There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind
I wake up angry; and once awake, the anger never leaves.
It follows me day by day by day, as I have taken to haunting Terrastella’s shoreline. I cannot withstand leaving the sea for long. My skin begins to dry; I hope the discomfort is a result of a newfound infancy, that I will outgrow it. The wounds at my throat and shoulder have begun to heal, save the puckering of scars; Elena has taken particular care of them. I do not want to say I am grateful—I should not have them, to begin with—but I am. I cannot express it, in words, because the bitterness begins to swell too quickly. I am bitter I have a need of help. I am bitter that I am not dead, more frankly.
The bitterness, I think, is what drives me to drink. Not in Terrastella, no; Damascus, once summoned, flies me to the fields before Delumine. I must leave the sea, or else—
Well, what occurs when one becomes their own internal sentiment?
I am nothing but anger; and the anger makes me leave, because—what is left of me, except the rage?
The rage, strong enough to turn me from the sea I now require. The rage, which dissolves my pride to dust that is then blown away beneath Damascus’ powerful wings. The rage, which removes my inhibitions and my fears and myself.
Then, the rage burns itself up too, as fire does to fuel.
By the time I reach Delumine, I want only to fill the empty well echoing in my chest. It feels infinite, this emptiness inside, as if no amount of thought or action could quell the apathy. And so when I walk through the ivy-covered streets, bright with summertime and youth, it is to skim an indifferent eye over familiar sights and instead travel to a deeper, darker part of town.
Every city has a squalid street where the empty flock in droves. I find them because the first pair of eyes I meet belong to a woman with dead eyes and an accompanying smile full of missing teeth. She coos something at my passage; but I ignore that too, and enter the first door full of noise.
The tavern is not clearly marked. But it smells as all taverns do, in all corners of the world, and is occupied by a boisterous group of patrons. I shoulder my way through and stand at the corner of the bar, where I can watch the entire room unfold before my eyes. I order my first drink.
It is hours later when he enters with the same expression I wore.
It is hours later when I realize I am my father after all.
It follows me day by day by day, as I have taken to haunting Terrastella’s shoreline. I cannot withstand leaving the sea for long. My skin begins to dry; I hope the discomfort is a result of a newfound infancy, that I will outgrow it. The wounds at my throat and shoulder have begun to heal, save the puckering of scars; Elena has taken particular care of them. I do not want to say I am grateful—I should not have them, to begin with—but I am. I cannot express it, in words, because the bitterness begins to swell too quickly. I am bitter I have a need of help. I am bitter that I am not dead, more frankly.
The bitterness, I think, is what drives me to drink. Not in Terrastella, no; Damascus, once summoned, flies me to the fields before Delumine. I must leave the sea, or else—
Well, what occurs when one becomes their own internal sentiment?
I am nothing but anger; and the anger makes me leave, because—what is left of me, except the rage?
The rage, strong enough to turn me from the sea I now require. The rage, which dissolves my pride to dust that is then blown away beneath Damascus’ powerful wings. The rage, which removes my inhibitions and my fears and myself.
Then, the rage burns itself up too, as fire does to fuel.
By the time I reach Delumine, I want only to fill the empty well echoing in my chest. It feels infinite, this emptiness inside, as if no amount of thought or action could quell the apathy. And so when I walk through the ivy-covered streets, bright with summertime and youth, it is to skim an indifferent eye over familiar sights and instead travel to a deeper, darker part of town.
Every city has a squalid street where the empty flock in droves. I find them because the first pair of eyes I meet belong to a woman with dead eyes and an accompanying smile full of missing teeth. She coos something at my passage; but I ignore that too, and enter the first door full of noise.
The tavern is not clearly marked. But it smells as all taverns do, in all corners of the world, and is occupied by a boisterous group of patrons. I shoulder my way through and stand at the corner of the bar, where I can watch the entire room unfold before my eyes. I order my first drink.
It is hours later when he enters with the same expression I wore.
It is hours later when I realize I am my father after all.
