Sabra
The laughter he produces sounds like it had to come a long way to be heard, and the words that follow it are no less drawn. My smile fades into something almost like pity. He has not changed, not one bit. Not in any way that counts. I think perhaps he will always be this way, always reaching and only noticing the wreckage when he's left it behind.
My eyes darken when he mentions the past, our past, and the consequences of it. I'm quick to look away, refusing him the victory of seeing the sudden gloss my eyes have taken on at the memories he stirs. We can make light of it, make dry jokes and pretend that when our paths crossed, it meant nothing more than any other encounter. And maybe that's truth to him. We were not great loves by any means. Perhaps love had never even entered the equation. But you don't have to love someone to not betray them. You don't have to love them to be kind.
(He hated you for your weakness)
It's no wonder I flinch at the bitterness memory leaves behind.
When I can look at him again, it's with distant eyes. They are dry, though. I can do that much for myself. There's a moment when he bends the massive arch of his neck that my resolve flickers. One foot lifts, certain it will continue to move me away, only to be set carefully down again in the same place. My breath hitches in my chest at the uncomfortable pressure when the spear is nudged, though I know he's using as light a touch as he can. It is less that he has touched it, than the fact that the slightest motion in that slender piece of wood reminds me of the exact position of my heart where it lays trembling inside me.
I can only blink at first, when his offer is presented. "Break some of it..." I repeat, uncertain. An uneasy glance at the ruptured skin of my breast from which it perches turns my stomach. I haven't gotten used to the sight yet, to the feeling, to any of it. Whatever he does will hurt, badly. There's no doubt in my mind of that. Still, it's more thoughtful than I'd expected him to be, and I feel nearly ashamed of my biting tones. One rainbowed wing shrugs hesitantly.
(I hope he drives it deeper)
"You can try. I suppose. But-" I can't help a wry grin at this point, "I don't know if it will cooperate. I know it looks like I botched a landing in the forest, but that's unfortunately not the case. There's a magical component and it might make meddling with it... difficult." Truthfully, I have no idea what to expect. It might break as easily as dry twigs, or it might resist and make life even more of a hell than it already is. I don't know. But it seems foolish to deny this chance at easing the struggle of my burden.
I'm distracted for the moment by his answering of my question, and it leaves more questions than answers. I have the feeling though that we will be here till high summer still talking if we try to discuss every aspect of our lives (and lack thereof) since our last parting. Still, my expression does not hide my surprise or my consternation at the things he's described. This is more than I'd imagined he'd take on, and the idea that he would risk losing himself to the dragon seemed perverse when compared to the memory of the stallion who had fought so dearly to control it. My lips thin warily, head nodding in slow understanding.
"From what I've seen, the deepest pits and the tallest mountains are both very lonely places. If this throne you're building yourself sits as high as I think it does..." The words dwindle, a sad smile dancing across my face. Reaching, he was always reaching. "I just hope the view is worth it, if you've got no one to share it with." The words fell soft before me. My head shook suddenly, the brilliant colors of my mane turning into a brief, fiery halo before I settle again. That would be my only say on the matter. Heavens know he'd never listened to me before, I have no reason to waste my breath another time round.
I wanna be Immortal, like a God in the sky
I wanna be a silk flower, like I'm never gonna die
Photo by Kareva Margarita
@[Castile]