how willing you must be to kill angels
Some are only alone.
Vercingtorix does not add that his personal philosophy means humanity—life, love, loyalty, friendships—suffers. That always, always they try to ease the void of themselves in the presence of others, and even those united in love, or comradeship, or grand causes… even they rot when they are old, even they rot when the war is won.
Perhaps some are only alone.
But Torix believes the line is thin.
Either way, the red stallion does not ask for an elaboration on Vercingtorix’s beliefs, and he does not give it. The smile has intrigued him as much as the first reply. Not, however, so much at the second.
I was tired of walking.
It is Torix’s turn to raise a brow.
He pauses a little longer than may be polite, in answering the final question. “I’d say five, six miles south-east of here. You have to cut across a corner of the Mors, which can be tough going. Especially if you are tired of walking.” Torix’s mouth twists, a little wryly, but the smile is not cruel. “You’re new to Novus, then?”
At last, Vercingtorix begins to walk toward him. There is nothing threatening about it, merely a polite necessity of communication.
There is a moment, briefly, when he turns his back to the sea—and the wrongness of it pits his stomach, turns his knees weak. It takes every bit of resolve within him not to turn to glance over his shoulder; but he does not know what that type of gesture would suggest to this man, and so he refrains. When they are near enough for polite conversation, the gold-and-black stallion says, “I’m Vercingtorix, by the way.”
