[attr="class","stappbody2"]

[attr="class","stappbody3"]

you are destined for greatness -- words whispered fiercely, hands clasped so tightly around your own that you fear they will leave bruises. it changes as you grow; the hands tighten around your shoulders now, nails digging in. but they don't seem quite as big as before. what doesn't change: the drive towards success, eyes an aperture open only to blinding light, lost in the kamikaze rush towards something you can't quite see. [break][break]

you grow up with blinkers around your skull, back ramrod straight and shoulders drawn back. stand proud, altan demir, heir to the family legacy. politics are their game, and soon, it will be yours.[break][break]

you are an echo of a falling empire -- perhaps they have held onto power for too long, and their fangs are becoming blunt. you do not consider their razor-sharp pride; in a moment of teenage folly, perhaps the sensation of lips against your own, you forsake your family name for a little something called freedom. trembling fingers wind their way around yours, tugging you away. you leave your name in polished dark wood flooring and whitewashed walls, and take the stairs two at a time. you don't look back.[break][break]

some years later, you probably do, with blood and dust settling on your brow, clutching a knife so tightly your knuckles whiten. above you, the sky yawns, a crimson-red sunset. under another set of stars, you would be at home, reviewing contracts, fineprint, perhaps settling your schedule for a busy day ahead. in an alternate universe, you would carve your name in the dying light with the embers of a ruined house, and stood amidst it as it crumbled around you.[break][break]

but under this sky, you're watching a falling star bisect dusk into orange and purple, wiping blood from your blade. not that backdoor dealings are unfamiliar to you, not with your family's cutthroat politics, but you're normally not the one with the knife. ( you correct yourself immediately: they aren't your family anymore. )[break][break]

ignacio and, later, the girl with raven eyes -- your daughter; the world shrinks. you've never known this -- your world is muted, dull and greyscale -- and then she laughs, and it's as though someone has turned it to full volume, the full spectrum of colours spread before you. when she laughs, suddenly you're living, and you can't help but smile as well. [break][break]

somehow, five years later and he's standing firm by your side. somehow, five years later and the poison of altan demir remains in your veins. five years later and living on the road is like a disease that slowly works its way through your veins -- sometimes your voice gains an edge and your words venomous. he smiles, a snake facing a snake, and you quiet, words left hanging in the air, their own invisible gallows. ( you don't fight in front of the thea; she doesn't have to concern herself with the words of old lovesick fools. )[break][break]

one day, he will leave. the air is frigid. fault-lines wind their away around the shore, and, far away, a butterfly dances. but today is not that day. not yet.[break][break]

four years later. thea is a flame, he tells you, and you agree. you press a flower into her palm and she laughs, gives you a hug, and sets off for the city. her own personal guardian ambles alongside, a hulking figure of ursus arctos. ignacio lingers, eyes searching. then they are both off on a city adventure, and you keep to the overgrown paths of the local hunters and wait. [break][break]

( time speeds up when thea decides to dedicate more and more of her time to learning in the city. time slows down when a message reaches you that something's gone wrong. time freezes when you're cradling a small broken body in your arms and it doesn't really matter when you can't feel half your body and you're sitting in a pool of blood that isn't your own / you know whose it is and you really don't want to think-- ) [break][break]

fault-lines have grown deep -- the earth crumbles beneath him. ignacio leaves in the night; you wake up to the sound of a door slamming shut. and there you are, crumpled into yourself under the eleven letters of 'taylan karga', once compressed into a further five, 'yours'.[break][break]

and suddenly, without, falling into four, 'lost'.[break][break]



you tend to the flowers during your recovery. no questions are asked; the name of altan demir is almost invisible in sundial. but as soon as your arm works once more ( creaking in protest as you stretch it, for metal and wood make for odd combinations, plantshaper or not ), you're diving straight into the silvertongue coven. criminal codes for the neighbourhood florist. you want to laugh.[break][break]