I want to be happy but something inside me screams that I do not deserve it.
Silence, it is blessed and holy between the walls of his heart and the confines of his mind. Solitude, it is thoughtful and rejuvenating as it has always been taught to him. Both these things Ceylong holds close, clutches to his breast as a knight would his token from some maiden or another.
All is still.
It is perfect.
Until it is entirely not perfect nor still. First is the creak of a door with an increasing of light behind him. The man, barely out of boyhood, sees this as his own shadow grows on the curved wall before him. Then, it is only clearer as another form eclipses his own, much closer to the light source, much larger on the wall so that Ceylon is ensconced in the shadow of the other man. There is a decidedly unhappy huff of air behind him.
With the slowness of his own leisure, without proper care to or for the other’s displeasure, Ceylon turns as a ghost in the palace. His face is as smooth as a rock worn by years of water to its face - unchanging even as swords as knives come racing toward him.
He does not move.
He cannot flinch.
Ceylon merely flicks his ears forward, looking on the statue of a dark man with an even darker scowl. And he is certain, quite certain, that if Andras holds such an expression any longer it would be permanently carved upon his face. Had he marble and the right tools, he would mould that expression, that pose, into immortality so that it might always stare down, imposing, on any who would look into some building or another. Perhaps this very tower.
The thought brings him joy. Thoughts of what he will create.
So at last, with no flourish and need for excess, Ceylon answers after what must have been an insufferably long silence for the other. ”Does it matter?” and he is entirely too monotonous to be even remotely respectful or truly interested in the other’s response. What is another ghost in a castle after all? They’re all full of the dead and dying no matter if you see them or not.
”Are you a guard?” because only they should take him from his evening stroll and cast him from his isolation.
It is an isolation broken by some heretic who is, would be, absolutely breathtaking if only he were something, anything, other than flesh.
Such a shame.
They’re always a disappointment in the end.
All is still.
It is perfect.
Until it is entirely not perfect nor still. First is the creak of a door with an increasing of light behind him. The man, barely out of boyhood, sees this as his own shadow grows on the curved wall before him. Then, it is only clearer as another form eclipses his own, much closer to the light source, much larger on the wall so that Ceylon is ensconced in the shadow of the other man. There is a decidedly unhappy huff of air behind him.
With the slowness of his own leisure, without proper care to or for the other’s displeasure, Ceylon turns as a ghost in the palace. His face is as smooth as a rock worn by years of water to its face - unchanging even as swords as knives come racing toward him.
He does not move.
He cannot flinch.
Ceylon merely flicks his ears forward, looking on the statue of a dark man with an even darker scowl. And he is certain, quite certain, that if Andras holds such an expression any longer it would be permanently carved upon his face. Had he marble and the right tools, he would mould that expression, that pose, into immortality so that it might always stare down, imposing, on any who would look into some building or another. Perhaps this very tower.
The thought brings him joy. Thoughts of what he will create.
So at last, with no flourish and need for excess, Ceylon answers after what must have been an insufferably long silence for the other. ”Does it matter?” and he is entirely too monotonous to be even remotely respectful or truly interested in the other’s response. What is another ghost in a castle after all? They’re all full of the dead and dying no matter if you see them or not.
”Are you a guard?” because only they should take him from his evening stroll and cast him from his isolation.
It is an isolation broken by some heretic who is, would be, absolutely breathtaking if only he were something, anything, other than flesh.
Such a shame.
They’re always a disappointment in the end.
Ceylon
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