[ -- there is a sudden, ripe burst of hostility from him. The rearing of an unbroken steed, the lashing backhand of someone who knows only to lash out when touched in a way that is unwelcome. It is not to her fingering the desert flower that he kicks at this ancient being, but to her insinuation that the gods, that his world was imperfect. ]
How dare you.
[ He strangles his own mourning, his own quest for connection with her sense of motherhood, in the cradle. Presses it down, rejecting what he'd wanted. How dare she. ]
What is your idea of perfection, then? What image do you hold in your mind above all else?
no subject
How dare you.
[ He strangles his own mourning, his own quest for connection with her sense of motherhood, in the cradle. Presses it down, rejecting what he'd wanted. How dare she. ]
What is your idea of perfection, then? What image do you hold in your mind above all else?