Like Bellamy, he does his best not to cherrypick through the minds of those closest to him. They are, all of them, hardly able to disguise their feelings and thoughts, try as they might. It doesn't foster any sort of trust, and wouldn't be kind, to simple rip information from one another. ( He thinks, unkindly, of Sam Anders, in that moment. ) Nevertheless, he thinks - and silently offers Bellamy his memories in return. Since he did pick up on Octavia, after all.
-- there are children, and they become adults. Rank and file, in sects and groups, designated by the color and embroidery of beautiful, colored uniform. Like the one that he wears, though there are no others that wear the black. They are children, when they come to the Little Palace. Disoriented by the opulence, their studies, the freedom to be what they are -- and elsewhere in the world, there are other children. Just like them. Dying, ruined, used up. The children at the palace, he instructs. Tutors, mentors. There is a girl (Zoya, Squaller - storm clouds at her fingertips) and he watches her come into her own. They become soldier, and he, their leader.
There is a boy. He has no power. Too-clever, fox-like. In the blink of an eye, he is small - familiar. Tiny hands holding fingers that could only belong to the man sharing the memory with Bellamy. In the next moment, he is an adult. And he is a stranger. ] I think of them always, Bellamy. They are my people. Soldiers of the Second Army, all. I watched them grow up.
no subject
Like Bellamy, he does his best not to cherrypick through the minds of those closest to him. They are, all of them, hardly able to disguise their feelings and thoughts, try as they might. It doesn't foster any sort of trust, and wouldn't be kind, to simple rip information from one another. ( He thinks, unkindly, of Sam Anders, in that moment. ) Nevertheless, he thinks - and silently offers Bellamy his memories in return. Since he did pick up on Octavia, after all.
-- there are children, and they become adults. Rank and file, in sects and groups, designated by the color and embroidery of beautiful, colored uniform. Like the one that he wears, though there are no others that wear the black. They are children, when they come to the Little Palace. Disoriented by the opulence, their studies, the freedom to be what they are -- and elsewhere in the world, there are other children. Just like them. Dying, ruined, used up. The children at the palace, he instructs. Tutors, mentors. There is a girl (Zoya, Squaller - storm clouds at her fingertips) and he watches her come into her own. They become soldier, and he, their leader.
There is a boy. He has no power. Too-clever, fox-like. In the blink of an eye, he is small - familiar. Tiny hands holding fingers that could only belong to the man sharing the memory with Bellamy. In the next moment, he is an adult. And he is a stranger. ] I think of them always, Bellamy. They are my people. Soldiers of the Second Army, all. I watched them grow up.