die leiftzig haftzig

I like better, Minoth thinks with a groaning decision, those faces that stay. Those faces vivid enough to tell a story without imagined sound, and then again those faces whose mouths quiver inexorably with the tell of a new story, an imagination too bright to be contained in flat matting. Even those background extras duly must paper the intricate house of the tale. Too, Minoth cannot stand boring, unremarkable people.

Addam's face must be looking over his shoulder.

Sometime sooner or later, Amalthus's face has ceased to stay. His voice, just a trivial murmur among the rush of all sounds Minoth has heard, has aurally buried his big round ears in since then. He rarely yelled, and those things that he did proclaim, Minoth has forgotten. Hasn't even had to try, as of late.

Addam's eyes, bright and darting when not broad and gathering, do not bore a hole so much as stoke a flame, for Minoth, now.

But Minoth is holding Addam up against the scree of the streamsand. Minoth is attempting, as only an inhuman pillar of the world might (excepting humanity's own hubris), to brace one human's unforgettable face against the sands of time, both by mind and by thighs straining against thighs. No spoke, as it were, to slot and bind.

The prince's body, hot not from the environment (and the desert is not so hot at night, then, is it?) but from the again inexorable quality of the human body to not thrum so much as burn, from a core.

Just a passing thought, of those the Flesh Eater once unwillingly persecuted. Just a flitting fear, that some snake from the past will soon rear and bite.

Minoth has in his mind a perfect picture of the imperfect life he has lived, however briefly, with Prince Addam Origo. To be remembered forever.

And he finds, as his body strains in a closeness to another he certainly thought he would never achieve, that if Addam were to turn, and show the truth, in simple normality, of his face, Minoth might not be able to bear it.