fever dreams that scare you sober.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 04-15-2010, 12:07 PM

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derp I am slow

He watched, as he had been bid. The boy was an open book, one whose pages were yet to be filled. Certainly, he knew pride. What boy did not, after all? Yet he knew patience, and he knew that he was on the cusp of a great truth. Such mysteries had never fascinated Larkspur. He had been born wrong, and for this, his world had become a narrow path. Larkspur was cursed, as all the Autumn People are. He was to go from the dust and into the grave, and know neither summer nor spring. Yet he had. Lark was a man who had defied his own destiny and embraced a much greater one.

The boy was eager, and he attempted to blame his ignorance on his mother. Misery had considered the girl a blight, and Larkspur would follow suit. Her nephew had sired the girl, her nephew who had rejected his teachings an been spared because he was not a true D’Angelo. In Larkspur’s world, those who had not been born into Khalif could not be called such. This boy was no different—but he was eager, and his eyes were not so different from Misery’s. Slowly, a wicked smile pulled back his lips and exposed his ivory teeth to the light. “Naw,” he explained, his own eyes glimmering. “They ain’t her eyes.” Yet he did not explain further.

“Y’got a lot of family, Harlowe. As I see it, I’m yer mother’s uncle. Y’can just call me Larkspur, though.” He needed no titles. The branches of the D’Angelo tree were warped and intertwined, and always had been. That peculiar smiled remained on his face, as if he knew a joke that the boy did not.

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