resurrect the saint within the wretch
Warden has felt more than he should in his short years. He feels as if he has lived through the ages; each vision bringing him into a moment in time that others haven’t lived yet. Even now, as he stands beside a woman whose experience in itself brings her the wisdom that seems to bring gratefulness to each silvered part of her body, he knows more than her: and the thought weighs him down incredibly. The watcher’s weight shifts uncomfortably, his eyes drifting to the dimly twinkling stars that watch them both silently, irreverent and unseeing as they hang terribly still in the black sky.
Even he, a watcher and a seer, does not understand how his gift works. Why is it that he only sees the ends, or the events that would bring terrible change? His mother (a true seer, he always says) will see births and marriages, reunited lost ones and love reignited. Even Rhaegor, when his third eye does strike, does not wield the terror that Warden’s does. His ability is simple in some terms, but at the same time it is completely unwoven - frayed cords that splice and break and it is Warden that is meant to piece together what is leftover; fragments that are not his own yet are his to interpret.
The future always comes.
It marches on, unbending and unyielding, whether Warden knows of what it brings or not. He knows this, of course he does, but the way Aletta’s voice grips him he knows that it is not merely a reminder; it is a mantra. He inhales with a gentle shiver down his spine despite the tepid warmth of the night wind across his face. “I must,” he tells her in reply, but he also tells to the night sky, his dark eyes searching its depths before turning his head gently towards his silvered companion.
Aletta’s gaze meets Warden with a ferocity he only wishes he could have when facing his own premonitions, and her poise and certainty allows a curt nod from him to display an understanding. The watcher inhales deeply, his eyes shifting away from her for a moment to glance upwards, as if he was looking for strength within the stars he so vocally curses.
“Water.” He begins with a tightness in his voice as he turns to face her, his crowned head lowering solemnly. The starlight glimmers dimly in the black and blue of his opaled horns with his movement, sadness within the navy of his eyes just beneath. “Ever flowing, it’s strength never waning. Constantly pushing down, down, down until there was no breath left, no light, no escape...” Warden pauses, his face contorting, thoughtful and feeling exposed in this vulnerable state. “I could look through it, like a veil, and see you on the other side of it. I couldn’t reach you, but you were there.” Warden has never been one to try and interpret his visions besides what was given for him to see, but to him it only meant one thing: a watery grave.
Why would it mean anything different?
@[aletta] <3
