#arch.tba

It’s almost laughable or would have been if it weren’t for the fact the man before him talks about selling his sister as if it was nothing. But he’s careful, he;s always been careful in the matter of learning who to listen to, who knows information, who can be of use. Be careful of this one. It’s a warning held from Thorn, he lets his dragon slip the message, careful as ever, watching the man with his drink.  “Why would you be so willing to sell her?” It’s a question that soft spoken, and perhaps one not meant to be asked, but he an outsider. That would be of more use than one could imagine if they knew the extent of his power.

“I often wonder if that ever crossed my mother’s mind. If she ever regretted leaving me to deal with my father, and his rage.” It’s a comment that shouldn’t be said on any account, he pauses and looks at her for a moment. “I’m sorry you don’t need to hear that, you’re a mere handmaiden.” 

  Perhaps he shouldn’t be able to see the runes that are etched on the surface or even whatever this place is. Perhaps it’s the magic: the dragons magic that runs through his blood that allows him to see what normal humans wouldn’t. Either way this place, it has reminders of things that had been his history. Whenever he sees runes in a different place that is not it home, it looks like they’ve been passed down or their name and power has been lost in the retelling but the new blood has found a reason to use them. He touches his hands for one of the books for a moment.    No one has asked him questions, they’ve assumed he’s one of them, he made an effort to blend in among whoever these people are.  It might be also the fact that his magic is able to weave protection for himself, but none the less he’s wary.

It’s a resounding silence that feels so much louder than what it is. It feels so much louder, it feels so much harsher than anything he’s ever felt. Murtagh Morzansson is not a coward, but when it comes to love. He does not bend open, he has never broken open. The words she wants him to speak are ones that do not come from his lips lightly. They are not spoken unless meant. He cannot afford to lose her: he’s realized he cares.  Fingers outstretch to touch the bottom of her chin, almost a delicate touch.                   “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” 

   He holds his fingers over pale fingers, cupping them, the ball of light that catches in his palms an illuminates the room. It glows casted between the pair of them, and he can see the wonder in eyes at the little ball of light. It’s not something he’s been able to do, not since Shai passed, but here he stands holding a ball of light between them and it’s a bittersweet thing because he’s been lost for so long.                    “I...I don’t know how to explain it, but you made me able to do this again.”  

Summers had passed with a blink of the eyes. His time had been spent among his twin brother and his cousin in Germany, roaming the streets of Berlin. It had been a slow dragging summer before the years of school had dragged back to life. Nicky had finished years ago. Andrew has only about two years left. It’s a blessing really: it bores him. The amount of times he’d skipped classes during his last year but still had passed his OWL exams says a lot on the type of person he is.      None the less the train ride is dragging this year. His fingers curled around a muggle smoke, he likes the flavor on the back of his tongue. He has a window cracked: not that anyone will see him. He’s further back in the train, mostly to avoid Aaron, and his group of friends that tends to follow him around, He takes a hit of the smoke, they’ve still got awhile before they get there.

IN TONGUES SENTENCE STARTERS / ACCEPTING IT NEVER DOES FOR YOU.      But such things aren’t talked about. There is no fickle desire of love: no need, no ache to burn at the back of his bones. He only finds people interesting when they have something to give: something to exchange. A truth for a truth and sometimes a painful one at that. It’s a wicked game that he plays, and most don’t last. He either loses interest , or they end up calling him a dick and leaving. Which never counts as a loss, he never claimed to like people at all.     ‘Dreaming is for people that don’t know how to live.’ A bitter statement, but his dreams have long since turned to ash, and now leave nothing but bitterness in the back of his mouth. 

   But  What if all you’ve ever known has been what lingers in that dark recess of the mind. The subtle ache that leaves boners scored open by wounds that are not meant to be shown to the world. They were never ready to see what hid behind the flesh and the bone. They never will be either. Not until they can accept the cruel world: it’s a bleak outlook really. How fast you’ve fallen from grace.         “I don’t dream anymore.’ Liar tongue: liar mouth. You’re empty inside because you bury it so deep so it cannot touch you. The echoed remains: something that was wicked and curls under the skin: sometimes you think you can just blow it all away. Take it all away, but it doesn’t stop the imprint: it doesn’t stop the scars. God you want him to shut up. You want him to stop talking because he makes you remember how it feels to dream. And you don’t want to dream anymore: it makes your flesh ache in the worst ways.                    He exhales and tries to fall back asleep.