watch as I turn into God, watch as She turns into Me
It is the second time I find myself within Delumine’s borders, within their walls. I have moved on from the mountains, and the places below it that are no longer mine. I have moved on from the smoke-scented, fire-lit streets, the busy port, the familiar faces. They are no longer mine. They can never be mine, again.
I am not quite burning, but rather it is as though something has gaped open inside of me. Some hungry mouth, some aching emptiness, seeking to be filled. I am not sure it can ever be satiated.
I am not quite burning, because if I allow myself to burn I know that I will have lost. If I allow myself to burn, and to anger, and to fight, I go back to being the thing that the gods had made me. I go back to being an entity for nothing but hate and war. I have lost so many things already.
And yet, with every passing hour and every set and rise of the sun, I find less and less reason to continue on in the way that I have been. I think of all the deaths I have been party to, and all of the ones that have bloodied my hands. There is no poetry that can glorify the things that I have done. I think of the takin, on the mountain, that I had allowed to die.
Perhaps I have never truly changed, only wished that I have.
The market here is nothing as I am used to. The crowd is almost listless in its wandering, as they meander from stand to stand. It is too tranquil, and does not smell of spice and smoke but something floral, and sweet like honey, almost.
I have never had much of a sweet tooth. Perhaps that was part of my making; in being made to kill—to be good at killing, to nearly enjoy it—I have always preferred foods that were more savory than sweet. Foods that my teeth would rip and tear into, not ones that make me groan in pleasure. If I had to choose a favorite fruit, it would be pomegranates.
They were native to my homeland, and sour in a way that would sting behind my cheeks, and crunching on the seeds always sounded strangely to me like bones. I have not eaten a pomegranate in many years, though I had often found them being sold in Denocte’s market.
I am aching, and aching, when I find the stand selling the fruits I recognize so well. Pomegranates, the fruit of the dead, persimmons, the fruit of the gods, and papayas, the—
“Have you ever heard them called the fruit of the angels?”
I turn, sapphire sharp eyes cutting and bright, bright, bright, when they land upon the young man standing behind me. I am caught off guard, and every muscle in my body is tense in a way that ignites the magic in my bones, as the lioness in my veins rears her head. He is scarcely more than a boy, and somehow familiar. I don’t know what to think of him.
“Who are you? Where did you hear that?” Rezar had always called them the fruit of the angels, jokingly, as they were the sweetest things he had ever tasted, and the flesh smooth like cream. Heavenly, but not of the gods. This boy can’t possibly have known such a thing, and yet here he stands, using a phrase I have not heard since Rezar’s death. How?
“Speaking.”
I am not quite burning, but rather it is as though something has gaped open inside of me. Some hungry mouth, some aching emptiness, seeking to be filled. I am not sure it can ever be satiated.
I am not quite burning, because if I allow myself to burn I know that I will have lost. If I allow myself to burn, and to anger, and to fight, I go back to being the thing that the gods had made me. I go back to being an entity for nothing but hate and war. I have lost so many things already.
And yet, with every passing hour and every set and rise of the sun, I find less and less reason to continue on in the way that I have been. I think of all the deaths I have been party to, and all of the ones that have bloodied my hands. There is no poetry that can glorify the things that I have done. I think of the takin, on the mountain, that I had allowed to die.
Perhaps I have never truly changed, only wished that I have.
The market here is nothing as I am used to. The crowd is almost listless in its wandering, as they meander from stand to stand. It is too tranquil, and does not smell of spice and smoke but something floral, and sweet like honey, almost.
I have never had much of a sweet tooth. Perhaps that was part of my making; in being made to kill—to be good at killing, to nearly enjoy it—I have always preferred foods that were more savory than sweet. Foods that my teeth would rip and tear into, not ones that make me groan in pleasure. If I had to choose a favorite fruit, it would be pomegranates.
They were native to my homeland, and sour in a way that would sting behind my cheeks, and crunching on the seeds always sounded strangely to me like bones. I have not eaten a pomegranate in many years, though I had often found them being sold in Denocte’s market.
I am aching, and aching, when I find the stand selling the fruits I recognize so well. Pomegranates, the fruit of the dead, persimmons, the fruit of the gods, and papayas, the—
“Have you ever heard them called the fruit of the angels?”
I turn, sapphire sharp eyes cutting and bright, bright, bright, when they land upon the young man standing behind me. I am caught off guard, and every muscle in my body is tense in a way that ignites the magic in my bones, as the lioness in my veins rears her head. He is scarcely more than a boy, and somehow familiar. I don’t know what to think of him.
“Who are you? Where did you hear that?” Rezar had always called them the fruit of the angels, jokingly, as they were the sweetest things he had ever tasted, and the flesh smooth like cream. Heavenly, but not of the gods. This boy can’t possibly have known such a thing, and yet here he stands, using a phrase I have not heard since Rezar’s death. How?
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
