I want to be happy but something inside me screams that I do not deserve it.
He does not mind the shadows sitting prettily on the floor, nor the way the light refuses to devour Andras’ skin and instead shows only reflections for eyes. They are two moons upon his face, whole and terrible, staring at Ceylon as though they would damn him, as though they are that of a demon to drag him to the pits of hell.
Were he not to possess the stories of his father and their likeness, perhaps he would imagine the man who is the other half of him to look something like Andras. Well. No. His father, if he looked anything like the man before Ceylon, would have been larger with a grinning mouth hung open to swallow the world and feet that could cleave the deserts in two
Perhaps his father is nothing like the exhausted heap of flesh before him after all.
These thoughts do nothing to bring comfort or interest. They do little more than draw attention inward, temporarily removed from the blue spark that zips from chest to chin. Vaguely, Ceylon is aware of the white of Andras’ mouth and the pink of his bottom lip. They mar the purity of the black that, when exposed to light, is nothing less than godly.
Obsidian stone is just as beautiful and would make a striking likeness to the warden.
Ceylon does not dabble in the arts of living people. He does not care to paint them into the annals of history once more for all to remember. Because people remember his father, he is set on the path that he now walks. A pity. This is a life chosen for him, not by him. Who is he to change it now? How could he even ask to when everything he touches thrums with the possibilities of a future.
It is a future that would one day crumble just as the title Warden would fall from Andras’ shoulders with time, but it would be a future that he carved for himself.
Blue dances back, languidly roves over black, and he inclines his head. ”I am your newest denizen. Ceylon. There’s an observatory I’d like to see.”
With those words, he readjusts himself, moving from one hoof to the other, and lets stillness steal him once more. He knows so little of people, but he is sure this warden would have a retort, some unassuming comment, to dismiss or dissuade him from his path. That is, of course, all that it is - this is no mission he’s been sent on, to see all that is beautiful from a high tower and imagine a life outside of it - and nothing more than curiosity being sated would come of it.
A clock ticks, and with it the man blinks once, twice. Expectantly.
@Andras notes. <3
Were he not to possess the stories of his father and their likeness, perhaps he would imagine the man who is the other half of him to look something like Andras. Well. No. His father, if he looked anything like the man before Ceylon, would have been larger with a grinning mouth hung open to swallow the world and feet that could cleave the deserts in two
Perhaps his father is nothing like the exhausted heap of flesh before him after all.
These thoughts do nothing to bring comfort or interest. They do little more than draw attention inward, temporarily removed from the blue spark that zips from chest to chin. Vaguely, Ceylon is aware of the white of Andras’ mouth and the pink of his bottom lip. They mar the purity of the black that, when exposed to light, is nothing less than godly.
Obsidian stone is just as beautiful and would make a striking likeness to the warden.
Ceylon does not dabble in the arts of living people. He does not care to paint them into the annals of history once more for all to remember. Because people remember his father, he is set on the path that he now walks. A pity. This is a life chosen for him, not by him. Who is he to change it now? How could he even ask to when everything he touches thrums with the possibilities of a future.
It is a future that would one day crumble just as the title Warden would fall from Andras’ shoulders with time, but it would be a future that he carved for himself.
Blue dances back, languidly roves over black, and he inclines his head. ”I am your newest denizen. Ceylon. There’s an observatory I’d like to see.”
With those words, he readjusts himself, moving from one hoof to the other, and lets stillness steal him once more. He knows so little of people, but he is sure this warden would have a retort, some unassuming comment, to dismiss or dissuade him from his path. That is, of course, all that it is - this is no mission he’s been sent on, to see all that is beautiful from a high tower and imagine a life outside of it - and nothing more than curiosity being sated would come of it.
A clock ticks, and with it the man blinks once, twice. Expectantly.
@
Ceylon
