( aspen stares, a sort of horror in his eyes that can only be shared by painful empathy. it's not sympathy. aspen is not standing there in horror because what he illustrates is a painful, traumatic thing -
he's standing there because he finally, finally understands. it clicks into place uncomfortably like a broken and pulled arm set correctly in its socket. it's the same bloody and tormented injury, worlds apart - privileges apart. laurent was a crown prince. aspen had been a street orphan. while aspen's hadn't been family by blood, it was the only family he'd had.
he does not offer sympathy. )
I was twelve. ( his voice is quiet, almost distant.
ever since they met, even on that rickety boat on the way to stygia, aspen's meticulous care of his appearance was apparent. he always kept his hair primped and polished and brushed through, his wings fluffy and snow-white, with neat dresses and skirts and blouses. he gave off an air of sophistication and elegance, even when he was spitting back venom at laurent.
yet that's not the case today - in an undyed linen shift with his hair not even pulled up or braided, rumbling down his back in completely unruly waves. there's a bandage on his lower arm, likely some sort of scrape he suffered in the rush to help - and though he has tiny slippers on for his tiny feet, one of the stockings is completely ripped open. it serves to show how grounded his words are, how much smaller he looks when he doesn't act larger than life. ) No one thinks too hard if you're purchased by a teahouse's father, and... no one there would try to help their competition.
( if laurent will spill his deepest scars, aspen will do the same. but... of course, that leaves the reason why he said anything in the first place. )
Did they - touch you? ( anger returns, simmering in his eyes angrily. ) I saw someone impaled on a - I had thought that was the worst of it, but if there's more, I'll tear their tongues out.
no subject
he's standing there because he finally, finally understands. it clicks into place uncomfortably like a broken and pulled arm set correctly in its socket. it's the same bloody and tormented injury, worlds apart - privileges apart. laurent was a crown prince. aspen had been a street orphan. while aspen's hadn't been family by blood, it was the only family he'd had.
he does not offer sympathy. )
I was twelve. ( his voice is quiet, almost distant.
ever since they met, even on that rickety boat on the way to stygia, aspen's meticulous care of his appearance was apparent. he always kept his hair primped and polished and brushed through, his wings fluffy and snow-white, with neat dresses and skirts and blouses. he gave off an air of sophistication and elegance, even when he was spitting back venom at laurent.
yet that's not the case today - in an undyed linen shift with his hair not even pulled up or braided, rumbling down his back in completely unruly waves. there's a bandage on his lower arm, likely some sort of scrape he suffered in the rush to help - and though he has tiny slippers on for his tiny feet, one of the stockings is completely ripped open. it serves to show how grounded his words are, how much smaller he looks when he doesn't act larger than life. ) No one thinks too hard if you're purchased by a teahouse's father, and... no one there would try to help their competition.
( if laurent will spill his deepest scars, aspen will do the same. but... of course, that leaves the reason why he said anything in the first place. )
Did they - touch you? ( anger returns, simmering in his eyes angrily. ) I saw someone impaled on a - I had thought that was the worst of it, but if there's more, I'll tear their tongues out.