02-25-2021, 12:33 PM
kensley
i swore the days were over of courting empty dreams
Old age meant leaving, but leaving is the only thing he has ever known. Leaving is the only thing he inherited from his father because leaving was the only good thing the father had ever been good for. He does not want to bristle at this, he does not want to think about the father and all of the ugly things he felt for the once-king. He does not want to dirty this encounter with his bitterness, so he swallows that down. He does not tell her that one does not have to be old to leave, though he understands that she must mean a different kind of leaving.
The kind of leaving one does not come back from.
Like the sister who’d died and left him her eternal life when he’d kissed her brow.
A curse more than a blessing. She’d deserved it more than he ever could.
He shifts his weight, which feels even more cumbersome now.
Hasn’t he already been reduced to memories and carcass? He is covered in a thin layer of frost now and perhaps this prevents the decay. For that he is grateful, grateful for the dignity of it. (He is still a prideful thing, Kensley, though he wishes he wasn’t.)
He studies her a long moment through the dark and considers her question. It does not strike him as rude. He has lived so long now that it does not seem as if there are any things left off-limits between strangers. Were he still an alive thing, he might have drawn a breath to buy himself enough time to gather his thoughts. Instead, he merely pauses and it might read as hesitation but he has no control over this.
His mother, of course. His siblings, those who remain. Anaxarete. Their children, including the son who may or may not be responsible for the darkness that has descended so aggressively around them. He rolls a frost-covered shoulder now.
“Of course,” he says finally, pausing only briefly now before continuing, “but I think I would prefer only losing them once to having to endure the pain of loss a thousand times over.” He turns to level her with that plain brown gaze and asks, “which would you prefer?”
The kind of leaving one does not come back from.
Like the sister who’d died and left him her eternal life when he’d kissed her brow.
A curse more than a blessing. She’d deserved it more than he ever could.
He shifts his weight, which feels even more cumbersome now.
Hasn’t he already been reduced to memories and carcass? He is covered in a thin layer of frost now and perhaps this prevents the decay. For that he is grateful, grateful for the dignity of it. (He is still a prideful thing, Kensley, though he wishes he wasn’t.)
He studies her a long moment through the dark and considers her question. It does not strike him as rude. He has lived so long now that it does not seem as if there are any things left off-limits between strangers. Were he still an alive thing, he might have drawn a breath to buy himself enough time to gather his thoughts. Instead, he merely pauses and it might read as hesitation but he has no control over this.
His mother, of course. His siblings, those who remain. Anaxarete. Their children, including the son who may or may not be responsible for the darkness that has descended so aggressively around them. He rolls a frost-covered shoulder now.
“Of course,” he says finally, pausing only briefly now before continuing, “but I think I would prefer only losing them once to having to endure the pain of loss a thousand times over.” He turns to level her with that plain brown gaze and asks, “which would you prefer?”
i worshipped at the altar of losing everything
@[City]