|| LORD OF VERTIGO, THE HAWK HERMIT OF THE HEIGHTS, TRACES A SIGN THAT INSTANTLY VANISHES INTO LIGHT, INTO AIR. STUBBORNLY, FROM DAWN TO DUSK, HE REPEATS IT. ||
Looking at his brother, Corradh cannot deny they both should have been gods.
His lips upturn into a smile, wet with the sweet nectar of the broken fig. His lips upturn just enough the teeth show.
Pilate could have been the demigod of treachery and Corradh… well.
Corradh says with a too-bright, too-sharp smile (all so much alike, to the too-bright, too-blue, cut-from-a-fantasy type of sky): “Brother, is pleasure ever a waste of time? Besides, my teeth will never dull.”
The casual arrogance with which Corradh speaks could easily be a lie; but the way he shows the fangs so gleefully seems to contest it. Then the smile is gone, and Corradh is nothing save inky black skin and even darker rosettes. A perfect ringlet of hair falls between his eyes as he tosses Pilate a handful of figs.
Corradh should stay where he stands, dappled in the shade of the fig tree. He glances with those deep, gem-bright eyes at his brother and thinks again, we should have been gods.
So Corradh pursues his earlier line of thought, stepping from the shade toward his brother and his nest of snakes. “Pilate, if we were to be gods, what gods would we be?” The question emerges whimsical and lighthearted, nearly boyish. But Corradh is boyish only in the way anarchy refuses to mature into something better planned. Like civil war.
Perhaps that it, Corradh thinks. Perhaps I ought to be the god of nothing at all.
"Speech." || @Pilate
Looking at his brother, Corradh cannot deny they both should have been gods.
His lips upturn into a smile, wet with the sweet nectar of the broken fig. His lips upturn just enough the teeth show.
Pilate could have been the demigod of treachery and Corradh… well.
Corradh says with a too-bright, too-sharp smile (all so much alike, to the too-bright, too-blue, cut-from-a-fantasy type of sky): “Brother, is pleasure ever a waste of time? Besides, my teeth will never dull.”
The casual arrogance with which Corradh speaks could easily be a lie; but the way he shows the fangs so gleefully seems to contest it. Then the smile is gone, and Corradh is nothing save inky black skin and even darker rosettes. A perfect ringlet of hair falls between his eyes as he tosses Pilate a handful of figs.
Corradh should stay where he stands, dappled in the shade of the fig tree. He glances with those deep, gem-bright eyes at his brother and thinks again, we should have been gods.
So Corradh pursues his earlier line of thought, stepping from the shade toward his brother and his nest of snakes. “Pilate, if we were to be gods, what gods would we be?” The question emerges whimsical and lighthearted, nearly boyish. But Corradh is boyish only in the way anarchy refuses to mature into something better planned. Like civil war.
Perhaps that it, Corradh thinks. Perhaps I ought to be the god of nothing at all.
"Speech." || @
unknowingly, he draws a question:
is power freedom? is freedom fate?
