He laughs, and I want to tear the amusement from his eyes. I want him to fear what he's found. I have blood and acid on my lips, and I want him to regret that laugh. It's a violent urge, and one I regret almost immediately. Who have I become, that I want to strike at the one who's helping me?
The healing took the wind from me, left me sore and lost. The anger that had been seething beneath my skin twisted back on myself, ashamed that I had wanted to throw it at this perfect stranger. I only catch every other word as he comments something rote, prices paid for services rendered. His blood for my restoration.
I had done nothing to deserve his aid, had not even known his name until it had fallen on my ears minutes ago. It was a kindness I was struggling to process.
Pressure was building behind my eyes, the sheen of tears glossing them. I wouldn't cry, not in front of this horse I had just met. For all I knew he'd fixed me just so he could do more damage of his own. Some folk were hateful that way. When he speaks again, I discover that it is my turn to be amused.
"Not very, no. There's no fun in that. But then again, I seem to have very little say in the matter. I survive no matter what I do." A vicious grin split my lips as I speak, tossing the vivid tangle of forelock from my eyes defiantly. They are no longer misted with untears. Instead, I gaze the the verdant depths of his eyes with chips of ice. Breathing a reassuring sigh over the still form of the girl beside me, I gather my courage.
With a slight wince, I pull my legs beneath me, pushing against the earth with a groan. Standing shouldn't be this hard, it really shouldn't. With everything that's changed though, I'm pleased to find myself as stubborn as ever. I stand, wings loose at my side and head high. Not tall enough to meet his eye level, but still an improvement.
"What about you, Woolf? Does a man who spills his own blood regularly bite dragons or fly in hurricanes? Do you tempt fate just by breathing?" Is the line you draw between fighting and fucking so thin it almost vanishes some nights? My thoughts twist and turn against each under the uncaring sky. Im saying far too much, and thinking less than I should be. I'm standing too close, and can only watch our breath mingle in curling clouds of mist between us.
@[woolf]
The healing took the wind from me, left me sore and lost. The anger that had been seething beneath my skin twisted back on myself, ashamed that I had wanted to throw it at this perfect stranger. I only catch every other word as he comments something rote, prices paid for services rendered. His blood for my restoration.
I had done nothing to deserve his aid, had not even known his name until it had fallen on my ears minutes ago. It was a kindness I was struggling to process.
Pressure was building behind my eyes, the sheen of tears glossing them. I wouldn't cry, not in front of this horse I had just met. For all I knew he'd fixed me just so he could do more damage of his own. Some folk were hateful that way. When he speaks again, I discover that it is my turn to be amused.
"Not very, no. There's no fun in that. But then again, I seem to have very little say in the matter. I survive no matter what I do." A vicious grin split my lips as I speak, tossing the vivid tangle of forelock from my eyes defiantly. They are no longer misted with untears. Instead, I gaze the the verdant depths of his eyes with chips of ice. Breathing a reassuring sigh over the still form of the girl beside me, I gather my courage.
With a slight wince, I pull my legs beneath me, pushing against the earth with a groan. Standing shouldn't be this hard, it really shouldn't. With everything that's changed though, I'm pleased to find myself as stubborn as ever. I stand, wings loose at my side and head high. Not tall enough to meet his eye level, but still an improvement.
"What about you, Woolf? Does a man who spills his own blood regularly bite dragons or fly in hurricanes? Do you tempt fate just by breathing?" Is the line you draw between fighting and fucking so thin it almost vanishes some nights? My thoughts twist and turn against each under the uncaring sky. Im saying far too much, and thinking less than I should be. I'm standing too close, and can only watch our breath mingle in curling clouds of mist between us.
@[woolf]