It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
He’d been generous in the past for far more bitter, belligerent reasons (damnation, a blade, breaking apart enemies one by one, never quite satisfied until they were limp and still at his feet); nowadays it was easier to meld and mold, to carve and create, extend those missing, broken parts of his repose back into the world. An unreachable figment of mountainsides and glaciers, where he’d craved for the realms to split beneath his wake, for everything to come traversing down, down, down into blighted, depraved, withered pathways, where vengeance had been sought in the press of a sword and the quick, volatile action of a King. A Reaper, who’d wanted nothing more than to settle into the void and be left alone in the dark. Hardly any compassion had been left in that creature, in that sculpted soldier, waiting for his next opportunity to carve his nefarious armaments.
But the Sword’s eyes remained on the horizon when Aisha spoke, clenching his jaw, regretting the lines of his amusement. For some reason he hadn’t fathomed they’d cut back on him, presumed agreements, laughter, some mild accord across the factions would reverberate, and nothing would end up hollowing him out. But his grin disappeared, and his brow furrowed, and he was lost somewhere in the midst of all those tethers, all those lines, all those acts. “Yes.” Some better than most. Some worse. Some for glory, where boundaries blurred and the Basin warlord had been chasing down the adversaries for his people. Some for avarice and greed, striving to right a wrong.
They could’ve been endless stories and myths and legends, and not many of them mattered except to a select few. Would she still judge him then, as others had done, when more of his past became unfurled? When they finally noticed exactly what he’d said he’d been all along?
A shrug hastened through his shoulders as he tugged and dragged their prey, pretending as if the semblances didn’t bother, didn’t tear, didn’t ripple through his lungs. “I have had many. You may hear one.” For the moment – and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, trying to inveigle another smirk across his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his gaze, stopping short of their piercing junctures. Then he turned back, towards glaciers and rime, towards Citadels and the segment of so many god damned alterations. “From the sea or ice.”
But the Sword’s eyes remained on the horizon when Aisha spoke, clenching his jaw, regretting the lines of his amusement. For some reason he hadn’t fathomed they’d cut back on him, presumed agreements, laughter, some mild accord across the factions would reverberate, and nothing would end up hollowing him out. But his grin disappeared, and his brow furrowed, and he was lost somewhere in the midst of all those tethers, all those lines, all those acts. “Yes.” Some better than most. Some worse. Some for glory, where boundaries blurred and the Basin warlord had been chasing down the adversaries for his people. Some for avarice and greed, striving to right a wrong.
They could’ve been endless stories and myths and legends, and not many of them mattered except to a select few. Would she still judge him then, as others had done, when more of his past became unfurled? When they finally noticed exactly what he’d said he’d been all along?
A shrug hastened through his shoulders as he tugged and dragged their prey, pretending as if the semblances didn’t bother, didn’t tear, didn’t ripple through his lungs. “I have had many. You may hear one.” For the moment – and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, trying to inveigle another smirk across his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his gaze, stopping short of their piercing junctures. Then he turned back, towards glaciers and rime, towards Citadels and the segment of so many god damned alterations. “From the sea or ice.”
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
