I'M JUST THE PRODUCT OF A LIVING HELL
and i don't want to live like this anymore
and i don't want to live like this anymore
He’s been in the Dawn Court for nearly a year now, he realizes when the snow begins to fall outside. Raum has been vanquished by the very monster he had made, and Day Court had become considerably safer to return to -- except he stays within the halls of the library, tucks himself next to Sam at night, skulks about the shadows and watches the fox-like staff go about their days like this has become a home to him.
Has this become a home? He doesn’t know -- what makes a place a home? He knows that should Sam move on, he would follow -- and yet, he thinks he might miss the quiet peace of an early dawn, the way the birds have begun to flock to him whenever he ventures out to the courtyard.
Some of them have gone missing, recently, the ones that look like flying jewels with their bright feathers. Perhaps they had begun to migrate? It seemed rather late for that, however.
He shifts in the padded windowsill, his legs tucked neatly beneath him, and rests his head against the side of the window as he turns the page of the book he’s reading. It’s a short book, likely meant for children still learning to read, and yet he still struggles to recognize some of the words found between the pages.
Before, he might have grown frustrated, or perhaps even bored, flinging the book away to go find entertainment in the form of a fight. Now, he simply sighs, taking a brief moment to admire the way his breath fogs up the window before continuing with the task of teaching himself to read.
Has this become a home? He doesn’t know -- what makes a place a home? He knows that should Sam move on, he would follow -- and yet, he thinks he might miss the quiet peace of an early dawn, the way the birds have begun to flock to him whenever he ventures out to the courtyard.
Some of them have gone missing, recently, the ones that look like flying jewels with their bright feathers. Perhaps they had begun to migrate? It seemed rather late for that, however.
He shifts in the padded windowsill, his legs tucked neatly beneath him, and rests his head against the side of the window as he turns the page of the book he’s reading. It’s a short book, likely meant for children still learning to read, and yet he still struggles to recognize some of the words found between the pages.
Before, he might have grown frustrated, or perhaps even bored, flinging the book away to go find entertainment in the form of a fight. Now, he simply sighs, taking a brief moment to admire the way his breath fogs up the window before continuing with the task of teaching himself to read.
@Ipomoea
