06-06-2021, 08:54 PM
Ryatah
As he speaks, she finds herself pulling back and shaking her head. “You don’t need me to survive, Firion,” she tells him, with a small, almost wistful smile. “You are so much stronger than I have ever been.” She only knows a fraction of what he has endured—only the smallest part that he has let her see, even if it was only by accident. It hurts to know that he likely would have never told her about his cursed state had she not found him that day at the base of the mountain. It stings, knowing that her own son felt as though he could not come to her, but she knows she cannot be surprised.
Perhaps because he is the son of her and Atrox—both masters at harboring everything about themselves they didn’t want the world to see. She knows she would have done the same as Firion, only, she is sure she never would have gone to the mountain at all.
Her son is, thankfully, not nearly as selfish as she is.
“I’m just glad you’re safe now,” she finishes softly, with another gentle touch of her lips to his brow. There is a shadow of concern though once she looks at him—really looks at him. He of course does not look like he had when she last saw him, but there is still something that feels off. Perhaps he is just tired, she reasons, or maybe he senses that something is different about her. She would explain it to him, if only she knew how; if she had any idea of all the things that have changed about her, other than the stardust that drifts from her wings.
“You’re not lying to me, right?” she asks him with a light smile that could have passed as teasing if not for the pointed stare that accompanied it. “I’ll find out.”
Perhaps because he is the son of her and Atrox—both masters at harboring everything about themselves they didn’t want the world to see. She knows she would have done the same as Firion, only, she is sure she never would have gone to the mountain at all.
Her son is, thankfully, not nearly as selfish as she is.
“I’m just glad you’re safe now,” she finishes softly, with another gentle touch of her lips to his brow. There is a shadow of concern though once she looks at him—really looks at him. He of course does not look like he had when she last saw him, but there is still something that feels off. Perhaps he is just tired, she reasons, or maybe he senses that something is different about her. She would explain it to him, if only she knew how; if she had any idea of all the things that have changed about her, other than the stardust that drifts from her wings.
“You’re not lying to me, right?” she asks him with a light smile that could have passed as teasing if not for the pointed stare that accompanied it. “I’ll find out.”
EVEN ANGELS HAVE THEIR WICKED SCHEMES