resurrect the saint within the wretch
He cannot even remember a time where the weight of knowledge hasn’t pressed fervently, a sort of gravity that clings to every part of him; in his weary, angry eyes and the sharp, unwavering angles of his pale face. He knows nothing but this desperation, this frustration (this fear - a sheer helplessness that reminds him of how weak he truly is) and it seeps outwardly through the cracks that he cannot hide, like the starlight as it peeks out from the fabric of pitch dark. Even so, there is a glimmer of hopefulness that lays barely thrumming beneath the surface. Maybe this won’t last forever, maybe one day he will have the ability to change fate’s design, to do some good with his power to peek into the future.
Their conversation is heavy and weighted, leaving him feeling weary and his chest tight. Aletta’s voice is precise and firm (is that compassion he hears deep within its layers?), almost scolding yet with a knowing gentleness that keeps him standing stoically beside her, enthralled by her eloquence despite the deep furrow of his brow. Experience is a brutal teacher and the way the silver woman stands and speaks, she has been a willful student.
At some point, the land rises again.
His mind travels to Tephra with its looming volcano that breathes life into the kingdom, wondering how many eons ago was it merely silent beneath the ocean’s waves. The thought and her metaphor causes a twitch on his ivory mouth, a slow-blinking of his eyes as his gaze shifts ever so slightly towards her once again, a sharp snort leaving his nostrils. Maybe I am done with living, comes the thought, robust and prominent as it remains within the confines of his mind. A familiar thought that has graced him time and time again, but one that he has not attempted to do anything with. It was something that he would never admit brought him a warmth of peace in the late night hours, but as he considers Aletta with a slight tilt of his horned head, the thought of Flower then enters with such suddence, the thought automatically begins to sour.
Warden’s lips press together firmly, moistening them before inhaling deeply - as if a sigh would release all the tension that rests like dead weight upon his shoulders. Her words are poignant, filled with an emotion that brings his heart momentarily from such a dark place, but the load is heavy and quick to attempt to drown him once again. “I want to,” he whispers in affirmation, though his voice is soft with knowing defeat. “It’s so hard, Aletta.” To be who he wants to be, to keep away the dark and twisted edges - he is so tired of fighting, unable to fully accept his ability and continue living the life he desires and deserves. Some days, it is futile. But some days - much like tonight, beneath silent stars and a gentle breeze, he feels like it just might be possible.
“It’s like a prison.” Yes, the moments are joyful but they are fleeting - and what is joy if there is no freedom in it?
@[aletta]
