(no subject)
and puts out the glory; tristan
They realize the sky isn’t safe. With the dragons moving through the sky, carelessly destroying who may offer resistance in the fight against Loputous, they land midway between Edda and Velthomer with the intention of having to move forward. But when they land, Tristan finds that his legs are weak and his steps unsteady as a result. It is not because he has been sitting for some time, desperately moving through the air in hope that they will reach Velthomer in time; it is because he has been stripped of any way to respond. His last words to Isabella were a scribble, and looking back to it he can maybe make out a W.
They find a place to stay in a passing village. The word of the violence in Valhalla has just reached them, but they remain oblivious to the slaughter in Velthomer. When a little girl mentions to her mother that Velthomer has no ruler, right, with an ignorant lick of her tongue over her lips, Tristan gives up his murky meal and starts up to the second floor of the poorly constructed inn. His feet feel heavy as he moves up the stairs, but he pushes himself forward and stumbles into the room they obtained for the night with a slam of his shoulder against the door.
It would be easy to vanish into the night as if he had never been a Velthomer, one of noble blood forged through the usage of his silent mother. But he doesn’t think to escape once confined by the wooden walls of the room. His gaze slides over the room until he sees his scabbard, still holding the sword he thought could remove Jade’s life if she proved a threat. Now she is all that Velthomer has left; she is a savior coming a little too late.
Both feet feel lighter as he moves to grab the sword, pulling it out of the scabbard before carelessly turning and slashing up the beds they provide in the chambers. Tristan feels selfish, better than the innkeepers as he sees the beds fall apart. These cheap beds and wooden constructions are all they have to keep themselves alive; if he destroys something, it is like ripping away even a small portion of what he lost himself. It isn’t as if he thinks through the motions, hands gripping the object in both hands as he stabs into the walls and slashes against the singular wooden chest for belongings.
It is his blind fury, and as he destroys the last part of the bed he claimed with a flat tone earlier that evening, he realizes how unlike a Velthomer this is. Velthomers are not weapon-bearers, but magic users; Fala used the flame, and he only bears a mark that never belonged to him, a mark he sought to protect and only ended up killing his family.
She comes in with this revelation, and he looks up at her and realizes how his father must have felt when he looked at his aunt. But Jade does not offer the same comfort, and the last bit of fury within him makes him wish he could drive the sword through her; her blood on his sword would be her blame, her guilt, spilled out for all to see. But the feeling passes too quickly and the feral look to his eyes passes with the sound of his blade dropping against the ground. He swallows hard as he watches her close the door and move toward him, arms slipping around him and telling him to sit on the floor. She has noticed the error of his angry, but still draws him against her when he finally listens, legs finally giving out.
Pressed back against an untarnished wall far from the doorway, her arm slides around his back and her fingers curl into his hair. Tristan’s head presses against hers at first, and then her shoulder. He turns against her, draping an arm over her torso, and he doesn’t tell her that he imagines his mother’s fingers pressing through his hair, but he thinks she is there, telling him that he will be strong, that he will be her hero, that he will make good on everything that he has promised. It is weak for the heir of Velthomer to cry, but he does it anyway, has been doing it, he realizes, as his face presses firmly into her shoulder as his guilt sends a shudder through his body.
Jade is good at playing his mother, he thinks-it is a passing thought before he slides his arm further around her and finally gives up on staying awake. His body is weak from the destruction of the room, but it will be some time before he finds any strength again. Tristan is not stupid to make his sister into a figure much like his mother; he is not stupid to believe that he will ever find a replacement for her again. But he is too tired to think of replacement and guilt, and instead, allows the revelations of the day to seep into his consciousness with the closing of his eyes.
Slept through class again. Oh, well.
They realize the sky isn’t safe. With the dragons moving through the sky, carelessly destroying who may offer resistance in the fight against Loputous, they land midway between Edda and Velthomer with the intention of having to move forward. But when they land, Tristan finds that his legs are weak and his steps unsteady as a result. It is not because he has been sitting for some time, desperately moving through the air in hope that they will reach Velthomer in time; it is because he has been stripped of any way to respond. His last words to Isabella were a scribble, and looking back to it he can maybe make out a W.
They find a place to stay in a passing village. The word of the violence in Valhalla has just reached them, but they remain oblivious to the slaughter in Velthomer. When a little girl mentions to her mother that Velthomer has no ruler, right, with an ignorant lick of her tongue over her lips, Tristan gives up his murky meal and starts up to the second floor of the poorly constructed inn. His feet feel heavy as he moves up the stairs, but he pushes himself forward and stumbles into the room they obtained for the night with a slam of his shoulder against the door.
It would be easy to vanish into the night as if he had never been a Velthomer, one of noble blood forged through the usage of his silent mother. But he doesn’t think to escape once confined by the wooden walls of the room. His gaze slides over the room until he sees his scabbard, still holding the sword he thought could remove Jade’s life if she proved a threat. Now she is all that Velthomer has left; she is a savior coming a little too late.
Both feet feel lighter as he moves to grab the sword, pulling it out of the scabbard before carelessly turning and slashing up the beds they provide in the chambers. Tristan feels selfish, better than the innkeepers as he sees the beds fall apart. These cheap beds and wooden constructions are all they have to keep themselves alive; if he destroys something, it is like ripping away even a small portion of what he lost himself. It isn’t as if he thinks through the motions, hands gripping the object in both hands as he stabs into the walls and slashes against the singular wooden chest for belongings.
It is his blind fury, and as he destroys the last part of the bed he claimed with a flat tone earlier that evening, he realizes how unlike a Velthomer this is. Velthomers are not weapon-bearers, but magic users; Fala used the flame, and he only bears a mark that never belonged to him, a mark he sought to protect and only ended up killing his family.
She comes in with this revelation, and he looks up at her and realizes how his father must have felt when he looked at his aunt. But Jade does not offer the same comfort, and the last bit of fury within him makes him wish he could drive the sword through her; her blood on his sword would be her blame, her guilt, spilled out for all to see. But the feeling passes too quickly and the feral look to his eyes passes with the sound of his blade dropping against the ground. He swallows hard as he watches her close the door and move toward him, arms slipping around him and telling him to sit on the floor. She has noticed the error of his angry, but still draws him against her when he finally listens, legs finally giving out.
Pressed back against an untarnished wall far from the doorway, her arm slides around his back and her fingers curl into his hair. Tristan’s head presses against hers at first, and then her shoulder. He turns against her, draping an arm over her torso, and he doesn’t tell her that he imagines his mother’s fingers pressing through his hair, but he thinks she is there, telling him that he will be strong, that he will be her hero, that he will make good on everything that he has promised. It is weak for the heir of Velthomer to cry, but he does it anyway, has been doing it, he realizes, as his face presses firmly into her shoulder as his guilt sends a shudder through his body.
Jade is good at playing his mother, he thinks-it is a passing thought before he slides his arm further around her and finally gives up on staying awake. His body is weak from the destruction of the room, but it will be some time before he finds any strength again. Tristan is not stupid to make his sister into a figure much like his mother; he is not stupid to believe that he will ever find a replacement for her again. But he is too tired to think of replacement and guilt, and instead, allows the revelations of the day to seep into his consciousness with the closing of his eyes.
Slept through class again. Oh, well.