[P] golden child; lion boy

[Vercingtorix]

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

Vercingtorix. It suits you. He is bold enough to touch him. A feather-light brush against a scar. Torix nearly shudders; but it is a shiver of delight, a slight softening of the eyes. 

His mother used to say it was a shame his father had not allowed to name Torix something gentler, something that did not have conqueror written in to the many syllabus and hard stops. When he smiles, it is with lips crooked by a scar. He does not say, it is the name of a conqueror because he doesn’t need to. 

A date. He repeats the words in a way that is very nearly charming. Vercingtorix cannot tell if Adonai is taken aback by the offer, or pleased. 

There is a moment—ephemeral, fleeting through his grasp as sand does—when Vercingtorix nearly feels remorse. It is the way the other man looks at him that sparks this almost-contrite, this prickling feeling of guilt. Adonai looks at him as if Torix is someone. As if he is more than gilding, bright lights, show. 

As if there is something of content beneath his marblesque surface; his handsome face; the way words come so easily to his lips. You are doing very well for yourself already. With a prince as your evening escort. The comment he nearly delivers in return is too sharp, is too bold: I would be doing better for myself if the prince was already in my bed.

Those carnal pleasures, however, belong to a man lost on Oresziah. Vercingtorix likes to think he has moved past that escape. And so he smiles a secretive smile, tinged with more darkness than the rest. Torix responds, “I suppose that doesn’t hurt, does it? Perhaps you can class me up by the time we part ways.”

Well. There are still hours to go before night. See that tower? They say a cursed prince lives in it. Do you believe that? 

Torix cannot help but think the prince speaks of himself. The transition is too abrupt. Irregardless, he plays along smoothly; he glances toward the white spire on the horizon and admires it for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, after a long pause. It is the most genuine he has sounded this entire conversation, however. Especially, when he adds: “But either way, I do know one thing for certain. Where curses do exist, they can always be broken. It just depends on how much you are willing to do.”

How much of your Soul you are willing to trade.

Vercingtorix doesn’t believe in devils or archangels, no. Vercingtorix only believes in the evils—and powers—of men. And so when he glances back toward Adonai it is to say, in a voice strangely soft: “And in my experience, curses are always man-made, not god-given.” There is something knowing in his eyes. Vercingtorix asks, "And what do you believe, Fair Prince?" This is a place for confessions, beneath the eucalyptus, by a boy's well, among the blue daisies. It feels almost dream-like, enchanting, strange. 

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

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