he had been something before the fall; he had been flesh and blood
Her eyes will not leave me. They remain transfixed; attentive; bordering just beyond polite intrigue into something deeper, more intense. She does not seem like the type of woman capable of half-measures, of indifferences. All, or nothing. This clearly isn’t nothing.
And so, I listen. I listen to her. From how she speaks, I do not think she can be much older than me, or not older at all. It is difficult to tell in Novus, a land of magic and immortals. But still, I listen. As a girl, I was… taken.
I wonder if it is cathartic, to share a story of one’s own life when someone else suffers the story of their life. I listen. I listen, but it is different. She tells me a story of war. It is a story that has been told many times and will be told many times again. Of children, suffering the sins of that war.
I listen, but I do not look at her. I look at the sea, and in my mind’s eye I create a map of her scars.
Each one, earned for some atrocity. Each one, given to her through abuse. But she and I, we are different. I can hear the regret in her voice. When I look at her, there is a somberness to my expression; a depth that is as cruel and dark as the sea.
There are some things in my life I regret. But the war, the killing, is not one of them. Men will always wage war. They will always need it—and the difference here is she speaks of something done to her, something of which she had no control. She speaks of wanting to die, but—
“You never became the thing you wanted to kill,” I respond. It is now that I look at her, and not the sea. It is now that I level her with my too-clear eyes despite the whisky on my breath. “Even when others died for you—even then… you were never the man you wanted to kill.”
My lip twitches again. There is something rising within me, something that is volatile; I recognize it all too well and it is almost a relief when it comes. The man within me that roils like a beast; the man that bares his teeth and laughs and refuses to be loved. (There is a part of me that cannot help but wonder if this happened because I had grown soft—that this fate befell me not because it was destiny, but because it was punishment. I had become soft. Elena, she had made soft. Elliana, soft. Adonai, soft). “I hope you found that cathartic,” I say, wryly.
Then: I laugh. The sound lacks mirth. It is cutting, too-loud. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh. “Do you think any of us get to choose, what happens after?” My eyes are narrowed. “There’s two choices. Live, or die. That’s it. But I have watched myself become the very thing I spent a lifetime killing. There is no choice, no. We never choose what happens to us.”
I have already thought of how, in life’s own way, this must be my penance. The sea would not let me die; she was not done with me, not yet. I have already thought of how this is for a lifetime of judgement, of malice, and then; I remember I am only one son of the island. I remember that what happens to me is irrelevant, in the grand scheme of everything else. I have no destiny that matters.
I am only a man turned into a monster. I am only more alone than I have ever been. And she stands besides me with the nerve to tell me a story of honor, of duty, of sacrifice. (There had never been any of those virtues, not in my story). “You became a queen,” I say, sourly. “I became the damned.”
And so, I listen. I listen to her. From how she speaks, I do not think she can be much older than me, or not older at all. It is difficult to tell in Novus, a land of magic and immortals. But still, I listen. As a girl, I was… taken.
I wonder if it is cathartic, to share a story of one’s own life when someone else suffers the story of their life. I listen. I listen, but it is different. She tells me a story of war. It is a story that has been told many times and will be told many times again. Of children, suffering the sins of that war.
I listen, but I do not look at her. I look at the sea, and in my mind’s eye I create a map of her scars.
Each one, earned for some atrocity. Each one, given to her through abuse. But she and I, we are different. I can hear the regret in her voice. When I look at her, there is a somberness to my expression; a depth that is as cruel and dark as the sea.
There are some things in my life I regret. But the war, the killing, is not one of them. Men will always wage war. They will always need it—and the difference here is she speaks of something done to her, something of which she had no control. She speaks of wanting to die, but—
“You never became the thing you wanted to kill,” I respond. It is now that I look at her, and not the sea. It is now that I level her with my too-clear eyes despite the whisky on my breath. “Even when others died for you—even then… you were never the man you wanted to kill.”
My lip twitches again. There is something rising within me, something that is volatile; I recognize it all too well and it is almost a relief when it comes. The man within me that roils like a beast; the man that bares his teeth and laughs and refuses to be loved. (There is a part of me that cannot help but wonder if this happened because I had grown soft—that this fate befell me not because it was destiny, but because it was punishment. I had become soft. Elena, she had made soft. Elliana, soft. Adonai, soft). “I hope you found that cathartic,” I say, wryly.
Then: I laugh. The sound lacks mirth. It is cutting, too-loud. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh. “Do you think any of us get to choose, what happens after?” My eyes are narrowed. “There’s two choices. Live, or die. That’s it. But I have watched myself become the very thing I spent a lifetime killing. There is no choice, no. We never choose what happens to us.”
I have already thought of how, in life’s own way, this must be my penance. The sea would not let me die; she was not done with me, not yet. I have already thought of how this is for a lifetime of judgement, of malice, and then; I remember I am only one son of the island. I remember that what happens to me is irrelevant, in the grand scheme of everything else. I have no destiny that matters.
I am only a man turned into a monster. I am only more alone than I have ever been. And she stands besides me with the nerve to tell me a story of honor, of duty, of sacrifice. (There had never been any of those virtues, not in my story). “You became a queen,” I say, sourly. “I became the damned.”
