he had been something before the fall; he had been flesh and blood
Maybe, I have always been this hungry. Maybe, the world and all that is within it has never been enough to satiate me. The wind is cool, almost refreshing, in my face; I close my eyes against it and focus on the stinging sensation of my own hair lashing at my cheeks. I do not want to take ownership of the decisions that have led me to this land; I do not want to acknowledge my own role in my condemnation.
I am in Dusk for Elena. I am there to inquire about the medical—or magical—potentials to undo what has been done.
I do not have much hope in her answer and for that reason I am no hurry to receive it.
Sereia did what she could, I suppose, to repair the wounds. My throat is bound tightly in cloth; my shoulder is packed with natural salves. They smell sweet and earthy, and this odor nearly disguises the newfound saltwater tang of my skin.
Yet, I do not want to think of Sereia. I do not even want to think of Elena and what she might do to heal me. I want to think of nothing, and that is how I find myself on Praistigia Cliffs with a drink in hand. I am a soldier, it seems; and I have by now visited Terrastella enough I am not entirely out of place, especially for a festival. I begin to drink to drown my hunger. I begin to drink, to soften my sharpness. I begin to drink because there is nothing left to do.
(I had sworn, once, to Bondike that we would never be our fathers; I had promised it; and he had agreed, it was because we would always have one another).
It was a fool’s promise.
Every man is alone; there is no one there when our desperation most seizes us, or it would not be desperation. There is no one to save us from ourselves, and the damage we might wreck.
I have always been this hungry, I think, with the wind in my face.
I have always needed the world to burn.
And finally, finally, the world has burned me back. I am left changed. I am left so damaged I do not know who I am. My new teeth fit strangely in my mouth. The more I drink, the less I know how to sheath them, the more I begin to bleed.
I am fully drunk by the time I step to the edge and think of how far I had once fallen—I am fully drunk, and swaying, beneath the stars when I ask myself,
How much further do I have to fall?
There is music and conversation behind me; but the edge lures me with a siren's song. I step through the tall grasses, drink in hand, until there is nothing but open space beneath my gaze. The ocean, I see her; and she roars.
Here, I am alone, on the edge, the taste of sugar and mint and blood in my mouth. Here, the conversation cannot reach me. It doesn't matter. Words could not fill me now.
(What I hate the most is the way that, even from the precipice, the sea calls me. And she is laughing; that steady, rhythmic pull and tug is bright and high and hopeful. She is laughing, because now I am hers. She is laughing, because revenge is the sweetest drink of all).
In this moment, I think there is nothing left.
I have spent a lifetime trying to fill my hollow pieces with other aims. With men, or with war.
Now, those hollow pieces are filled with everything I have ever hated. I finish the drink and, with ludicrous anger, throw it from the cliffside into the sea. It is a small, meaningless revolt.
I am still hungry.
I am still alone.
I am still everything I hate.
I am in Dusk for Elena. I am there to inquire about the medical—or magical—potentials to undo what has been done.
I do not have much hope in her answer and for that reason I am no hurry to receive it.
Sereia did what she could, I suppose, to repair the wounds. My throat is bound tightly in cloth; my shoulder is packed with natural salves. They smell sweet and earthy, and this odor nearly disguises the newfound saltwater tang of my skin.
Yet, I do not want to think of Sereia. I do not even want to think of Elena and what she might do to heal me. I want to think of nothing, and that is how I find myself on Praistigia Cliffs with a drink in hand. I am a soldier, it seems; and I have by now visited Terrastella enough I am not entirely out of place, especially for a festival. I begin to drink to drown my hunger. I begin to drink, to soften my sharpness. I begin to drink because there is nothing left to do.
(I had sworn, once, to Bondike that we would never be our fathers; I had promised it; and he had agreed, it was because we would always have one another).
It was a fool’s promise.
Every man is alone; there is no one there when our desperation most seizes us, or it would not be desperation. There is no one to save us from ourselves, and the damage we might wreck.
I have always been this hungry, I think, with the wind in my face.
I have always needed the world to burn.
And finally, finally, the world has burned me back. I am left changed. I am left so damaged I do not know who I am. My new teeth fit strangely in my mouth. The more I drink, the less I know how to sheath them, the more I begin to bleed.
I am fully drunk by the time I step to the edge and think of how far I had once fallen—I am fully drunk, and swaying, beneath the stars when I ask myself,
How much further do I have to fall?
There is music and conversation behind me; but the edge lures me with a siren's song. I step through the tall grasses, drink in hand, until there is nothing but open space beneath my gaze. The ocean, I see her; and she roars.
Here, I am alone, on the edge, the taste of sugar and mint and blood in my mouth. Here, the conversation cannot reach me. It doesn't matter. Words could not fill me now.
(What I hate the most is the way that, even from the precipice, the sea calls me. And she is laughing; that steady, rhythmic pull and tug is bright and high and hopeful. She is laughing, because now I am hers. She is laughing, because revenge is the sweetest drink of all).
In this moment, I think there is nothing left.
I have spent a lifetime trying to fill my hollow pieces with other aims. With men, or with war.
Now, those hollow pieces are filled with everything I have ever hated. I finish the drink and, with ludicrous anger, throw it from the cliffside into the sea. It is a small, meaningless revolt.
I am still hungry.
I am still alone.
I am still everything I hate.
