Aamu
"Yes."
He wants to wrap his arms around the friendly dragon, bury his face against her rough scales and skin, hide underneath her wings and disappear back into sleep. Like thawing, waking up is painful.
But he already knows the worst of it, doesn't he? He knows he's been asleep for three hundred years (or more), that the world is irrevocably changed, all he held dear dead and lost, the Voice an ether specter and The Order still clamoring for his faux flesh. What's a bit more change on top of that? Portals to other worlds.
(It's like being punched straight in a fresh bruise.)
"Of course she did," he comments quietly, but it's unclear if it's to Wessex, or to her dragon. The Voice he remembered had always been ambitious and eager to experiment—reaching for the stars (figuratively speaking, unless she wanted to throttle Safrin). But opening portals to other worlds and times? Power beyond compare. Aamu is both awed, and a little frightened.
Whatever came through them must be similar enough to human if he is that easily mistaken for one. He can't help but think they're lucky it's not some eldritch horrors spilling from the sky, and dooming them all.
Or perhaps he doesn't give the Voice enough credit. She is, after all, very clever. It is uncharitable of him to think she would be so reckless.
And Aamu, lost, mourning Aamu, is not left alone. It dawns on her, and he wants to not answer, to not have to face all of that again.
But he has to. So, he looks up, at her. Tired, worn. "I am Aamu," he says. He knows that's not what she's asking, though, and he's not one to keep her guessing out of spite or some sense of dramatics. "I have been—for lack of a better word—powered down for quite some time." He looks away from her, towards the ever lightening horizon. "I didn't know about - about the barrier, either."
He wants to wrap his arms around the friendly dragon, bury his face against her rough scales and skin, hide underneath her wings and disappear back into sleep. Like thawing, waking up is painful.
But he already knows the worst of it, doesn't he? He knows he's been asleep for three hundred years (or more), that the world is irrevocably changed, all he held dear dead and lost, the Voice an ether specter and The Order still clamoring for his faux flesh. What's a bit more change on top of that? Portals to other worlds.
(It's like being punched straight in a fresh bruise.)
"Of course she did," he comments quietly, but it's unclear if it's to Wessex, or to her dragon. The Voice he remembered had always been ambitious and eager to experiment—reaching for the stars (figuratively speaking, unless she wanted to throttle Safrin). But opening portals to other worlds and times? Power beyond compare. Aamu is both awed, and a little frightened.
Whatever came through them must be similar enough to human if he is that easily mistaken for one. He can't help but think they're lucky it's not some eldritch horrors spilling from the sky, and dooming them all.
Or perhaps he doesn't give the Voice enough credit. She is, after all, very clever. It is uncharitable of him to think she would be so reckless.
And Aamu, lost, mourning Aamu, is not left alone. It dawns on her, and he wants to not answer, to not have to face all of that again.
But he has to. So, he looks up, at her. Tired, worn. "I am Aamu," he says. He knows that's not what she's asking, though, and he's not one to keep her guessing out of spite or some sense of dramatics. "I have been—for lack of a better word—powered down for quite some time." He looks away from her, towards the ever lightening horizon. "I didn't know about - about the barrier, either."
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
