It is withering to be so angry.
As fresh as an under watered flower, Arcturos rots beneath the weight of his anger. Beneath the weight of a mother that does not understand him (or even see him—she has never seen how beautifully his fur shimmers beneath moonlight, how his brow furrows the exact same way as her brother, how his eyes twinkle with wonder on those brief respites from rage).
But still, he persists. Steps low and dragging, head held with no pride or strength. He persists in the way that one does when they don’t know how to give up. He doesn’t see an end in sight but what else is there to do? Laying down and succumbing to malnutrition sounds worse than whatever he feels now, and he can’t bring himself to tumble head over heels off a cliff. There is no choice but to apathetically feed and water himself, as he were some disembodied caretaker exhausted by the task of keeping his empty body alive.
Except for when he is angry.
Typically the sensation comes when he is at his limit. His body is swaying, his eyes closed, he thinks he might have the will to give up. His rage practically a line of cocaine, he hyperfocuses and chatters endlessly, finding irritation in even the smallest slights.
Unfortunately, Arcturos feels no energy now, leaning haphazardly against the wide trunk of a tree. He’s watching the passing of strangers through the Meadow. The full summer-bloom of the flower before him might as well be the yellowed grass of winter, for his face is impassive and unfeeling as he refuses to bask in the beauty.
When Arcturos sees Allaire, it is not her loveliness that draws him. It’s how delicate she looks. So opposite him. He’s moving toward her before he can think, certain she won’t be able to see him, but just a touch determined nonetheless.
“Lovely wings,” he murmurs once he’s within earshot.
arcturos
@Allaire