04-22-2020, 02:42 AM
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In that moment, he learned his first mistake: never ask a kitten pondering existence and mortality to think.
Words live on. Beck sucked in his unscathed cheek at that, teeth finding solace in the inner flesh. Words really did live on, but not often could they be described as poetic enough to engrave in polished markers. What had his own last words been? Hazel eyes fell upon the soil below, picturing a boxed skeletal curled in infinite slumber. Weathered memory brought forth no thought-provoking sentence or proclamation worthy of anybody listening. Only desperate pleas for his life and shrieks of agony as he choked on river water sullied by his blood, choked on hitching sobs while shoulders shook and an arrow was retrieved. Stop, please! Let me go! Begging for mercy wasn't special. Sputtering apologies for a crime he had been coerced into didn't make him unique in any way. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Thousands, millions of victims tossed aside dignity for a chance of keeping their lives, looking upward to the looming men with dirty bangs fallen into his bloodshot eyes, face bruised and smeared, searing sides heaving as he panted and croaked uselessly, crimson painting his chin and throat like a robin. Please... I'll do anything you want.
His words didn't deserve to have a legacy.
Lifeless eyes sought comfort in the brother at the base of the tombstone, his throat tightening with onsetting panic. The little poltergeist dryly swallowed, forcing strained lungs to breathe in. Then out. There were no guards. Get a grip, dammit. Sliding from his perch on the headstone, Beck allowed his paws to touch the ground once more, softly alighting in the firm mud. "Y'know... words are nice and all, but... I think actions have a lot more meaning to them," he quietly wheezed, gaze flicking toward Ivan in hopes of gleening a reaction to his unexpected tidbit of wisdom. Sure, someone could talk, through rubish slang or through educated jargon, creating an entire persona wildly different from the body the tongue belonged to. But no promise to help could impact as much as simply extending a hand to hold, offering a shoulder to cry on, or even a comforting hug when no words could be mustered.
Without much thought behind it, the poltergeist rested a paw on Ivan's shoulders, gentle yet clammy compared to the beating sun. Like how Selby often held him in times of uncertainty and turmoil. Before he could even consider something else to say, the younger cat turned his attention to an unlikely addition. His scarred brow drew together in thought, perhaps slight curiosity as the two-headed eagle intruded further. His paw withdrew. Ivan's distaste for the creature was nearly as tangible as he was, enough for his ears to incline backward.
Part of him recognized his absent companion when he glimpsed the fledgling, memory replacing it with a squirming flytrap gnawing at his wrist and seeking care. His punctured breath caught in his chest. "Does she have a name?" came the blurted question, Beck glancing down at Ivan with an unreadable yet bittersweet expression. Soon, an unrequested elaboration unfolded from his tongue, likely falling on deaf ears as he wistfully mumbled, "I... used to have a friend -- a best friend, actually. I found them in the swamp and took care of them. I named them Audrey III, 'cause... I like movies and stuff. I don't know." Sheepishly he fidgeted his paws, claws slipping beneath a wrapping of gauze and tugging it this way and that. "[color=#0000000]They took care of me back, too.[/color]" Sadness tinged his words, his now-severed bond painfully obvious as he heavily sighed, lapsing into silence.
Words live on. Beck sucked in his unscathed cheek at that, teeth finding solace in the inner flesh. Words really did live on, but not often could they be described as poetic enough to engrave in polished markers. What had his own last words been? Hazel eyes fell upon the soil below, picturing a boxed skeletal curled in infinite slumber. Weathered memory brought forth no thought-provoking sentence or proclamation worthy of anybody listening. Only desperate pleas for his life and shrieks of agony as he choked on river water sullied by his blood, choked on hitching sobs while shoulders shook and an arrow was retrieved. Stop, please! Let me go! Begging for mercy wasn't special. Sputtering apologies for a crime he had been coerced into didn't make him unique in any way. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Thousands, millions of victims tossed aside dignity for a chance of keeping their lives, looking upward to the looming men with dirty bangs fallen into his bloodshot eyes, face bruised and smeared, searing sides heaving as he panted and croaked uselessly, crimson painting his chin and throat like a robin. Please... I'll do anything you want.
His words didn't deserve to have a legacy.
Lifeless eyes sought comfort in the brother at the base of the tombstone, his throat tightening with onsetting panic. The little poltergeist dryly swallowed, forcing strained lungs to breathe in. Then out. There were no guards. Get a grip, dammit. Sliding from his perch on the headstone, Beck allowed his paws to touch the ground once more, softly alighting in the firm mud. "Y'know... words are nice and all, but... I think actions have a lot more meaning to them," he quietly wheezed, gaze flicking toward Ivan in hopes of gleening a reaction to his unexpected tidbit of wisdom. Sure, someone could talk, through rubish slang or through educated jargon, creating an entire persona wildly different from the body the tongue belonged to. But no promise to help could impact as much as simply extending a hand to hold, offering a shoulder to cry on, or even a comforting hug when no words could be mustered.
Without much thought behind it, the poltergeist rested a paw on Ivan's shoulders, gentle yet clammy compared to the beating sun. Like how Selby often held him in times of uncertainty and turmoil. Before he could even consider something else to say, the younger cat turned his attention to an unlikely addition. His scarred brow drew together in thought, perhaps slight curiosity as the two-headed eagle intruded further. His paw withdrew. Ivan's distaste for the creature was nearly as tangible as he was, enough for his ears to incline backward.
Part of him recognized his absent companion when he glimpsed the fledgling, memory replacing it with a squirming flytrap gnawing at his wrist and seeking care. His punctured breath caught in his chest. "Does she have a name?" came the blurted question, Beck glancing down at Ivan with an unreadable yet bittersweet expression. Soon, an unrequested elaboration unfolded from his tongue, likely falling on deaf ears as he wistfully mumbled, "I... used to have a friend -- a best friend, actually. I found them in the swamp and took care of them. I named them Audrey III, 'cause... I like movies and stuff. I don't know." Sheepishly he fidgeted his paws, claws slipping beneath a wrapping of gauze and tugging it this way and that. "[color=#0000000]They took care of me back, too.[/color]" Sadness tinged his words, his now-severed bond painfully obvious as he heavily sighed, lapsing into silence.