His tail snaps against his side like a whip, the crack echoing through the still morning air, and he can’t help the way his ears pin back against his head as though they’re glued there when the pegasus slides closer, close enough to be within striking range, and for a moment he swears he can feel his teeth digging into flesh and hear the surprised squeal that usually followed ringing in his ears. He doesn’t move, however, except for the twitching of a muscle in his shoulder. He doesn’t move, even when he notices that the vulture has perched among the songbirds in the swaying branches, and he has to exhale hard to avoid cursing at the world around him, to avoid slipping back into that pit of rolling blackness that threatened to overwhelm him with every step he took. “Mathias, though I don’t know why I’m apparently so fuckin’ interesting,” He answers between gritted teeth, and still he doesn’t move, his stubborn pride holding him to the spot, his hands still holding the bag of birdseed cradled close. He doesn’t give a last name -- what last name would he give? Blackwell, the name that he’d never been truly given, the name he’d been a bastard of? Erebyx, the name he’d chosen when he’d embraced the monster, when he’d burned down Zion? Neither of those fit correctly. The vulture laughs. “Who the fuck are you, then?” |
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