the 0ne that sits betwween dream an reality

You are in a hive, two coons in the same small room that belongs to a rustblood, no, to a couple of rustbloods, a mutation, they would say, an anomaly, they would risk guessing. You wave at the mirror in front of you, and it smiles back at you, and waves in a slightly different way back, it then turns it’s back at you and walk towards the nutritionblock, going to prepare a meal to both of you. You smile and lift yourself with telekinesis, following closely behind; an archaic language leaves your lips, it doesn’t mean anything to you but a form of communication, but it was something an entire Empire fought to destroy, decimate and undo so hard no one else in the entire planet of kid trolls might’ve known it anymore but you two.

You aren’t aware of that, you don’t care to be aware of it, leave the awareness to the ones that aren’t so common they are many numbers, leave it to those that lives much longer than meager 9 sweeps. You are here to live, and you’ll simply live and then die, whether you like it or not.

The waves laps at the work and study and efforts of many engineers, the result of money, manual work and ideas; someone’s dreams becoming reality and reality being shaped because someone saw something in their mind and looked for ways to make it feasible. You look at the hand holding yours, and it is colder than yours; almost everyone sapient feels cold to you, some may feel what you’d call room temperature. You rub your thumb against the skin, and it feels rougher than yours, your claws almost scratch the surface, almost daring to poison the object of your affections, you’d love to destroy them someday.

You are in The Room, small shapes floats in the distance you can never reach, your hands are holding a mug filled with a sweet smelling and warm drink, cayenne and pink pepper, lemongrass, cardamom, star anise, fennel and cloves. You sip it, it doesn’t register as anything but a vague heat in your tongue and you know it is about that time of the half-sweep, the time where you start adding odd things to your food so you try to experience as much as possible of the now.

But now is relative, whether you like it or not.

You eat, your mirror eats, you both are enjoying a meal at the start of the night, cold light of both moons enters through the windows and you both are sitting across one another, you drop your chopsticks and your mirror laughs; you take a shot with a piece of cucumber at them, strike.

You are sitting on a throne and someone is seated on your lap, fingers weighted down with many rings rests on your own hands, you hear laughter and you turn your head towards it, mutant red eyes meets yours back and you look away towards your hand again; underneath the heavily decorated hand rests yours, but a pang of constant pulsing pain reveals to you that your claws have all been removed one by one, a headache courses through you and you don’t care to feel this pain. Leave the pain to those that seek to self destroy as much as they seek to take those around them with them down in the process.

But you are to love this troll until the end of your existence, whether you like it or not.

“Arch?” Calls a voice, and you turn your head towards it, a piece of jewelry swinging around hanging by the ear cuff you wear, reflecting blue against the light of candles. “Where are you?”

‘Here, as it were.’ You hear a scoff. You smile. ‘Easier to ask when I am.’

“Everywhen.” You scoff this time, and then turn your gaze towards the moons of Beforus. He talks about plans and about the one that does things just because he could do them, because He transforms potential actions into reality, just like the ship, he grasped an idea and transformed reality; just because he wanted to see if he could do it.

You think his plan is good, but you don’t tell him that you are aware of what is going to happen regardless, princes of time don’t care for fate or careful plans or anything like that, they’ll break plans and rhythm and fate without much effort.