Ashley Riot had been one of those men who believed he'd live alone and die alone. With his wife (was she his wife?) and his child (was he his child?) dead, and his life given to being parliament's thug, he hadn't seen much room for a future of any sort.
He hadn't particularly minded.
There was a sort of appeal to a lonely life, not having to do anything except what you were told to. A sort of peace in that sort of life. At that time, he'd had no responsibilities: Not for anyone's life, certainly not for anyone's death. Oh yes, he killed people, but it wasn't his responsibility.
(Tia runs in his mind, and he can't tell if he's seeing her from behind or watching the knight catch up to her.)
It was easier to live that way.
He wanted to be alone still, but he was quite literally saddled with a constant companion. Forever, if said companion was to be believed.
/Inked into your soul, Riskbreaker. The tattoo on your back marks your soul with my soul and the soul of all of us before you./
"Shut up."
/Cranky./
Ashley pressed the inside of his thighs a bit tighter against his horse's flanks, leaned forward as the horse broke into a canter.
/Fleeing the truth, Riskbreaker?/
"Letting my mount exercise."
A finger that wasn't there traced the lines of the rood inverse tattooed into Ashley's back and he shivered. The heat the ghost-touch left behind was reminescent of healing scars and their sharp stretched-leather feeling when they pulled.
It was a feeling he never had now; first the grimoire healing magic had robbed it from him, and now the rood swept it away before it could touch him.
/What are you thinking, Ashley Riot?/
"Is it a true immortality?" He pulled back on the horse's reins, let it slow to a panting walk.
/Define 'truth'./
"Your games exhaust me."
/Very well. Define 'immortality'./
Irritation welled inside him. "*You* exhaust me, Sydney."
As if called into existance by his name, the dead prophet was there, perched on a branch that overhung the road. Sydney sat like the child Ashley couldn't believe he was, eyes large and blue and anything but innocent. His legs dangled, crossed at the pale-hosed ankles. Ashley walked his horse to the side of the road and halted him before dismounting, letting it graze.
Sydney's legs swung like the four-year-old he looked like, like the four-year-old he'd been twenty-five years earlier. "Then ask a question you don't think I will twist."
Ashley patted his mount's neck. "What can kill me?"
"Losing the Rood killed *me*," Sydney responded. He lept down from the branch, landed immaterially, and walked over, peering up at Ashley.
Ashley managed to avoid a twitch. "You know I prefer it when I can talk to your face."
A child's eyebrow arched and Sydney was as Ashley first knew him, tall, pale, limbs replaced with weapons, hair falling lankily around the sharp lines of his face. Old enough to help dispel the image of wrongness that had haunted Ashley when he had learned that Sydney's soul had lost its ability to age at age four.
"Is this better, then?" Sydney held up a metal hand tipped with razors and examined it clinically, as if mildly surprised to find it there.
"Yes, Sydney. That is better."
Sydney let his hand fall, half turned away, newly-scarred back visible, an ugly red. "Eventually you must learn to see the truth without so many masks, Ashley Riot. When you allow your past to be nothing more than mere *belief*, the rood will not bend itself to you fully."
Ashley was silent, watching his mount chew grass with the slow placid movements of an animal who had seen too much to be spooked by little things like the ghosts of mad prophets.
Sydney waited for a response, motionless.
"How far to our destination?"
"If you would allow the Dark to bear you there, not far at all."
Ashley mounted up.
Sydney sighed, mounted up behind him, metal arms cinching about Ashley's waist, razor tips brushing Ashley's skin as the ghost locked his fingers together. "Then far, Ashley. Perhaps you'll learn on the way."
Ashley dug his knees in, spurred his mount into motion. "Perhaps."
He hadn't particularly minded.
There was a sort of appeal to a lonely life, not having to do anything except what you were told to. A sort of peace in that sort of life. At that time, he'd had no responsibilities: Not for anyone's life, certainly not for anyone's death. Oh yes, he killed people, but it wasn't his responsibility.
(Tia runs in his mind, and he can't tell if he's seeing her from behind or watching the knight catch up to her.)
It was easier to live that way.
He wanted to be alone still, but he was quite literally saddled with a constant companion. Forever, if said companion was to be believed.
/Inked into your soul, Riskbreaker. The tattoo on your back marks your soul with my soul and the soul of all of us before you./
"Shut up."
/Cranky./
Ashley pressed the inside of his thighs a bit tighter against his horse's flanks, leaned forward as the horse broke into a canter.
/Fleeing the truth, Riskbreaker?/
"Letting my mount exercise."
A finger that wasn't there traced the lines of the rood inverse tattooed into Ashley's back and he shivered. The heat the ghost-touch left behind was reminescent of healing scars and their sharp stretched-leather feeling when they pulled.
It was a feeling he never had now; first the grimoire healing magic had robbed it from him, and now the rood swept it away before it could touch him.
/What are you thinking, Ashley Riot?/
"Is it a true immortality?" He pulled back on the horse's reins, let it slow to a panting walk.
/Define 'truth'./
"Your games exhaust me."
/Very well. Define 'immortality'./
Irritation welled inside him. "*You* exhaust me, Sydney."
As if called into existance by his name, the dead prophet was there, perched on a branch that overhung the road. Sydney sat like the child Ashley couldn't believe he was, eyes large and blue and anything but innocent. His legs dangled, crossed at the pale-hosed ankles. Ashley walked his horse to the side of the road and halted him before dismounting, letting it graze.
Sydney's legs swung like the four-year-old he looked like, like the four-year-old he'd been twenty-five years earlier. "Then ask a question you don't think I will twist."
Ashley patted his mount's neck. "What can kill me?"
"Losing the Rood killed *me*," Sydney responded. He lept down from the branch, landed immaterially, and walked over, peering up at Ashley.
Ashley managed to avoid a twitch. "You know I prefer it when I can talk to your face."
A child's eyebrow arched and Sydney was as Ashley first knew him, tall, pale, limbs replaced with weapons, hair falling lankily around the sharp lines of his face. Old enough to help dispel the image of wrongness that had haunted Ashley when he had learned that Sydney's soul had lost its ability to age at age four.
"Is this better, then?" Sydney held up a metal hand tipped with razors and examined it clinically, as if mildly surprised to find it there.
"Yes, Sydney. That is better."
Sydney let his hand fall, half turned away, newly-scarred back visible, an ugly red. "Eventually you must learn to see the truth without so many masks, Ashley Riot. When you allow your past to be nothing more than mere *belief*, the rood will not bend itself to you fully."
Ashley was silent, watching his mount chew grass with the slow placid movements of an animal who had seen too much to be spooked by little things like the ghosts of mad prophets.
Sydney waited for a response, motionless.
"How far to our destination?"
"If you would allow the Dark to bear you there, not far at all."
Ashley mounted up.
Sydney sighed, mounted up behind him, metal arms cinching about Ashley's waist, razor tips brushing Ashley's skin as the ghost locked his fingers together. "Then far, Ashley. Perhaps you'll learn on the way."
Ashley dug his knees in, spurred his mount into motion. "Perhaps."