The question takes him aback a little, more even than the giant lion-creature that could make a meal of him. It's not that he hasn't contemplated the question, ever, although it's a difficult question to give a good answer to.
It's that his name, his mission, and his breed are who he is, aren't they? They're all he's embraced for so long, shedding away extraneous aesthetics and learning to define against what he is not.
Who am I. He takes a long breath and lets it out, trying to stop finding his boundaries and surpass them instead.
He answers with another question, a habit he's picked up almost by accident. "Are you not asking my name and my mission then, really?" He raises an eyebrow at this beast in his path. It's rhetorical, though, and he looks back up more openly.
"You should like me, then, master of Riddles. I am a man, and not a man. I want peace, and I will fight for it; I would die to live as I please."
He tries to form words for what he thinks of when he thinks of himself. Instead, he finds himself calling forward fire again from his hands because, who knows, maybe it's the easiest to call because it he relates to it so well. "I am a spark waiting for tinder. Revolution. Rage." The flames burst and flare high under his gaze and he focuses on them until they turn into a flutter of white petals that fall to the ground. "Maybe love, sometimes. Maybe too much of it."
He looks up again. "I'm made of pieces, like you. You ask who I am, I'm a Connor, and I'm a witch, and that's the truth."
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Date: 2014-12-26 05:02 am (UTC)It's that his name, his mission, and his breed are who he is, aren't they? They're all he's embraced for so long, shedding away extraneous aesthetics and learning to define against what he is not.
Who am I. He takes a long breath and lets it out, trying to stop finding his boundaries and surpass them instead.
He answers with another question, a habit he's picked up almost by accident. "Are you not asking my name and my mission then, really?" He raises an eyebrow at this beast in his path. It's rhetorical, though, and he looks back up more openly.
"You should like me, then, master of Riddles. I am a man, and not a man. I want peace, and I will fight for it; I would die to live as I please."
He tries to form words for what he thinks of when he thinks of himself. Instead, he finds himself calling forward fire again from his hands because, who knows, maybe it's the easiest to call because it he relates to it so well. "I am a spark waiting for tinder. Revolution. Rage." The flames burst and flare high under his gaze and he focuses on them until they turn into a flutter of white petals that fall to the ground. "Maybe love, sometimes. Maybe too much of it."
He looks up again. "I'm made of pieces, like you. You ask who I am, I'm a Connor, and I'm a witch, and that's the truth."