[/html]Pah! Your posts are never bad. <3
Though it contradicted his actions, Kharma often wished that things could have been different. These were idle fantasties, he knew, as for things to have been sufficiently different required too many variables to change. He could reflect on his own decisions, but in the end, far too many factors had always lay outside of his control -- outside of anyone's control. The world had a cruel sense of humor, and for all his romantic ideas about goodness and free will, the red-eyed shadow had dwelled too long on the idea that the poison was in their blood. There would always be war, and treachery, and sin, and madness.
He could have just as easily turned out like Andre. They had the same blood, the same upbringing -- what had really set them apart? Luck and chance, that was all. And Kharma thus believed that his life was only one of denial and delay. Maybe someday, his real name would catch up to him again, and he would commit some crime worthy of a Lykoi. The probability seemed high, regardless of the morals he held, regardless of the distance he'd put between the rocky cesspool.
"Thinking," he said. "Remembering. Saying goodbye, I think, for the last time." His voice was soft. His voice had always been soft, but maybe only because Andre's had not been. Yin and yang, but only by chance. Lifting his gaze from the rock to look Ezekiel in the eye, he could not say that he saw madness there. But that did not mean it was not there. Their fathers gazed through, and their pasts were there -- perhaps sleeping -- but there. "It's been a long time, Ezekiel. We both grew up so fast."
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