this is who we were, before bones, before dirt, before even light. this untameable expanse. this blue mirror-of-god. this heaving, churning proof that we have always been deep, restless souls.
I suppose only time will tell.
The comment remains cryptic. Vercingtorix does not spend more energy in trying to make sense of it, or discern whether the ambiguity is hostile or simply apathetic. In many respects, Vercingtorix is a mirror; he, too, can be equivocal.
This is the reason he says, in a tone equally bland, “I prefer to take stock of things immediately, personally. One can discern a lot from first impressions.”
He does not go on to elaborate what his first impression is of her, however. But, more or less, Vercingtorix has always learned everything he has needed to know from his first meeting.
There is one exception to that rule, of course, and she currently lives within this Sovereign’s Court. He wonders if they are friends. It seems as if Boudika’s dishonest nature might find comfort in women of similar caliber, those who—well, those who had far exceeded their station in life, their rightful lot.
He wonders if she thinks she is mighty, or brave.
He does not ask. He doesn’t need to. Her self-assurance is in her eyes, and the way that Damascus does not make her flinch. He seems to be in anguish.
Vercingtorix measures his response. “Oh, he’s only worse at hiding it than the rest of us. Who isn’t, Lady of Denocte?” Torix is nearly curious of her.
Nearly.
But not enough to ask; not enough to pursue polite formalities when everything she’s ventured thus far conveys inherent distrust. Damascus, too, regards her. An other thing. He sees only flesh, blood, a heart that beats. Dragons are not the same as gods. Damascus, with little effort, propels himself from the jagged rocks to their cliffside. The grasses give beneath the waft of air from his wings; the trees quake; even the soil shifts underfoot with the great beast’s weight. Those opalescent eyes do not leave her.
“Anguish is the first thing any living creature learns,” says the dragon. “Is it not your native tongue?” His voice is the wind in the trees; the crash of the surf; choked and thick with the weight of his golden teeth.
Is it not the sea forever beating against the shore?
"Speech" || @Antiope
we lick saltwater stains from our hands, and yes, they taste like all the shipwrecked songs of our forefathers, but also like every sorrow we used to be afraid of devouring until we understood that this is a place of rebirth too
