Snippet #1825221

Azryel

He lay there... Staring at the ceiling.

Mornings.
How he hated mornings.
He wasn't quite sure when exactly he had started hating mornings.. perhaps he had loathed them all along… The dreaded light streaming in from the window above his head.. Azryel's eyes slitted in annoyance.

"... Why is it so... quiet?" The hushed whisper left his lips slowly, breaking though the thick tranquility that weighed down upon his chest like a heavy blanket. He winced at his own voice. Such... a dismal existance. He did not move, save for blinking- another annoying necessity. Shall I stir?... Why... When there is no reason to.. He was not in control of the body today... no. That was Mara's freedom.

Slowly, the boy raised his shoulders off the ground, lifting himself into a sitting position. He stared at his hands, his stomach churning again at the slip of his discretion. He wasn't as cautious as usual... Something was off. Normally he'd have the foresight not to glance down at the Empty palms... No creases, no lines... nothing. Blank slates of fortune-less destiny. What destiny? Hah. Fate.

There was no fate. Not written in these hands... No, she had not branded him with a future.

He was nothing more than "another soul." The last one to be exact... Azryel stood slowly, shaking on unsteady legs. How long had he "rested" there? Unmoving... waiting for that birdsong. A birdsong that would never come. They did not sing at his window... But they sang for her.

Quiet, quiet, quiet... He dressed, pulling on his usual attire, butting up his vest. Azryel made his way slowly to their kitchen, putting a pot of hot water on. Water... hot. How ingenious. Something outside the window caught his attention. Something was off... There was the old oak tree, and the trees beyond.. The grass and flowers that swayed lazily in the sunlight. Purple flowers... Red against a field of purple. Striking. That does not belong there... A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he reached up, pulling two teabags from the top shelf.

----


"Crimson." His voice was hushed, soft... Soft as it was when he spoke to her. ~Carefully carefully, broken china doll...~ She had entered the house, Azryel had waited, listening as her boots clumped into the foyer, and had turned around the door way himself- stepping into her path. Hazel eyes roamed her face. Had he surprised her? Was she angry? Crimson did get awfully angry... "Crimson." Refrain from repeating Azryel. It's annoying. "Would you... Like some tea?" A sudden smile cracked on his lips as he offered her one of the two mugs he held. The smile faded however, as he took in her stance. Her eyes. The scowl that played so mischievously on the edges of her mouth... as if to tempt them ever downwards. "Would you..." REPEATING. "Like to sit with me as well? ..Sit and talk?" He looked down and away, bringing the cup of tea to his lips and taking a sip. It was hot water. It burnt his tongue. Azryel didn't flinch or pull the mug back. He did not give anything away. Never gave anything away. Instead, he paused... swallowing slowly, the cursed liquid burning it's vengeful path down his throat.

I hate mornings.