Castor's confessions were taken in silence, absent judgment with the cold front disrupting the planet's faithless silence. He levied his own charges against the boy, which Faustite anticipated — so many questioned survivor types and their reasons for doing so — and his own path was one deeply affected by misery. The prince explained as much in his retelling of Tanzanite's life, in his implications for Alkaid, for Linarite, for the others mentioned with the bitterness of a sour, rotten fig. All the fruits of his loves fell from the tree, acrid and used up, unwelcome even to starving birds. Faustite now knew it.
And he knew a conviction held close to heart, guarded beyond that of his ribs or his starseed sanctum. You ask much. More than what troubles others. I wonder if you think that losses are the only defining factor — if our successes, our failures, our choices, our directions, our goals are all tied to the count of corpses dragged behind us. What weight to carry, Prince.
But I don't need bodies to justify my aims. I don't need dead planets to lend me their sordid power, to compel me to a servitude beyond the scope of Metallia's.
"If you want my reasons, take me back to earth. Better that I don't provoke your planet." He extended his hand outward, impersonal, impartial, imperative against the dark backdrop of a harbinger. Already his hair whipped about, his smoke stolen into the atmosphere. No longer did he smell copper and moondust and salt.
istoleyurvamps
we can call this a fin unless you want to add a last post!
