Aamu
Oh, the monsters are still there, if only they had the sense for a guilty conscience and the wisdom to see what they are. The streets are barely empty of bodies—empty shells and burnt-out circuits once housing souls, hopes, wishes, an endless yearning for the love of their creator.
(And plenty of envy, wrath, too. They made themselves a race apart, shaped themselves into weapons.)
"They weren't monsters," he says: the chill in his voice might've been a snarl, and his darkened, glistening eyes return to hers. (Aamu, you blind, naive fool—) One of his hands curl into a useless fist, nails pressing into his cold palm. But what can he do? He can't turn back the clock. He can't undo what centuries did. His anger is pointless, and he's too tired to sustain it; it goes out, as easy as blowing on a candle (—or taking a life).
Sighs. "Three," and his voice is like lead now, "and, we think, all the prototypes. The Spark Bird set the Grounds on fire. If anyone else stayed behind they probably didn't make it either." He doesn't know if anyone did. They tried to evacuate everyone but people are proud and stupid.
He thinks he preferred being judged by a unicorn rather than a girl, but he'll put up with it.
Only—
He blinks, reanimation fluids smearing on his fine lashes, watching as she leans into the unicorns, arms wrapping around her starwhale. It's too ethereal, too mythical, stamped with the Old Gods and Aamu thinks there's something familiar in the lines of her face—
It's old and feels like danger, a strange conflict to his sudden desire to hold her, hug her, tell her it's okay (but it's not, it's not). Aamu tilts his head to the side, staring across the centuries at the Chandrakant girl. "Why weren't you?" he wonders.
(And plenty of envy, wrath, too. They made themselves a race apart, shaped themselves into weapons.)
"They weren't monsters," he says: the chill in his voice might've been a snarl, and his darkened, glistening eyes return to hers. (Aamu, you blind, naive fool—) One of his hands curl into a useless fist, nails pressing into his cold palm. But what can he do? He can't turn back the clock. He can't undo what centuries did. His anger is pointless, and he's too tired to sustain it; it goes out, as easy as blowing on a candle (—or taking a life).
Sighs. "Three," and his voice is like lead now, "and, we think, all the prototypes. The Spark Bird set the Grounds on fire. If anyone else stayed behind they probably didn't make it either." He doesn't know if anyone did. They tried to evacuate everyone but people are proud and stupid.
He thinks he preferred being judged by a unicorn rather than a girl, but he'll put up with it.
Only—
He blinks, reanimation fluids smearing on his fine lashes, watching as she leans into the unicorns, arms wrapping around her starwhale. It's too ethereal, too mythical, stamped with the Old Gods and Aamu thinks there's something familiar in the lines of her face—
It's old and feels like danger, a strange conflict to his sudden desire to hold her, hug her, tell her it's okay (but it's not, it's not). Aamu tilts his head to the side, staring across the centuries at the Chandrakant girl. "Why weren't you?" he wonders.
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
