cassius-rathâ:
Cassius almost wanted to laugh at Harperâs stubbornness. He wanted to hold the otherâs hand again, yet Harper wasnât letting him. So he followed, shaking his head slightly as he the slightest of smiles graced his lips. âI thought it did, for a while. I did everything I wanted with a tad bit more freedom than I had, because I thought they cared less for me then, but one day I had a meeting with my father. He said heâd let me do anything now, with some restrictions, but someday Iâd have to get back on track again,â Cassius told Harper. âI mean, you just canât handle your family business over to someone else that isnât family, I get that part, because my sister canât and wonât ever⊠But Iâll have to leave here, maybe this year, and I donât know what would happen then.â
The son of Cybele still tried to hold his hand out for Harper as he continued. âI want to stay with Chainsaw. Sheâs still adjusting, and I donât trust anyone else to care for her for more than a few days. She doesnât speak much except to yell a bucketful of curses, and I rely a lot on cues to know what sheâs thinking. She looks tough, but I think sheâs a really fragile and sweet creature. I want to protect her, let her know that the world isnât as cruel as the cage she grew up inâŠâ Maybe that was why it was all Cassius had understood about the gryphon when he found herâshe had uttered endless cussing, with barely any other word to explain herself, but that was actually a cry for help, because those curses were all the words she knew. Two weeks after rescuing her, from the moment she wouldnât leave Cassiusâs side, she can already say more words, with cussing in between. âOkay, hereâs a random fact about me: I wanted to have a pet fish. I did momentarily have one, but I canât remember what happened when I said I didnât like it. The fish wouldnât talk to me and wasnât interested to me at all, which struck me as odd because all dogs and cats were sweet to me.â
Walking along side Cassius, hearing the stories. The delves of his life. Harper could only recall experiencing such a thing twice in his life before. The first was Abigail, back when the wind tussled his hair and his skin was clean of ink. When the forest was all he knew, the two would wander for hours on end just talking. It never was about much, or really anything at all. Their native tounge feeling so foregin now. Yet it still came more natural that Harper would hope.
The second was confined to the concrete walls of a ring. His hands were bloodied and bruised, and his face faring much of the same damage. The stinging resulting from the coach that sat opposite him cleaning the wounds. Harper hadnât said anything to him at this point, instead nods in agreement and silence in place of disaproval suficed as their communication. However he insisted.
My folks never were much for the fighting, not this fighting anyway. Lord knows they were at it more often than not. Heâd flinch at lord. But the rest- blank. So the man would continue. The fish I could chat to though you know. He ainât the talkative type though. The man in turn would talk to fill the silence.
A tradition that felt how children often do about bed time stories was how Harper felt towards the ramblings of his coach. He loathed it. But the nights it wasnât there, he missed hearing them.
Harperâs only stories to tell were the visable ones across his skin. He never had to open his mouth for those.
âThen you do not have to leave. For Chainsaw, not for fish.âÂ











