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SAOIRSE
At times the boy had wished his spirit could depart along the airs that pulsed with an unpredictable rhythm. As if the gusts and vigor spurned by the forces far beyond the reach of his wings, could set his soul on fire. But as he continued to linger his gaze on the ocean from a far, he began to feel ever so distant from life itself. So much that the brine on the wind vanished from his senses. The coalescing voices around him hummed in no particular, subdued gesture. So that he could ignore their callings, their busy bodies – Saoirse had become the statue, locked on the perpetual swing of memories wrestling to breach past the stone. He could only feign indifference for so long. He feared it would break, or crack – and he would be powerless in that vulnerability. What was left? He wondered. Saoirse’s forgetfulness of the inhabitants, allows the stranger in the distance to appraise him unnoticed. The youth’s eyelids fall just half way, overestimating the expenses made on his body. Pulling his wings closer to conserve warmth. Her voice is as unassuming as the populace that murmurs in various tones beyond them. The boy lifts his gaze to greet her dark eyes, suddenly aware of the proximity and force that winds underneath the weight of her voice. He licks his dry lips and waves his tail. Undulating underneath the concentration of thought that springs into action. “For a while now.” His honesty seems to drain the air of energy. What remains entangled in his eyes is a careful spark, one that regards the stranger with an air of practiced caution and boyish curiosity. “I’ve heard the best warriors train here… is that true?” He seems to make subtle changes to his posture. As if to challenge the elegant woman in an act of defiance, having no logical cause or reason to. His head tilts higher, his wings lifted carefully off his sides as if to add more bulk to his slim features. He thought he knew the secret, knew the truth about the world then – or at least some sliver of it. And that he’d keep it from her, thinking; the best is never good enough. And those who fight and live, eventually die. Perhaps it was in the way people died, that mattered. Even then, it could be for entirely inane reasons. Choices that, in a few hundred years would cease to ever exist. Something old and childish guided him closer, and closer to the throngs of battle regardless. It was hard to say if the mare was a warrior herself; underneath the fine curves of her bodice, the soft highlights of sanguine. She did not exude a map of scars, or harbor ghastly wounds that a warrior might accumulate in their lifetime. |
@Rhoswen - your post was great! XD
