And you are not who you think you are, though precarious words are kept safe locked away for all of eternity until bitterness stops seething. It is an inappropriate action and reaction, the opposite of what he’d already learned, but it is that burning flame that reminds him of the draw of a moth. Flitting about in hopes the fire may bless it. Those thoughts are beastly and unashamed. Have they met an inescapable end? With the moon drawing nigh. Humbled proximity means nothing if this is the kind of careful illusion that will be an unashamed downfall. Do not fear for patience will always last longer than their beginnings. Electric touches are promising. You are not who you think you are ( and that is deserved. )
“ Perhaps we should seek arrangement, then. ”
He hardly doubt the earth craves otherwise. A smile is given. Shared, private though fleeting, with such a tender touch to chase away the hand that seeks him. He slides a thumb across a brittle bone and wonders if this is the marvel the gods had feared. Perhaps they were mistaken to hold humans with little regard when their beauty could outshine even the promise of the venus who showed them how to love. Ravus is not a man of poetic thought. Though he is not senseless either, but reserved with a mind for skill rather than words. The touch is subtle, but promising. The world prefers it that way. Determination is the aegis that shields. It is an odd insight that causes him to pause ; he has never considered a genuine drive. Did the last son love the woman who’d become the moon? Of course, with an unyielding emotion. But it was a combination, he thinks, that became the everlasting bonfire within the hollows of his ribs. He mimics the touch given, slower, gentler, as if to say he is there. His tongue is still heavy with the burden of cider.
“ Come, and I shall teach you to pray. ” follow, further until there is nothing. “ We shall lay our burdens to rest once and for all with each other instead of without. ”
UNSEEING EYES DO NOT LACK FEELING. They witness the dancing silhouettes of what may very well be rays of moonlight, about a shadowed form, tall and regal, so close to him. Fingers graze over the intricate design-work of Tenebraen raiment, over every ridge and clasp that holds it together, and to the armband over right arm. The shape of an insignia between the gaps of his fingers, the sharp edges of metal grazing against his calluses; he commits the sensations to memory, just as he inhales scent and does the same. How is he to describe a war-torn soul, with nothing left to lose -- he cannot, he will not. A kindred spirit shares his wounds of body, maimed via the ring they both once wore with intent. Ravus has witnessed his desperate might, the call answered by the Kings of yore. Is it unfair that he should have succeeded where the Tenebraen prince could not? He would not assume as to why their designs were discriminated between. He believed the other worthy, as it were, but the beliefs of one man were, perhaps, too little in the face of prophet-spirits.
“I would not be so cruel as to leave the last son of the house of Oracles to his own devices. Rest assured, you’ll find a reliable compatriot in me throughout the years ahead, Lord Ravus.” He affirms, balancing precariously betwixt duty and desire, mind and heart -- would that he were able to take the plunge head first, but that would be against his very nature. Careful remains the tactician, seeking the core of every choice he must take before he takes it.
( But take it he shall, as far as the other is concerned;
he’s always been appreciative of beautiful things. )
“There is much to be done in the absence of those we hold dear. I suppose, however, we may rest, proper, before the morning hours.” In the absence of light, however, it is difficult to tell day from night, night from day. And he cannot find it within himself to make note that he now relies greatly on his companion to inform him of the changes. How he loathes his lack of sight, in spite of noble temperament.
