[P] golden child; lion boy

[Vercingtorix]

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

Force of habit, the prince answers. 

During all that silence, Vercingtorix’s eyes had not waived from Adonai’s. In many ways, Vercingtorix has always had a physician’s curiosity for what lies beneath the surface of men: but rather than fixate on the flesh and blood, the physical anatomy, Vercingtorix tries to stare into the Soul. Politics. Succession, Sibling rivalries. Even if we are different sides of the same coin, it must be the same for you, no? Vercingtorix can only offer a starved smile; it is too thin, and does not reach his eyes. “I never had any brothers.” 

He nearly says: in my realm of politics, you would already be dead, Prince. 

Brothers who fought for honor died on the beaches.

Sons who wanted to outshine their father’s died on the beaches.

Friends who became rivals died on the beaches. 

It did not matter. 

They were all gutted and bled the same. 

This world, Vercingtorix imagines, is very different. Perhaps it will leave him changed; and if not, he will certainly change it. He observes as Adonai recognises the change in him; as the flirtatious banter becomes more severe, more… indebted, one might say. The truth is just beneath the surface; it swims there as trout do in a slim stream, disguised and supple, moving and vibrant. The truth is just beneath the surface, but it will not rise. Not yet. 

I am not. I think.

Oh, Adonai. Do not doubt yourself. 

In this game of politics, is that not death in and of itself? But a change has come over the golden pegasus; Vercingtorix at first believes himself responsible, but then begins to see something other running beneath the conversation. 

Vercingtorix. The way Adonai repeats his name should not send a bolt through Vercingtorix, but it does; it has been so long since he’s heard the sound of it, upon someone else’s lips. There is a moment of self-deprecation, of insecurity and fear--had Vercingtorix said too much? Frightened him away? But he recognises exhaustion when he sees it. The touch, too, excites something electric within him; but Adonai is already moving away from the desert well, shrouded by the blue bush daisy. Vercingtorix follows him with his eyes. There is something almost gentle there, in his expression. 

Torix had already confessed: he knows suffering. He recognises it in Adonai's expression, the pitched posture; the way he refrains from holding Vercingtorix's gaze, or even his own reflection's. 

To Adonai’s back, he says, “Prince? Next time, let me escort you back. I would not mind.” And softer still: “In fact, it would be my pleasure.” 

There is no deprecation there. 

In fact, it is the most honest Vercingtorix has heard his own voice sound in months. 

Nevertheless, the stallion turns away; he continues to wander through the Solterran countryside; but his mind is not empty. No. It is full of princes and towers, curses and saviors. 


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

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