you are haunted like every other holy thing;
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength
He breathes in the scent of sun-scorched sand and breathes out statuary dust, his muzzle wrinkling up until he finally sneezes out the last of the remaining stone. A wisp of silky-fine hair brushes against his cheek, and he almost startles himself with it until he remembers: He had grown it out to blend in amongst the Solterrans. He had been spying for Moira. He had been pretending to be a storyteller.
(He thinks, maybe, he has enough stories now that he could truly be one -- except his stories are mostly of survival, and trauma, and the hollow pit in his stomach that still remembered fear. He doesn’t think anyone would like those stories.)
For the first time since he was a young child, he had allowed his hair to grow out instead of shearing it down once it began to flop over on his neck. His father had disapproved of long hair, said it made him look too girlish and weak -- it had been a habit, like fingers running over a rosary, to trim it back every few weeks, the last remaining ghost of his father’s hold on him. Now it hangs around his face in delicate curls, and he remembers the strange curling thrill it had sent through his stomach when he had caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror the first time, that almost-stranger with the wispy curls and soft smile, and he remembers --
He remembers thinking he had looked pretty, and not shying away from the word in his mind. He had allowed it to sit there, occasionally poking at it like one might a bruise, only to discover that it didn’t hurt -- no, instead, it made him feel strangely giddy and light, as though another weight had been shrugged off his shoulders.
He blinks and then startles again at the sound of a voice, his rounded ears perking up and his head swinging towards Toro with wild eyes until he realizes that it’s only the bull-horned man who stands before him, not Raum or his terrible beast or any of the other villains he had rubbed shoulders with in the dark Solterran alleys. “Toro,” His voice is soft, trembling, almost disbelieving -- he had thought of the man, in those last few minutes before he had turned completely to stone, something inside him fervently hoping that Toro had been far away from the rampaging monster, had been safe from Raum’s grasping, hurting hands.
There is a feeling of pins and needles beginning to spread through his limbs, his muscles protesting having been locked in place for so long. Even so, he takes a trembling step forward, his head tilted to look upwards at the other male as though he might have half-believed he was a mirage pulled from the desert -- and his foreleg buckles slightly, sending him face-first into Toro’s solid shoulder.
Not a mirage, then.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” He breathes out against the skin of Toro’s shoulder, his own eyes growing watery in relief, and he presses his face closer into Toro’s shoulder like a man drowning might have clung to a lifeboat. “When I saw the monster, I was a-afraid…. I thought it would have gotten you too.”
(He thinks, maybe, he has enough stories now that he could truly be one -- except his stories are mostly of survival, and trauma, and the hollow pit in his stomach that still remembered fear. He doesn’t think anyone would like those stories.)
For the first time since he was a young child, he had allowed his hair to grow out instead of shearing it down once it began to flop over on his neck. His father had disapproved of long hair, said it made him look too girlish and weak -- it had been a habit, like fingers running over a rosary, to trim it back every few weeks, the last remaining ghost of his father’s hold on him. Now it hangs around his face in delicate curls, and he remembers the strange curling thrill it had sent through his stomach when he had caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror the first time, that almost-stranger with the wispy curls and soft smile, and he remembers --
He remembers thinking he had looked pretty, and not shying away from the word in his mind. He had allowed it to sit there, occasionally poking at it like one might a bruise, only to discover that it didn’t hurt -- no, instead, it made him feel strangely giddy and light, as though another weight had been shrugged off his shoulders.
He blinks and then startles again at the sound of a voice, his rounded ears perking up and his head swinging towards Toro with wild eyes until he realizes that it’s only the bull-horned man who stands before him, not Raum or his terrible beast or any of the other villains he had rubbed shoulders with in the dark Solterran alleys. “Toro,” His voice is soft, trembling, almost disbelieving -- he had thought of the man, in those last few minutes before he had turned completely to stone, something inside him fervently hoping that Toro had been far away from the rampaging monster, had been safe from Raum’s grasping, hurting hands.
There is a feeling of pins and needles beginning to spread through his limbs, his muscles protesting having been locked in place for so long. Even so, he takes a trembling step forward, his head tilted to look upwards at the other male as though he might have half-believed he was a mirage pulled from the desert -- and his foreleg buckles slightly, sending him face-first into Toro’s solid shoulder.
Not a mirage, then.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” He breathes out against the skin of Toro’s shoulder, his own eyes growing watery in relief, and he presses his face closer into Toro’s shoulder like a man drowning might have clung to a lifeboat. “When I saw the monster, I was a-afraid…. I thought it would have gotten you too.”
@El Toro
you were only a boy,
when you were thrown into a war.
when you were thrown into a war.
