Like Father, Like Son

Jefferson Soul · 02-05-2011, 03:18 PM

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And what would have happened if Miriette had harmed his son in any way? He paused, just briefly, to ponder how he might have reacted; would the brute have launched into a full-out attack? Would he have banned Pripyat from leaving the ranch house, or exiled Miriette from the packlands once more? Or would he have simply assumed a passive role, as he did now, maintaining coolness and ambiguity? "Good," he replied, and that was that.

He crossed the room and settled into the rocking chair, the wood creaking beneath his tall, burly form. For a moment he simply rocked, eye in the blaze, thoughts in the clouds. He did not make the motion to explain why he had lost his memory nor why it had never returned, nor what he had sparsely collected of the identity of Maluki and the life he lived before and after the onset of insanity. Surely he was a unique individual, Jefferson, bursting at the seams with stories and epics of both he the tragic hero and Maluki the thoughtless villain, and yet they remained bottled in his mind, sealed and never to be released. Some of the things he had learned would travel with him to the grave, whenever Death finally came calling.

"She is angry," he said, rocking quietly, his expression a picture of emotionlessness. "I hurt she and her brothers in the past on accident. I'm not sure they'll ever forgive me." The chair paused a moment, and the grip of his scarred fingers on the chair's arm tightened. "They may think it easier to attack you or your mother than me for vengeance... but that's not going to happen as long as I'm still standing."

And the chair began to rock again, creaking, creaking.

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