"Why are you following me?" Thorn asks, exhausted, as he turns around to face his hallucination of Nightlock. They don't usually follow him if he doesn't give them attention; and even when they did follow him, their presences were accompanied by frenzied whispering. This Nightlock is quiet. Cool. Lacking the feverish pitch of the rest of Thorn's life.
Soft white light emanating from Thorn's body sprawls vibrantly across Nightlock's face. The sabino thinks it odd that he looks real, that the light turns him into something so solid Thorn can nearly pick apart each individual hair. He isn't convinced this is his father, though - not yet. There's a distinct emptiness in his chest. While Thorn's own suffering is amplified enough to be worth several lives of suffering, his curse always leaves room for the pain of others. The darkest parts of other's lives are simply a part of him, too.
And this Nightlock, he doesn't have pain.
Thorn is sure his father would have pain right now.
Nightlock does have pain, though. Thorn just hasn't felt it yet. The sabino stares, mouth set, dull eyes glassy behind weakly fluttering lids. He begins to lose interest when the pain does hit him.
It takes his breath away.
Thorn falls to his knees, incapable of making noise, incapable of taking another breath. Nightlock's suffering is an army, with soldier after soldier taking a bayonet to the wound in Thorn's chest. It pulses as they tear (he can't hear anything over their warcries, over his own laboring heartbeat).
"You're real?" is all he manages to gasp out. Blood drip, drip, drips onto the forest floor, seeping into the already near-black tropical soil. Thorn's back legs crumple and now he lays on the bouncy earth, nose outstretched in front of Nightlock's hooves. He's exhausted, eyes fluttering and fluttering against finally shutting. "You're real?" he rasps again, though this time it is barely a whisper.
Soft white light emanating from Thorn's body sprawls vibrantly across Nightlock's face. The sabino thinks it odd that he looks real, that the light turns him into something so solid Thorn can nearly pick apart each individual hair. He isn't convinced this is his father, though - not yet. There's a distinct emptiness in his chest. While Thorn's own suffering is amplified enough to be worth several lives of suffering, his curse always leaves room for the pain of others. The darkest parts of other's lives are simply a part of him, too.
And this Nightlock, he doesn't have pain.
Thorn is sure his father would have pain right now.
Nightlock does have pain, though. Thorn just hasn't felt it yet. The sabino stares, mouth set, dull eyes glassy behind weakly fluttering lids. He begins to lose interest when the pain does hit him.
It takes his breath away.
Thorn falls to his knees, incapable of making noise, incapable of taking another breath. Nightlock's suffering is an army, with soldier after soldier taking a bayonet to the wound in Thorn's chest. It pulses as they tear (he can't hear anything over their warcries, over his own laboring heartbeat).
"You're real?" is all he manages to gasp out. Blood drip, drip, drips onto the forest floor, seeping into the already near-black tropical soil. Thorn's back legs crumple and now he lays on the bouncy earth, nose outstretched in front of Nightlock's hooves. He's exhausted, eyes fluttering and fluttering against finally shutting. "You're real?" he rasps again, though this time it is barely a whisper.
thorn
under your skin, over the moon
don't let me in, I don't know what I'd do
roses are fallin', roses from fallin' for you, ooh