Ni'Srilan: The Desert: beware of rapists.

The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain;
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,
These remain.

He can’t help it; he laughs, a short, small sound deep into his throat.

“That depends,” he mutters after, staring at everything and nothing, “on what you consider life.”

Alerion doesn’t; he won’t cheapen his fine existence by (over)thinking about it. It’s there and he enjoys it – pain and all – the brief interlude between two nothings. Everyone else is there too, but with the wild individualism bred into his bones, he doesn’t care – they’re there, they follow their path and he follows his.

It’s just life; therefore, meaningless.

There are moments when he finds solace in the darkness and nothingness that rise by night, in the distant stars and the sashay of the sands; but more often than not – he lives.

“I’ve never left this place,” and for a moment – perhaps under the influence of Kinh’s calmness – he contemplates the world around him: green grass, lush waters, gentle palms curving under unnatural winds. He wonders if his father’s among them, dancing in nothingness and everything. birds cawing, the lake banking at his feet. for that moment, everything is stark clear: even the slight motion he makes, the sound of his hoof shifting in the dirt beneath them.

Meaningless, all of it.

Beautiful, nonetheless.

“Perhaps,” he shrugs, a roll of muscles much like one does to relax a crick here or there; “perhaps not. Why did you leave, anyway?”

Oh, he’s thought of leaving – numerous times. He doesn’t belon, after all.

He wonders if he ever will.

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of eros and of dust