Aamu
But he does not answer: he's a wolf hiding his teeth, a soul seeing the past and the present yet not quite either. He blinks, and she's here, and she's not here, or she's not she—his shoulders itch, and he wants to get away. He knows he's pulling on the tiger's tail, and he knows this will not end well for him.
But what else can he do?
He's afraid.
He's honest enough to admit that.
It is not the cold and clammy fear of the organic body he's left behind, but it's taut and tense and like a siren in his brain. It is every sense on high alert, every nerve and wire rigged to blow, to react—
"But was it saved? Do the Grounds look saved to you?" They were ruins: three centuries of grief and starvation and heartache and decay, and for what? Fear, vanity, pride?
He laughs: harsh and bitter, desperate. He holds his ground, eyes cold, listens. All which they forsook when they Ascended—is that truly all which separates them, which symbolize life? And to think, she forgot the most important of them all, anyway. He wants to pity her, only pity her, but he is afraid of her, and it curdles his pity into anger. "Your gods are frightened and vain, resistant to change, unwilling to open their eyes and admit that they were wrong," he whispers, too loud and too cold between them. "Your merciful gods sentenced their heralds and countless innocents to a life of imprisonment and starvation and never once looked back."
It sparks. There's teeth in his hissing. "Who are you to judge me? Who are you to say my life is not a life? You, who know nothing of me? Have you ever known the embrace of the Voice, felt her connection—our connection? Do you even know what it is that you condemn? What we actually lost, and what we gained?" (She's naive and lost) he wants to embrace her, sink his fangs into her neck and let her feel something so heady and euphoric it transcends all else (but she's only half a connection)—he throws his arms open, unthreatening, pleading, afraid. "Come with me. Ascend. Be the change."
Be the future.
But what else can he do?
He's afraid.
He's honest enough to admit that.
It is not the cold and clammy fear of the organic body he's left behind, but it's taut and tense and like a siren in his brain. It is every sense on high alert, every nerve and wire rigged to blow, to react—
"But was it saved? Do the Grounds look saved to you?" They were ruins: three centuries of grief and starvation and heartache and decay, and for what? Fear, vanity, pride?
He laughs: harsh and bitter, desperate. He holds his ground, eyes cold, listens. All which they forsook when they Ascended—is that truly all which separates them, which symbolize life? And to think, she forgot the most important of them all, anyway. He wants to pity her, only pity her, but he is afraid of her, and it curdles his pity into anger. "Your gods are frightened and vain, resistant to change, unwilling to open their eyes and admit that they were wrong," he whispers, too loud and too cold between them. "Your merciful gods sentenced their heralds and countless innocents to a life of imprisonment and starvation and never once looked back."
It sparks. There's teeth in his hissing. "Who are you to judge me? Who are you to say my life is not a life? You, who know nothing of me? Have you ever known the embrace of the Voice, felt her connection—our connection? Do you even know what it is that you condemn? What we actually lost, and what we gained?" (She's naive and lost) he wants to embrace her, sink his fangs into her neck and let her feel something so heady and euphoric it transcends all else (but she's only half a connection)—he throws his arms open, unthreatening, pleading, afraid. "Come with me. Ascend. Be the change."
Be the future.
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
