[ Sometimes, what one needs most in their greatest time of need — is someone inspiring. Inspiration need not be a grand thing, a positive thing; one needs not look to a hero to feel the surge of emotion needed to stay true to a path, sometimes what one needs is a bastard to hate. There is a purity in hatred, that he feels. The true hate is reserved for someone in his life that even his hatred for Amos cannot compare to. If anything, he despises Amos because he feels that a man like that should never have been born, if he was only going to squander his humanity.
It is still a hatred he can set aside, shut down, ignore. Like a switch, he can flick it off, and speak with the man as if they had not just spent their time beating one another bloody, snarling and wrathful. He echoes the laugh, Amos's shotgun burst of something that makes him think — why can you not be human — with a rasping, nasty thing of his own. He draws the mantle of capriciousness back around his shoulders, to hide where he had perhaps,
briefly,
sought to know a man through battle. ( She died. )
He rests on his back, daring to punt his heel into the unaffected belly of the Iconoclast Oracle as if to scold it for its stupid game. He hate-loves this game, he hates that they have been made to tear at one another's minds pathetically. After all, he has done the same to humans in his own time — made them weak and desperate, and made them fight for his uncertain favors, permissions, attentions. Now, though... well, he wants to be a little better than that, but if he must do it again? He would. For his home, he would do anything. ]
Someone has to be the monster so that others do not have to be.
[ He refuses to open his eyes and look at Amos. He does not want to see if the words resonate with him, or mean nothing. Like this, he can pretend both paths are true, and all things are possible. Even if for he and Amos, they are not; even if they have locked one another into a figure within their minds that they must conquer, to survive. In that way, are they not one another's monsters? ]
no subject
It is still a hatred he can set aside, shut down, ignore. Like a switch, he can flick it off, and speak with the man as if they had not just spent their time beating one another bloody, snarling and wrathful. He echoes the laugh, Amos's shotgun burst of something that makes him think — why can you not be human — with a rasping, nasty thing of his own. He draws the mantle of capriciousness back around his shoulders, to hide where he had perhaps,
briefly,
sought to know a man through battle. ( She died. )
He rests on his back, daring to punt his heel into the unaffected belly of the Iconoclast Oracle as if to scold it for its stupid game. He hate-loves this game, he hates that they have been made to tear at one another's minds pathetically. After all, he has done the same to humans in his own time — made them weak and desperate, and made them fight for his uncertain favors, permissions, attentions. Now, though... well, he wants to be a little better than that, but if he must do it again? He would. For his home, he would do anything. ]
Someone has to be the monster so that others do not have to be.
[ He refuses to open his eyes and look at Amos. He does not want to see if the words resonate with him, or mean nothing. Like this, he can pretend both paths are true, and all things are possible. Even if for he and Amos, they are not; even if they have locked one another into a figure within their minds that they must conquer, to survive. In that way, are they not one another's monsters? ]