dirigo

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There was mud on his boots. Godric was sprawled in a chair by the fire, eying it dully and drumming his fingers against the elaborately upholstered arm. Eric was late, which wasn't so unusual, but Godric was hungry. For the past few weeks his appetite hadn't been what it was normally and it had made him irritable. Now that he actually was hungry, it was even worse. He licked pale lips as he rolled to his feet to pace restlessly from one corner of the lavish sitting room to the next. It was raining out and everything was cold and damp. His clothes felt moldy. He wanted to move on, he wanted to leave this stone house with it's glamored owners, tricked into thinking Eric and his young brother were guests of theirs, distant cousins from the South. He was bored. He was always bored, always restless, always snappish and cold. There was blood on the sheets upstairs, but nothing could keep his attention.

( And Eric was late. )

Godric sat in the sun with his face turned up. He couldn't remember himself as a child, but he could imagine that this was what the birds would sound like to a child's ears. Summer heat hummed through his veins, his pumping blood, and when his fingertips brushed through the high grass, the hair on the backs of his arms shivered. Golden grain shot with the purple of flowers, purple so bright he could see it with his eyes closed. He was solid and swaying, he was warm and soft. A push would send him spinning and that fact was so terrifying it made him smile because to fall was to be human, and if he could reach and grasp that shining disc that hung just past his fingertips he would be all right. The ache would fade. The sun would shine bright on his face and no longer chase him into the thick dark, the dark that kept him awake. The thick dark that he awoke to when the dream faded.

[Yawny at the Apocalypse - Andrew Bird]