Mithos Yggdrasill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
imatreenow) wrote2013-06-06 07:39 pm
imatreenow) wrote2013-06-06 07:39 pm
twenty [action]
[Almost a week ago Mithos had returned from a mission, the first he'd ever volunteered for. It may have seemed a strange choice for someone who trusted no one, who loathed being a pawn for others, to submit himself as a lab rat for combat testing, but his choices are narrowing around him. There is something he is after. Something he can finally close his fingers around, after watching it all scream past him for so long. If he is going to be used by the Malnosso regardless of his choices, it is better that he gains something from it - which he'd had to remind himself many times to dampen the sour taste sitting in the back of his throat.
Now back in the village, he has resumed the same quiet routine as before. In the early morning, before the sun is too hot in the sky, and before too many villagers are awake, he can be seen hunched over in the garden around House 52. He tries not to wonder if the flowers, planted with the thin hope that his sister might have the chance to enjoy them, amount to anything more than a vain effort. When he decides he needs more supplies, he makes sure to visit the flower shop in the early afternoon - wondering, like a scratch in the back of his mind, if school is still in session at all, or if he'll run into someone he would rather not see at all.
Later in the day, he withdraws to the woods south of the village to train. Four thousand years of fighting are wired inside his muscles, but it doesn't hurt to stay as sharp as possible. He's still getting used to the subtle differences between a proper sword and the knife he now relies on. Slicing the air, going through the motions of killing, he feels like he is building something. When he's done, he settles in against the base of a tree and draws the ancient set of panpipes from his pocket. He usually prefers to play inside, where the music of his sister cannot be heard by prying ears, but surrounded by the forest and his thoughts he can almost forget that people exist. And so the notes come out, clear and steady.]
Now back in the village, he has resumed the same quiet routine as before. In the early morning, before the sun is too hot in the sky, and before too many villagers are awake, he can be seen hunched over in the garden around House 52. He tries not to wonder if the flowers, planted with the thin hope that his sister might have the chance to enjoy them, amount to anything more than a vain effort. When he decides he needs more supplies, he makes sure to visit the flower shop in the early afternoon - wondering, like a scratch in the back of his mind, if school is still in session at all, or if he'll run into someone he would rather not see at all.
Later in the day, he withdraws to the woods south of the village to train. Four thousand years of fighting are wired inside his muscles, but it doesn't hurt to stay as sharp as possible. He's still getting used to the subtle differences between a proper sword and the knife he now relies on. Slicing the air, going through the motions of killing, he feels like he is building something. When he's done, he settles in against the base of a tree and draws the ancient set of panpipes from his pocket. He usually prefers to play inside, where the music of his sister cannot be heard by prying ears, but surrounded by the forest and his thoughts he can almost forget that people exist. And so the notes come out, clear and steady.]
no subject
He slaps Eley's hand away.]
I don't need your help.
[The spirit is not trying to tell him that it's simple. He is not asking why he can't turn around and be something that he's not. He acknowledges that it's a struggle.
Not the accusations he's so tired of, but an offer he's ashamed to admit he aches for. Because no matter how fiercely he tries to convince himself that he can be strong, he knows he is not, and every time he tries to harden his heart, it stays the same pulpy, defeated mess. This is the cycle he has stumbled through for thousands of years, trying to be strong, lying to himself until he falls apart, and running away from the debris to try again, never getting any farther.]
Do you really think I'd stoop so low as to turn to anyone here? I can't even stand any of you!
no subject
He also knew that to keep pushing with the way Mithos was reacting might be a step too far. He'd said what he had to say and it really was up to him now. He couldn't force him into a decision, nor would it be healthy for him.
So the Spirit takes a step back now, holding his hand a moment as if he'd just had it bitten and regarding Mithos with a rather sour expression.]
I do not know your past, but from what you have told me you were not above turning to people here before. You convince yourself otherwise, but I still choose not to believe you.
Still, I have done what I can here. I will leave you here, alone, as you so desire.
[And so he walks away.]
no subject
He wants to be right. He wants to know that everyone here is a waste of time, a waste of what's left of his heart, so he can bury the doubts that try to draw him toward others. He wants to know that there are none here who he could learn to trust, learn to care about, learn to protect. He doesn't want to give any more of himself away.]