( he supposes all of their deaths are inevitable. who truly survives the wrath of the gods? they certainly wouldn’t come out from that rapture as a person, or as any living anomaly. just bones and spit and something akin to a starved hound. he has been avoiding looking at too many faces, he wants to picture them as deer or caribou in a wintry clearing. wild animals that were bred to be hunted, fur softened for her arrow, ears perked with each sound of a boot crunching on thick snow. ) a misanthropic belief still clutches to him and it remains a blackened stain. he has always been unclean, unsavory, the talent he harbors is how to become both myth and flesh, ghost and man. he feels as though he’s walking down a pitch dark stair case and he’s unable to tell when the last step is. he is in limbo between how to be death and how to blend in to the other dying martyrs around him. will the boar snort until it reaches the slaughterhouse? or does it go mute? MY EXECUTION LOOMS CLOSER. I HEAR SOMETHING BEING DRAGGED DOWN THE HALLWAY OF MY BRAIN. IT MOCKS, REMINDING ME THAT THERE ARE SOME TRUTHS THAT REFUSE TO BE BURIED. THE PROVIDENCE HAS DIMMED SLIGHTLY. HERE THE CROSSROADS APPEAR: BE KIND AND BE A LIABILITY, OR DISAPPEAR AND BECOME A NEW PLAGUE, A NEW RAGE. he doesn’t want to keep thinking of how to kill. instead, he thinks of how to punch a nose until it shatters completely. how to make a throat gargle from blood and saliva, how to be a murderer in the most natural way possible. a hunter of only the crueler mammals, the ones with slippery smiles and bones that shift them into demonic entities. another predicament: how does one determine who lives? how does one justify slicing a body in half? do the gods believe him when he says he had no choice? that earth and rain and sleet had made him into this creature? ( I COUGH UP MONSOONS. I SWALLOW THE MOON. I BEND AT THE WAIST AND ASK FOR REDEMPTION. I SPEAK INTO THE RIVER AND IT DRIES UP. I AM TIRED OF LOOKING FOR SIGNS IN THE TREES OR IN THE SKY. I WANT THE LIGHTNING, I WANT THE THUNDER. IF THERE ARE NO GODS, THEN I WILL BECOME ONE. ) * if one were to split him open like a cantaloupe, they would find him already rotted. overripe, softening in the sunlight to a brown mush. he was never meant to be harvested. he feeds himself the same flesh that he feeds the fish. a rotten vessel, a pinkish hue to the muscles as he drapes another arm in the water. something will awaken for him, the blood in the water drawing some angered reckoning up from the deep black sea.* the blood coats his cheeks, drips down along his brows, colors his hair. it is in this moment that he feels odin within him, a strength that crawls up his throat until it comes out of him with a yell. he is surprised by her and he sways lightly on his feet, the smile is crooked and looks out of place around the screams and smell of death. he does not question her, a vague sense of curiosity overwhelming him and allowing his hand to go slack in her grip. a tilt of his head, he speaks softly and with a lilting tone. ‘IF IT WERE MY MEN OUT THERE FIGHTING FOR ME - AND MY SON - I WOULD HAVE KILLED YOU FOR TRYING TO TAKE ME FROM THEM... BUT THEY WERE SOLDIERS FROM MERCIA. AH, I WILL NOT LOSE SLEEP OVER THAT!’
there is a moment of floating. a limbo in which he is not fully solidified and not fully liquefied. a balance of existence compacted inside one brief second. he blinks to allow the new surroundings to come into focus, he pulls his hand from hers and stretches it out into the warm sunlight. a hum of interest, ears peaked for any alerting noises and mouth loosened into a wide gape. ‘IS THIS WHERE YOU HAVE TAKEN US OR WHERE THE GODS HAVE TAKEN US?’
he speaks of the gods as if they are the deciders of the universe: are they? in the eyes of some, for the things that she could do, yennefer would be classed as a god. this is not lost on her. alas, there was nothing about her that was omnibenevolent about her. perhaps omnipotent. if there were gods, did they make her that way? was she born different as a test? was her whole life planned out as if some sort of game? mage does not think this is probable: figures that gods could certainly have a problem with those who cheated death. his threats of harm did not frighten her, not much did now. I AM DECADES OLD, I HAVE SEEN TREES BE PLANTED, GROW AND DIE. I HAVE SEEN THE EARTH CRACK DOWN THE MIDDLE AND FORM NEW LANDS. YOUR SWORD COULD NOT TOUCH ME FOR I WOULD MELT IT. IMMORTALITY IS BOTH MY CURSE AND MY BLESSING. the blood makes a home on his face, as if meant to be there: it stains, dries and cracks. some would think that becoming, that he is a true warrior for looking like so. it is not the blood that gives him away, as their hands touch, his power can be felt. the strength of a leader, she presumes, confirmed by the very talk of men fighting for him. the sound of battle soon fades out, she is grateful for the silence. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝙼𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙱𝚄𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂, 𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙽𝙾𝚆, 𝚂𝙾𝙾𝙽 𝙸𝚃 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆. 𝙸𝚃 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚂𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙲𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙷 𝙸𝙽 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙽𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙴, 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙱𝙴𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙳. 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚂 𝙼𝚈 𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙽 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙱𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁, 𝙸 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝚃 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙽. she can feel fatigue start to set in bones, they were weary. yet, she knew that a good nights sleep would fix not this. i have seen: 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥, 'suɐɓɹo pǝsodxǝ ʎuɐɯ ooʇ, too little kindness in order to feel peace again.
❛ ah, ❜ her hands dust away debris from her dress, she would need to change out of something so fancy, try and blend in. a bath would also be required, soot and blood caked her hands, not to mention the crimson painted ragnar. ❛ gods do not get to decide how i use my magic. that is all me. ❜ a relatively quaint village she had once passed through many moons ago, everyone who could recognise her would be long dead by now. ❛ we can recuperate here for a few days. ❜
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