heaven help us, says your unholy mouth, your hands on my hands
I don't know where the darkness ends and you begin.
Vercingtorix has never known hot hatred.
He has never known the fury of the fire.
No.
If you ask Dante, the center of hell has always been cold.
If you ask Dante, the ninth layer is eternal ice and Satan is frozen there.
Vercingtorix feels that, perhaps, as all the most extreme sinners do. Cold. Her words do not penetrate him. Her words do not evoke fire in his heart. Only. cold apathy. Dangers. You haven’t proven to be dangerous yet.
He smiles politely, almost as if he knows it is the smile that set her off. He doesn’t. It is simply the only way for him to react such a barbed comment. There is nothing Vercingtorix needs to prove to her; he has lived long enough to know that those who feel the need to prove something are the most likely to be the exact opposite of what they say, what they express.
Those who must prove they are dangerous are only infantile; only insecure.
That polite smile.
“I see. The pleasure is mine, Elena. I’m Torin.” He says it like he believes it. If anything, her reaction—very nearly volatile—has done nothing but make his apathy grow.
Over-emotional. Defensive. Confrontational.
Only one of the three is a trait suitable for a woman.
So Vercingtorix draws into himself. He looks into the sea. He wonders if falling ever feels like flying but knows, in his heart of hearts—in the secret chamber of hell somewhere between his aorta and right ventricle—it would only feel like a descent, fast, hopeless.
A little like this conversation.
An old fable. I suppose she is. Though they have the right to make Terrastella their home as much as I do. He makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. There is a point where naivety prevents intellectual conversation, and Vercingtorix does not have much usage for any other sort. He does not appreciate her indirectness; her thinly veiled aggression.
“Lady Elena,” he says at last, as she is beginning to turn. ”If you are going to dislike me, at least have the confidence to say it outright and sooner in the conversation. I don’t appreciate my time being wasted.” There is an edge to his voice—genuine, hard as the sound of steel striking flint—when he adds: “I do not think I will be staying in your Court tonight, after all. If your hospitality has shown me anything, it is that I am not welcome in Terrastella.”
He is not hurt when he turns, the rain slicking his flanks, the cool chill of the autumn air biting at his flesh; it is of little concern to Vercingtorix as he departs the cliffside. There is another long night ahead of him. Another night in the field, in the rain, alone. But what does it matter? No, he has already thought it: these consequences are of little concern.
And Elena?
She is the least of his concerns, with that cold seed of hate buried somewhere between his breastbone and heart, growing steadily.
@
prophets sang of you, molded in your father's image
i'm not sure when they stopped; heaven help us, but no one is answering.
