ERROR; or on hubris || listenFor some people gravity is but a mere afterthought.
The flight makes them bold, and they soar so high that they can only fall down. After all, daring boys always pay the price for overstepping their humanly bounds.
To Henry. To Icarus. Rushing to their early graves.
i. boy lilikoi, jónsi // ii. fly, ludovico einaudi // iii. falling, woodkid // iv. inferno, sir sly // v. icarus, bastille // vi. i know you love to fall, message to bears // vii. gravity, abstract aprils // viii. boy 1904, jónsi & alex
Music made her feel as if she were holding a lamp that cast a halo of light around her, and while she knew there were people and responsibilities in the darkness beyond it, she couldn’t see them.
"I can’t- Kestrel, you must understand that I would never claim you. Calling you a prize- my prize- it was only words. But it worked. Cheat won’t harm you, I swear that he won’t but you must … hide yourself a little. Help a little. Just tell us how much time we have before the battle. Give him a reason to decide you’re not better off dead. Swallow your pride."
"Maybe that’s not as easy for me as it is for you."
He wheeled on her. "It’s not easy for me," he said through his teeth. "You know that it’s not. What do you think I have had to swallow these past ten years? What do you think I have had to do to survive?”
They stood before the palace door. "Truly," she said "I haven’t the faintest interest. You may tell your sad story to someone else."
He flinched as if slapped. His voice came low: "You can make people feel so small."
Kestrel went hot with shame- then was ashamed of her own shame. Who was he, that she should apologize? He had lied. Nothing he said meant anything. If she was to feel shame, it would be for having been easily fooled.
It wasn’t, of course, f r o m h i m.Kestrel caught the haughty tone of her thoughts. She felt the way it thinned her mouth. She realized she was furious at this letter.
At herself. At the way her heart had leaped to see her name scrawled in the Herrani alphabet. She had hoped so hard that the envelope was from Arin.
But she’d had no contact with him for nearly a month, not since she’d offered him his country’s freedom. And the evelope hadn’t even been addressed in his hand. She knew his writing. She knew the fingers that would hold the pen. Blunt-cut nails, silver scars from old burns, the calloused scrape of his palm, all very at odds with his elegant cursive. Kestrel should have know right away that the letter w a s n ’ t f r o m h i m.