The hero is strangely close to those who died young. Lasting
doesn’t contain him. Being is his ascent: he moves on.
doesn’t contain him. Being is his ascent: he moves on.
It occurs to me I am not as drunk as he may think I am. I do not drink to the point of drunkenness; only to the edge of sobriety, to soften me, to file away my edges. I regard him quietly in the dark; the brief change of his expression, the way one brow arches and the smile changes as briefly as a cloud over the sun. This is what I had hoped for; a moment of uncertainty, a moment of surprise. This is no battlefield, but it may as well be.
Of course. Come, I’ll walk you back. I wonder—I wonder why Adonai did not offer you a room himself.
It is the venom I am expecting, hidden behind cordiality. My expression remains politely impassive; there is no smile, no humor, nothing aside from a blank expression of stoicism. “How little you think of your brother, Prince Pilate. He extended me all the politenesses required of an Ieshan” Now, a smile. Brief and inconsequential; nearly condescending. Pilate is a small man. He is small because he is a coward who deals in politics versus actualities. I wonder, Pilate—do you know what it feels like to truly break a man? It is a strange thing to walk beside him. I have heard the rumors of his creation; I find the magic makes my skin crawl.
Words are a weapon in and of themselves. I have practiced them. But I no longer have the patience. “I simply did not want to inconvenience him, as I am wiling to inconvenience you.” Another smile; and then, perfectly timed, I laugh. It gives the aura of humor; as if I do not turn to regard him with a wolf’s hungry eyes, or a soldier’s.
The good lie, the lie of the ages, is that warriors do not lust for killing. To do so would be ignoble. But violence begets violence and—and my blood is boiling, imperceptibly, beneath the surface.
“Tell me, Pilate.” And this I softly demand. It is a time for soft demands, beneath moonlight, beneath starlight, with my voice made sweet and heady by whiskey. “Is it true your mother made you of desert sand?”
I cannot help but think if my mother had the magic to make me instead of birth me, she would have made me out of spite.
Of course. Come, I’ll walk you back. I wonder—I wonder why Adonai did not offer you a room himself.
It is the venom I am expecting, hidden behind cordiality. My expression remains politely impassive; there is no smile, no humor, nothing aside from a blank expression of stoicism. “How little you think of your brother, Prince Pilate. He extended me all the politenesses required of an Ieshan” Now, a smile. Brief and inconsequential; nearly condescending. Pilate is a small man. He is small because he is a coward who deals in politics versus actualities. I wonder, Pilate—do you know what it feels like to truly break a man? It is a strange thing to walk beside him. I have heard the rumors of his creation; I find the magic makes my skin crawl.
Words are a weapon in and of themselves. I have practiced them. But I no longer have the patience. “I simply did not want to inconvenience him, as I am wiling to inconvenience you.” Another smile; and then, perfectly timed, I laugh. It gives the aura of humor; as if I do not turn to regard him with a wolf’s hungry eyes, or a soldier’s.
The good lie, the lie of the ages, is that warriors do not lust for killing. To do so would be ignoble. But violence begets violence and—and my blood is boiling, imperceptibly, beneath the surface.
“Tell me, Pilate.” And this I softly demand. It is a time for soft demands, beneath moonlight, beneath starlight, with my voice made sweet and heady by whiskey. “Is it true your mother made you of desert sand?”
I cannot help but think if my mother had the magic to make me instead of birth me, she would have made me out of spite.
