toaru
A son of the sun, the Solterran child stands amidst the sand and lets it play upon him. Like the gold that drips upon his skin, the gold of this world of his drips over the brown of him, too. Beige seeks to devour that which it cannot have, searching for some part to keep for itself, even if it is only his bones that remain once all else is gone. But he does not shy away from the Mors, does not let her intimidate him lest he rolls over and dies right there. Toaru knows that no mere desert should take him down, no average mortal would deter him from the path he's chosen. And he has chosen.
No better than a bastard-born to his mother and father now, he is perhaps the last Irellis to walk under the Solterran sun, to bask in Solis divine glow. And he would spit on his parents' very grave had he known where it was if they were even allowed such a thing after everything that has passed. His nose turns up in distaste as he walks by dune after dune. Time ticks on, and still he feels as though he is frozen. It does not touch him, only the heat knows him in the way it makes sweat drip down his skin. Slippery jewels of liquid that the grounds greedily drink up as they fall. Every pearl lost to something bigger than he will ever be. He is fine with that. He was never meant to be larger than life, he was only meant to live it as well as he can. And today is rare.
So rare.
Far behind him, the city slumbers as waves of heat roll in like the tide, washing over their land. Like any good soldier, he braves it, inch by inch, until flimsy palm trees offer him shade and respite against the harsh rays above. Gladly he takes to them, dappled from the holes in the leaves and the light they let through. It bathes him gold and black, streaks him in sin and shadow. But he is no shadow. He is no monster from the past.
Perhaps, he is still just a boy dreaming of a future with a girl who promised the world. There are days he thinks that the rotting gold of the city matches the shade that her eyes were. Most days, he tries not to think much at all, for the stallion is sure that the little girl he knew is dead somewhere. How could she have survived those streets alone for so long? A frown further permeates his face, and even with his brow relaxed, he is an image of disdain and discontent. Set upon the beach as a demon (and there are many tales in the city that would paint him as such), he stalks from his shaded perch into the ocean's embrace. It takes him as a lover, basking in the silk of his skin, pulling his hair teasingly, so invitingly. Deeper he wades until his chest is half-submerged, until the push and pull and undertow remind him he is alive. He is alive. And his life matters. What he is doing matters. With this knowledge he burns, he is ignited and furious and turns that fury toward the shore. The dead may rest, but he cannot. Not yet. Not when there is strife and hunger, not when there are slaves and children beaten in the streets and paraded about. Not when Solterrans are treated as toys, not people. They had seen monster after monster, the silver brute having been the last, and it is not enough to watch them fall. So he pushes from the ocean; the distance from his previous shoreline retreat matters so little to him, for he would walk world after world if it meant he could bring peace and prosperity to those who have never known such sweet things.
He expects the sand and the silence, the wind his only companion to string him along and sing in his ear. He does not expect a body on the ground covered in gold and black veils. He does not expect the familiar crowning of horns spearing down a familiarly red neck. This is not a ghost he expected at all. Ears flatten, nostrils flare, and he pauses with a grimace (oh it hides so much, it paints him a coward in its own right) staring right down at her. What pretty tricks the desert can play after all.
"speech"
No better than a bastard-born to his mother and father now, he is perhaps the last Irellis to walk under the Solterran sun, to bask in Solis divine glow. And he would spit on his parents' very grave had he known where it was if they were even allowed such a thing after everything that has passed. His nose turns up in distaste as he walks by dune after dune. Time ticks on, and still he feels as though he is frozen. It does not touch him, only the heat knows him in the way it makes sweat drip down his skin. Slippery jewels of liquid that the grounds greedily drink up as they fall. Every pearl lost to something bigger than he will ever be. He is fine with that. He was never meant to be larger than life, he was only meant to live it as well as he can. And today is rare.
So rare.
Far behind him, the city slumbers as waves of heat roll in like the tide, washing over their land. Like any good soldier, he braves it, inch by inch, until flimsy palm trees offer him shade and respite against the harsh rays above. Gladly he takes to them, dappled from the holes in the leaves and the light they let through. It bathes him gold and black, streaks him in sin and shadow. But he is no shadow. He is no monster from the past.
Perhaps, he is still just a boy dreaming of a future with a girl who promised the world. There are days he thinks that the rotting gold of the city matches the shade that her eyes were. Most days, he tries not to think much at all, for the stallion is sure that the little girl he knew is dead somewhere. How could she have survived those streets alone for so long? A frown further permeates his face, and even with his brow relaxed, he is an image of disdain and discontent. Set upon the beach as a demon (and there are many tales in the city that would paint him as such), he stalks from his shaded perch into the ocean's embrace. It takes him as a lover, basking in the silk of his skin, pulling his hair teasingly, so invitingly. Deeper he wades until his chest is half-submerged, until the push and pull and undertow remind him he is alive. He is alive. And his life matters. What he is doing matters. With this knowledge he burns, he is ignited and furious and turns that fury toward the shore. The dead may rest, but he cannot. Not yet. Not when there is strife and hunger, not when there are slaves and children beaten in the streets and paraded about. Not when Solterrans are treated as toys, not people. They had seen monster after monster, the silver brute having been the last, and it is not enough to watch them fall. So he pushes from the ocean; the distance from his previous shoreline retreat matters so little to him, for he would walk world after world if it meant he could bring peace and prosperity to those who have never known such sweet things.
He expects the sand and the silence, the wind his only companion to string him along and sing in his ear. He does not expect a body on the ground covered in gold and black veils. He does not expect the familiar crowning of horns spearing down a familiarly red neck. This is not a ghost he expected at all. Ears flatten, nostrils flare, and he pauses with a grimace (oh it hides so much, it paints him a coward in its own right) staring right down at her. What pretty tricks the desert can play after all.
