do you think God stays in his heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he has created?
He finally stills once his wing is draped over her but he notices the way she stiffens at the initial contact. She would lay still if he crushed her throat, he thinks, but then she could not ever hold him back. Ghaul had discovered that problem when his mother’s limp body refused to groom or kiss him. But before he can really begin to weigh his options, she settles and leans into him, accepts his embrace the way he had hoped. The boy is glad that this friend does not have to die today.
“Fire,” he repeats, and lifts his chin. He huffs a short plume of flame that curls into the air and dies just as quickly as Ghaul had brought it to life. It is, perhaps, like him – gentle and warming when tamed but destructive and all consuming at its worst. In his restless dreams, he sees the entire countryside aflame with him standing over the ashes floating on the breeze. He awakes, laughing and giddy, only to find that none have perished. They will be glad to be sacrifices, he believes.
He wants to tell her this but the words don’t come together in his mind. The child has only images and ideas all locked inside his head for only him to enjoy. Maybe it’s for the best, he thinks. Dawn had made a sad little hum whenever he tried to explain it into her in his broken language and simply kissed him goodnight. Greta may not understand his heart either.
Still, he is at peace here in this moment and he finds himself drifting off. The only sign that he has grown tired is the steady, even breathing coming from his little reptile nostrils and the rhythmic rising of his ribs. But just as his chin begins to droop, she calls his name and he lifts his horns to look at her once more. He studies the blur of red that forms her outline and tilts his head curiously when she says his name again. Been here before? A soft, curious croon breathes from him as he continues to stare blindly.
“Another life?” he asks, touching his nose to her cheek as he examines her closer now. “Before Mother’s sacrifice, I was here. Maybe. Not sure?”
He seems to think, the muscles of his brows furrowing behind the small nubs of his young horns. When she still carried him, he dreamt of destiny and purpose. But Ghaul was never sure if that was all in the before, the after, or some other galaxy all together. The fledgling sighs against her cheek and faces forward once more as he appears to contemplate this now.
“You remember what?” he finally asks. Could she tell him how Pangea heaved with disease and filth? Was she here when the lepers were cast out and had nowhere else to go? He is too young to know what has ravaged the land long before his awful birth but he is eager for the tales. Perhaps she could even tell him how beautiful his home is in the dying light of the day.
@[greta] as long as she plays the little spoon, she's safe for now.