It was the first time He became that angry, with violence tailed quickly as he turned ferocious, especially to a possession He had most faith in. Apollo was exactly aware of what He was doing, but Hyacinth could not comprehend a thing. The only chill he could discern before falling into comatose was this launch of paresthesiae that prolonged for years. And he counted, first, second, third, unvaried pangs were those he could abide to live with but the dereliction was unfathomable he could not scarper out of it. Oh, so this is how He reacts to being enkindled toward the climax. Within the same ignorance Apollo held toward him, he was astounded finding himself mooched from one suprise to another, from one panic to another. His optimism had left him already, no, more like it was never there. As he struggled to apprehend the lesson He gave, Hyacinth recalled His prompting - which was more of a warning - that was said during a martial practice when he was newly trained, "You can never outpower us plants." As correct as it sounded, then why was He mad believing he would lose to that guy anyway? For the confidence he had challenging him and himself for a mortal combat that one of His association would croak? Was dying young not the norm?
Did you deem that gesture of mine a treachery, my Signior?
The girly compeer was sick of him whining already but he could care less. If that was her case then she would feel the same, they were not much disparate, they were both fettered in desertion as they peered at Him flying far away from their ranges of outstretching, or at least he weened so. Dangling like a cocoon waiting to be boiled and had its silk fastening around its scrag like a rope, he anticipated the nadir when the red string got torn off along with his ankle, sundered like how Apollo and him were sundered by minor dissimilitude. A characteristic of his Seigneur was that He could throw a bunch of complications into other people's faces and make them solve it without clarifications - maybe He likes to collect the question marks as trophies. Peradventure He was right when He told them they would not be able to catch many of His intents, for what he learnt being with Him was words were never enough. Conveying some connotations, then what? Then stabbing each other, then harrowing each other by those sentences they might or might not intend to say, by those actions they might or might not intend to do. Conceivably that was why He never seeked for any another relationship and Hyacinth had to accept that fact anyway, he could not cradle that infantile belief that somehow he held a spot within His bailiwick. Trust had already renounced us, or in another manner we relinquished it. Can you feel it my Padrino, how my heart is dismantled through every initiation of conversation you dismiss? Their relatedness did not seem to be there anymore. His feminine companion shook her head, this is what an unrequited love is like - to hide it away, to lock it in oneself as the hope in the Pandora pithos, and desperately seal it as a sublime bane among other disappointments of a lifetime. She sighed, I love him even when our lips never touch. Hyacinth raised his eyebrows, what the hell is love?
Love is dead, killed by the superficial proximity that humans foster. It was not real, nothing was real. Since the young age he had studied adults he grew up with and discovered that love was a lie, the moronic comfortation devoured by athrist beings searching for the approvals of their own worths from others, the innate desire that was left of those carnal instincts harbored by primitive Homo sapiens. Love was ravished by everyone bit by bit for each of them through coquetries and osculations and fancies and copulations until they disposed its remnant which was the moribund lust. From those knowledge he acquired thence there came the reassertation of the ardor he had for Him. He might as well say he loved Him in a Platonic sense, then what? Then looking forward to break apart that self-sufficiency that He nurtured, then having his subjective reality broken apart by colliding with His. Sometimes he thought it would be better to never see the objective reality, because if it turns out to be unacceptable without our self-recreational delusions involved, them every expectation of us will be entirely demolished within this collapsed noumena.
Clytie - or how she called herself - chuckled, that's not the point. He was not wrong either as she concluded, then she petted him like a puppy that could not understand how humanity worked. That was not love, that was how the narrow-minded hoi polloi on behalf of love used it as an excuse to sabotage one another. As if she could describe love without using any adjectives, such epithets were not expressive enough for the infelicity within her, like she had fell down in a maze of speeches that were barely spoken hence lost and stuck there forever. We're all vagabonds within interpersonal correlations, for example, one day you would hate me soon, and I already did.
Hyacinth glared at her, vagabonds? But we had our responsibilities with our Boss, with our loyalties.
He doesn't need them, can't you see how he never thanks us? Those commitments were made from their sides only and he never verified whether they were even friends or not, trust me, neither of us really knows what being affectionate is like, because within this pit of desolation all of them were trapped in, the seed of infatuation was extirpated before it could develop into something else. Or had it developed? How ironic, such juvenile fancy of a wild adolescent she used to be had developed through those years of coldness, like a bud bloomed during an ageless winter, as ageless as his youthfulness she worshipped in vain. As a flippant question she asked, if You weren't this boyishly good-looking would I still be attracted to You when we first met? If you wasn't then we would go on our distinct paths, as if I care, yes and even when they had met He still did not care. Like how every rose had its thorns, such Glamour was full of honed egdes, each quote He made them listened carried a bad omen which they could see no suggestion of future in it. I attempt to built a home for us to shelter ourselves through such chilliness of reclusion, yet He never entered inside.
Home? Hyacinth childishly asked, where is home?
At His sides, she muttered.
Author's note: Some missing chapters are supposed to be posted before this one, but they're unfinished and I'm afraid it will take quite a long time before they can be continued because I'm lazy and distracted with too many comics to read and drafts to write... Therefore I post this one first and will update the rest later, somehow...
