He had settled into a comfortable pattern – one that left him free to do things.
Sometimes he thought he was developing a cognitive disassociative disorder or something like that. There were days when the wilderness inside of him burned with an almost insufferable strength – days that made him want, crave for things he couldn’t possibly have. Those days, there was nothing innocent or childish about Wyvern; he was savage – pure, raw strength. The thought made him chuckle; Icarus, the delighted masochist, rather liked those days.
But there were days when he felt – strange. Then he was tender, caring – his ignorance of their world and his naďve inexperience showing more forcefully through him. Those days, he wanted to be held, coddled – dominated. Those days he kept to himself and the academy and whatever slive of peace he could gather.
It was usually in the latter gyre that he found himself walking among ruins – today, however, was not so. Today, he was torn between two moods, swinging perilously from one to the other.
Sometimes, it sucked to be Wyvern.
“Quite ready, Nicodemus,” he muttered with an amiable nod, his eyes shadowed in gold. Well. May the show begin.
