06-07-2020, 12:16 AM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
He wants to know why she is so timid and quiet. He wants to know what happened to her to make her feel as though she needed to be unsure of everything she said. Or maybe it’s just him. Perhaps she lied about not being afraid, when in fact a pair of crimson eyes glowing against billowing shadow was too unnerving for her.
He decides, of course, that that must be it. And he can feel shame and rage burning like a coal in his gut, not because of her, but because of him. Because of everything he is and everything he is destined to become. He does not understand why, when all he ever wanted was to be like his family, why fate had to laugh at his wishes and dreams and turn him into an actual monster.
He swallows away his bitterness, and shift his glowing gaze back to hers. He stares at the loveliness of her face, and wonders what things would have been like if they had met before — before he became what he was.
“Despoina,” he says quietly in the smokiness of his voice, and even on his course tongue it sounds lovely and light. “It’s a pretty name.”
He steps closer to her now, a cautious and careful step, afraid of sending her running, but more afraid of letting her leave. “You are not afraid of me,” he recalls back to her earlier comment, all the while studying her face, her eyes, her mouth. “Which means you have seen or felt something far worse than what I am.” It’s a statement. Not one that he expects her to clarify or expand on. Simply something he says, because he wants her to know. Wants her to know that he understands, because he is certain now, that after what he faced down below, there are very few monsters he could face that would scare him now.
He decides, of course, that that must be it. And he can feel shame and rage burning like a coal in his gut, not because of her, but because of him. Because of everything he is and everything he is destined to become. He does not understand why, when all he ever wanted was to be like his family, why fate had to laugh at his wishes and dreams and turn him into an actual monster.
He swallows away his bitterness, and shift his glowing gaze back to hers. He stares at the loveliness of her face, and wonders what things would have been like if they had met before — before he became what he was.
“Despoina,” he says quietly in the smokiness of his voice, and even on his course tongue it sounds lovely and light. “It’s a pretty name.”
He steps closer to her now, a cautious and careful step, afraid of sending her running, but more afraid of letting her leave. “You are not afraid of me,” he recalls back to her earlier comment, all the while studying her face, her eyes, her mouth. “Which means you have seen or felt something far worse than what I am.” It’s a statement. Not one that he expects her to clarify or expand on. Simply something he says, because he wants her to know. Wants her to know that he understands, because he is certain now, that after what he faced down below, there are very few monsters he could face that would scare him now.
torryn
