a glance over his shoulder toward the surrender-white sails, he is unsure. There must be things out at sea I could never imagine.
Why can’t you.
That was a good question.
Pravda stumbled over it. Why couldn’t he?
This is where I am meant to be. How could he explain that? How could he explain this was his Second Journey, and this body was his second body? He had awoken in these lands and did not feel as if it were right for him to leave them, without knowing everything he could, without death taking him in its soft embrace. He clears his throat. “It isn’t a life for me. Just something to dream about, perhaps.” The question confuses him more than he would like. He wonders, for a moment, if he could leave—or if somewhere the power of the Priests would feel his absence, and force him back.
This is my home, yes! The youth is proud of the fact. Pravda reflects the enthusiasm with an infectious smile, one he cannot quite contain. Why do I feel this way? he finds himself wondering. There is something about the other’s genuine questions, genuine pleasure, that has Pravda feeling a joy he doesn’t quite understand. I hear war goes not good for us… the youth begins, and Pravda listens intently, the smile vanishing from his face. It is replaced by an intense engagement; he hangs on every word, taking mental note of the sentence structure, how they lack clear pronunciation… More importantly, Pravda takes note of the content.
He finds himself nodding quietly, assertively. “I’m sorry to hear that… are you training to be a soldier?” Pravda cocks his head, and after a moment—“You can always learn about soldiering from books and stories. Maybe you should visit Delumine sometime. I could share some with you.” It is an open invitation, one that Pravda offers enthusiastically. He is distracted a moment later, however, by a sweet scent that wafts from the markets—”Do you know what that is?” he asks, uncertain if it smoke, or incense, or food. Then, distractedly: "... I'm so sorry, that was rude of me... why do you want to be a soldier? To fight?" It was the last thing Pravda would ever want to do and so he asks it with genuine curiosity.
But beneath it lurks something dark.
And it is a Priest's Judgement.
@Pravda "speaks"
@Sirius
