Desreal: well, do tell more about this dark side; --

“ We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. ”

- Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan

Jörmungandr, much like her mother, is utterly devoid of common sense. However, unlike her mother, she is not terminally attracted to danger – she simply doesn’t seem to realize danger exists at all.

Now, for instance, folded quite happily and literally under Kurai’s leathery wings, in utter disregard to the fact she could possibly be in danger (apparently her mother had as much success slamming a warning against strangers in her mind as Joh’s grandfather did), she frowns; something she has learned to do quite often. The scales against her feel strange, almost cool, but she doesn’t mind it.

“But they are pretty,” she blinks, because to her mind, it is perfectly logical that they are and why wouldn’t they like them? They do not bleed, like grandfather’s; they’re more like her aunt’s. Like a snake, her neck curves and her tongue flicks as she paints a lick against the leathery surface. It doesn’t seem to cross her mind that, at her age, such actions might be deemed improper. “Ah well. They can be silly if they like. I’ll be your friend.”

Yup, just like that. Sorry, Kurai, you’re stuck with another one.

“Oh, that’s my mother,” she replies distractedly. As many young things, the mare-child is easily amused: right now, she entertains herself by shooting little sparks at the wing’s general direction, trying to snag that reflex of darkness that’s darker than the night.

Lightning is power, sharp and inevitable. Jörmungandr knows this; lightning is destruction in light rather than darkness – but here, besides him, her own lightning is weak, a child’s play contrary to his much stronger one.

Here it’s almost tame and she delights in it while she can: she has learned to rein it in, lest it harms someone, anyone. But with him, there is no concern and perhaps that’s why she doesn’t care if his side is cold and electrified, if his voice is sharp and ancient, if the scales bite and scratch against her side: she is free and happy to be free, and that’s that.

“Am I annoying you? I didn’t mean to. I just like the lightning...”

She bites her lip at this; it would never occur to her that she might be in danger, but it would that she could be terribly annoying at times.

Children, even those who really are not, will be children.

***
jörmungandr
there is hope, but not for us