// so now you've done a little wrong and you need to be forgiven,
by the vicar and the company you keep //
by the vicar and the company you keep //
They had no right. And yet they’d done it anyway. It still doesn’t stop Sunjata from the twitch in his jaw, the pang of his heart, the way his hand clenches and releases as she tells him she loves him. He supposes it makes sense — while it had been so long for the Flood, it was like nothing had changed with her. So his head dips, the glass held in a free hand that lifts to down more of the burning alcohol, before the glass is set on the table between them.
He doesn’t know what to do, honestly. Between this and the visions of his father, the weight of Torchline and war on his shoulders, he’s exhausted. So, so, so exhausted.
Nate returns, somewhat more put together while Sunjata internally shrinks. And he’s thankful for it, for the weight of Nate at his side, the arm that wraps around him, for the anxiety of what comes next. It doesn’t take long, however, akin to ripping the bandaid off as it were, before she’s sliding the folded up paper along the table and Sunjata debates taking it or not. Eventually, he acquiesces, reaching forward, lightning scarred fingers meeting hers at the paper before his dark steel gaze lifts to meet her pale ones. There’s understanding there, and he’s sure that he’ll show it to Nate eventually, but for now at least with her present, it’s his.
It seems strange to receive it from the horse's mouth, so to speak, when she’s alive again and sitting before him, as if nothing had changed when everything had. Everything had changed. Life had moved on, he had moved on with the help of the man beside him, his husband, and had learned to deal and cope in the best more productive ways he could.
So he pulls the note back, glancing to Nate next with a slight edge of an awkward smile, shuffling into the seat of the couch just enough that it could only be seen by him, aside from bits and pieces Nate might be able to pick out should he look. He doesn’t know if the Ascended would need to, though, not with the feelings that he hasn’t shut off through the bond, the same that were nearly impossible to quiet.
And so he reads. And reads. And reads. And he reads it over again and again, letting the words filter in, letting his mind focus on how it would have been a ducking balm against his bruised and painful soul had he heard it months ago. But then the anger sets in, that switch, that exhaustion fueling it into frustration that should be obvious to Nate through the bond, that should be obvious to Maea by the way his fingers tighten around the note, how his jaw sets in a tight line.
He’s silent for a good amount of time, trying to shove his thoughts into a way that made sense, into a way that didn’t barb out as sharply as his Korofi tongue wants it to. “This would have helped all those seasons ago.” He begins, his voice a bit more accented, more restraint added in, giving him that tone of nobility again that he hates but can’t shut off. “And I’m glad that you enjoyed our time together.” He cuts himself off rather sharply, taking a quiet and steadying breath as his gaze lifts from the paper to Maea. “But what do I do with it now?”
A pause, an avian tilt of his head, unable to keep the armored plates of his dragon shift from appearing along his arms, covering up Safrin’s tattoos and sea panther lightning scars, on its slow approach up his chest and his neck. “I found it, though. My dream.” Steel slips toward Nate briefly, though the gaze is still narrowed and sharp, regardless of how much he wants to smooth it over. “Our dream.” A brief pause, spending a moment to unclench his jaw and take another steadying breath.
“So how does it work now? Wait for me and we can be together again, just like old times? You didn’t even wait.” He cuts himself off again, his thoughts meshing together, a hand lifting to tear through his hair as he fights the shifts inside him, the dragon that wants to come out. “I need a minute.” It comes out half like a growl, Sunjata standing abruptly, so abruptly that he can’t hold onto the wings that unfurl from his back, pointed and sharp at the top that tuck in neatly behind him as he pulls open a drawer and steals a pack of cigarettes and the matches from within, and stalks out the front door of the Slagveld to light one up.
He doesn’t know what to do, honestly. Between this and the visions of his father, the weight of Torchline and war on his shoulders, he’s exhausted. So, so, so exhausted.
Nate returns, somewhat more put together while Sunjata internally shrinks. And he’s thankful for it, for the weight of Nate at his side, the arm that wraps around him, for the anxiety of what comes next. It doesn’t take long, however, akin to ripping the bandaid off as it were, before she’s sliding the folded up paper along the table and Sunjata debates taking it or not. Eventually, he acquiesces, reaching forward, lightning scarred fingers meeting hers at the paper before his dark steel gaze lifts to meet her pale ones. There’s understanding there, and he’s sure that he’ll show it to Nate eventually, but for now at least with her present, it’s his.
It seems strange to receive it from the horse's mouth, so to speak, when she’s alive again and sitting before him, as if nothing had changed when everything had. Everything had changed. Life had moved on, he had moved on with the help of the man beside him, his husband, and had learned to deal and cope in the best more productive ways he could.
So he pulls the note back, glancing to Nate next with a slight edge of an awkward smile, shuffling into the seat of the couch just enough that it could only be seen by him, aside from bits and pieces Nate might be able to pick out should he look. He doesn’t know if the Ascended would need to, though, not with the feelings that he hasn’t shut off through the bond, the same that were nearly impossible to quiet.
And so he reads. And reads. And reads. And he reads it over again and again, letting the words filter in, letting his mind focus on how it would have been a ducking balm against his bruised and painful soul had he heard it months ago. But then the anger sets in, that switch, that exhaustion fueling it into frustration that should be obvious to Nate through the bond, that should be obvious to Maea by the way his fingers tighten around the note, how his jaw sets in a tight line.
He’s silent for a good amount of time, trying to shove his thoughts into a way that made sense, into a way that didn’t barb out as sharply as his Korofi tongue wants it to. “This would have helped all those seasons ago.” He begins, his voice a bit more accented, more restraint added in, giving him that tone of nobility again that he hates but can’t shut off. “And I’m glad that you enjoyed our time together.” He cuts himself off rather sharply, taking a quiet and steadying breath as his gaze lifts from the paper to Maea. “But what do I do with it now?”
A pause, an avian tilt of his head, unable to keep the armored plates of his dragon shift from appearing along his arms, covering up Safrin’s tattoos and sea panther lightning scars, on its slow approach up his chest and his neck. “I found it, though. My dream.” Steel slips toward Nate briefly, though the gaze is still narrowed and sharp, regardless of how much he wants to smooth it over. “Our dream.” A brief pause, spending a moment to unclench his jaw and take another steadying breath.
“So how does it work now? Wait for me and we can be together again, just like old times? You didn’t even wait.” He cuts himself off again, his thoughts meshing together, a hand lifting to tear through his hair as he fights the shifts inside him, the dragon that wants to come out. “I need a minute.” It comes out half like a growl, Sunjata standing abruptly, so abruptly that he can’t hold onto the wings that unfurl from his back, pointed and sharp at the top that tuck in neatly behind him as he pulls open a drawer and steals a pack of cigarettes and the matches from within, and stalks out the front door of the Slagveld to light one up.
// this is the sin that i will confess to release myself
from consequence and everyone can tell //
from consequence and everyone can tell //
SUNJATA
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
