Nov 8, 2021 15:12:38 GMT -5
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Joan of Arc had a purpose in life. Rhen had not. While Joan was able to continue her path as warrior and heroine, ignoring the fact that the voices no longer talked to her about greater things she needed to make happen, the son of Venus had given up a long time ago.
Delicate hands turned one page after another, the soft but yet rough material of the paper of the book he was reading brushing against his skin. Dull eyes skimmed over the various poems about the final hours of the saint. The writing was unique, the storytelling rare. Instead of the point of view being other people in her life it was told by items in her life. Candles, clothes, armor, weapons. One, in particular, stood out to him. The fire that would inevitably take her life as she stood bound to the stake.
The life of the saint had been sad and a tragedy. Some called her delusional, some called her heaven-sent. For a long time, people believed she was executed for being a witch when in reality the reason was simply crossdressing. It made it even sadder, considering that she really had no other choice, did she? Clothes. Clothes were the reason for her death. If anyone were to say that nowadays it would be considered a joke.
The maiden heard the voices of her patrons, Rhen heard the voices of the dead, though it was limited to Rosie. She haunted him in his dreams, in his thoughts, everywhere. Was she? Or did he let her haunt him? Rhen didn’t know. On one side he was happy to be able to still hold on to her voice but on the other side, it kept him from living his life. Was he going to do anything about it? Probably not.
He had given up on being careful years ago. And so he ended up at the Infirmary after falling off his pegasus during class. It wasn’t intentional but the jealousy of mankind and the mix of his powers had convinced someone to bodyslam their pegasus into his, sending him straight to the house of the injured and sick with a broken leg. At least he was alone for now with his book and his own voices as only company.
At least until he accidentally dropped it down the side of his bed. He shifted to the side as much as the injury allowed, his arm reaching out down to the floor but he couldn't grab it. The bone was already in the process of mending itself back together after a glass of nectar but it had yet to fully heal. Now all he had left were the voices in his head.
Joan of Arc had a purpose in life. Rhen had not. While Joan was able to continue her path as warrior and heroine, ignoring the fact that the voices no longer talked to her about greater things she needed to make happen, the son of Venus had given up a long time ago.
Delicate hands turned one page after another, the soft but yet rough material of the paper of the book he was reading brushing against his skin. Dull eyes skimmed over the various poems about the final hours of the saint. The writing was unique, the storytelling rare. Instead of the point of view being other people in her life it was told by items in her life. Candles, clothes, armor, weapons. One, in particular, stood out to him. The fire that would inevitably take her life as she stood bound to the stake.
The life of the saint had been sad and a tragedy. Some called her delusional, some called her heaven-sent. For a long time, people believed she was executed for being a witch when in reality the reason was simply crossdressing. It made it even sadder, considering that she really had no other choice, did she? Clothes. Clothes were the reason for her death. If anyone were to say that nowadays it would be considered a joke.
The maiden heard the voices of her patrons, Rhen heard the voices of the dead, though it was limited to Rosie. She haunted him in his dreams, in his thoughts, everywhere. Was she? Or did he let her haunt him? Rhen didn’t know. On one side he was happy to be able to still hold on to her voice but on the other side, it kept him from living his life. Was he going to do anything about it? Probably not.
He had given up on being careful years ago. And so he ended up at the Infirmary after falling off his pegasus during class. It wasn’t intentional but the jealousy of mankind and the mix of his powers had convinced someone to bodyslam their pegasus into his, sending him straight to the house of the injured and sick with a broken leg. At least he was alone for now with his book and his own voices as only company.
At least until he accidentally dropped it down the side of his bed. He shifted to the side as much as the injury allowed, his arm reaching out down to the floor but he couldn't grab it. The bone was already in the process of mending itself back together after a glass of nectar but it had yet to fully heal. Now all he had left were the voices in his head.
@open
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