[P] golden child; lion boy

[Vercingtorix]

fearless child, broken boy, tell me what it's like to burn

Vercingtorix has always loved weak things. Of course, this love has always taken the form of possession, of control, of necessity. He saw them as something he could save, when he was younger. Something he could keep quietly, in some dark corner of his soul, as if to say, look, here, I am not all bad as if to say, look, here, I too can be gentle. Something he could in-debt to him forever, for having saved it. The things his father would say punctuate his mind now, when in childhood he had brought home with him broken-winged birds, stray kittens, starved curs...

Another one?

It’s better off dead.

Do you love these things because they remind you of yourself?

How are you going to mend a wing?

You can’t.

You can’t save them.

It will die.

Take it out back, and kill it. 

It is not apparent, at first, this stranger’s sickness. But slowly the pieces come together. The ambling walk; the long pauses and apparent shyness. Impeccable manners. You continue to impress me, foreigner. Vercingtorix pretends not to notice the blood, for Adonai’s sake.

See, the indebting starts with small favours. It starts by pretending as if there is nothing wrong. So Vercingtorix smiles instead and says, just as loftily, “I’ll only continue to impress you, if you let me.”

The pail moves back to the well, returned by the soft prince. Vercingtorix’s eyes are knowing, but he says nothing; if anything, they are appreciative. In sick things, he knows, the will is typically the first thing to go. 

“I’m Vercingtorix.” He does not give his full name often; but he gives it here. “Or, if you prefer, just Torix.” That, too, is a tone that belongs to bedrooms. His eyes are alight when the golden boy demands more, more, more. Yes. “Oh, I only mean a date. As a foreigner I know little of your court. I need an escort for the evening.” 

“speech” || @Adonai || setting inspired by this image

❂ | ❂