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Entry tags:
dance a dance;
Summary: Fakir's descent into his broken knighthood.
Mytho, with his mouth half-open, eyes mostly-glazed, stared outward into the morning light. He had no heart, and played like a doll, performing kindly to all, occasionally starting up with a core of himself to rescue small children and small animals, before relaxing again into a state. His eyes flicker with some sign of life, warming his brown eyes into amber flames, before rescinding again. But re-possessing his heart hurts him so, like bruises on his chest.
Because then he remembered, and that hurt most of all, the remembering. It hurt to see the imagery appear in his mind, and the story tale coming alive again, and he had no choice in it, but the heart shards entered his heart through flesh and bone and meat, adjusting its place within him until he screamed and writhed in pain.
It had not been so bad, to lose his heart.
For there was Fakir, and he was younger than Mytho, but always took care of him, holding him by the hand with hope in his eyes. It didn’t hurt so much when he did not have his heart, because then he did not have to remember that Fakir had been so young and hopeful, and then watch him slowly flower into someone who hid his true self, instead only growling
Mytho, with his mouth half-open, eyes mostly-glazed, stared outward into the morning light. He had no heart, and played like a doll, performing kindly to all, occasionally starting up with a core of himself to rescue small children and small animals, before relaxing again into a state. His eyes flicker with some sign of life, warming his brown eyes into amber flames, before rescinding again. But re-possessing his heart hurts him so, like bruises on his chest.
Because then he remembered, and that hurt most of all, the remembering. It hurt to see the imagery appear in his mind, and the story tale coming alive again, and he had no choice in it, but the heart shards entered his heart through flesh and bone and meat, adjusting its place within him until he screamed and writhed in pain.
It had not been so bad, to lose his heart.
For there was Fakir, and he was younger than Mytho, but always took care of him, holding him by the hand with hope in his eyes. It didn’t hurt so much when he did not have his heart, because then he did not have to remember that Fakir had been so young and hopeful, and then watch him slowly flower into someone who hid his true self, instead only growling