I will be your lighthouse
He wasn't surprised, he supposed, to hear she had vanquished sea beasts. It reminded him again of her strengths and deeds which far surpassed his own. He wondered what he might be now, if he'd let himself stay alongside her, bright and full of life.
He crouched back down to his seat across from her, too wary to sit beside her again, and listened to her explain what she meant by, nah, not quite... invincible. She started with a question though, one he cannot answer. A tournament, that Deimos won? It felt like something he should have known about, but how could he explain to her the extent to his self-appointed sequestering? That he heard idle chit chat in the bars and in the streets sure, but that he was largely alone when he worked in the woods, and that he'd go days at a time coiled up in his bed. Iskra was essentially a woodland hermit for all intents and purposes, and therefore he didn't know shit about anything.
Thankfully, she didn't wait for his response and continued. Iskra nodded along with the conversation, a minor smile still turning his lips, as her presence forever would. Whatever she said though after the words kill me, Iskra did not hear them. He felt like someone just kicked him in the gut and pushed his self behind his body. Nothing made sense. He felt so cold it burned. The silence was so loud it was deafening. He was sitting, but floating. And inside, as if who he was were nothing more than a great dark warehouse full of collected memories and experiences like pottery and baubles, each intact thing tumbled down, the feeling of every good thing he had remaining just breaking.
He'd been steadily tensing. It started with his teeth, his smile fading as his jaw clenched. It coiled down his arms, each line of defined muscle standing out as it strained. His fingers curled around the skin of the log, knuckles turned white with the severity of the grip. Even down to his boots, his toes rippled and pressed in, angled like talons ready to eviscerate—who did she say?—Sah. Only when the pressure broke, bark biting through skin until blood spread warm and slick in his palm, did Iskra sink back into himself.
He rose to his feet in a rush, as if there was actual momentum that slung him back to this reality. "WHAT!?" he roared, outraged, indignant, terrified. "YOU FUCKING DIED, MEL?" It's a storm, an infero, an earth splitting shake. His fear, it's a force of nature inside of him, unyielding in its rampage because gods, gods—he can't fucking lose her too.
He crouched back down to his seat across from her, too wary to sit beside her again, and listened to her explain what she meant by, nah, not quite... invincible. She started with a question though, one he cannot answer. A tournament, that Deimos won? It felt like something he should have known about, but how could he explain to her the extent to his self-appointed sequestering? That he heard idle chit chat in the bars and in the streets sure, but that he was largely alone when he worked in the woods, and that he'd go days at a time coiled up in his bed. Iskra was essentially a woodland hermit for all intents and purposes, and therefore he didn't know shit about anything.
Thankfully, she didn't wait for his response and continued. Iskra nodded along with the conversation, a minor smile still turning his lips, as her presence forever would. Whatever she said though after the words kill me, Iskra did not hear them. He felt like someone just kicked him in the gut and pushed his self behind his body. Nothing made sense. He felt so cold it burned. The silence was so loud it was deafening. He was sitting, but floating. And inside, as if who he was were nothing more than a great dark warehouse full of collected memories and experiences like pottery and baubles, each intact thing tumbled down, the feeling of every good thing he had remaining just breaking.
He'd been steadily tensing. It started with his teeth, his smile fading as his jaw clenched. It coiled down his arms, each line of defined muscle standing out as it strained. His fingers curled around the skin of the log, knuckles turned white with the severity of the grip. Even down to his boots, his toes rippled and pressed in, angled like talons ready to eviscerate—who did she say?—Sah. Only when the pressure broke, bark biting through skin until blood spread warm and slick in his palm, did Iskra sink back into himself.
He rose to his feet in a rush, as if there was actual momentum that slung him back to this reality. "WHAT!?" he roared, outraged, indignant, terrified. "YOU FUCKING DIED, MEL?" It's a storm, an infero, an earth splitting shake. His fear, it's a force of nature inside of him, unyielding in its rampage because gods, gods—he can't fucking lose her too.
Iskra
