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“Get up. I know you’re not close to being done.”
A voice so blunt and damn near cold cuts through the aching grunts and huffs the boy. Exhausted as he may be and so utterly ready to collapse for a long sleep, the teenager knows he mustn't quit until his father said it was time. Or if his mother insisted on a break.
But right now, the Brando courtyard was a grassy little training ground, its patches of green having long-since been worn down to the dirt underneath thanks to the constant movements and rolling around the two men of the family had done. Or rather, a man and his teenaged son.
Wheezing through the air that just got knocked the hell out of his lungs.
Trembling hands clench through the aching joints of their fingers, the tremors stop as they make solid fists.
And from those arms, the spirit of Giorno Brando makes itself manifest once again.
“See? You can keep going.” Several meters ahead of Giorno, Diego Brando is calm and ready, a single hand presented with its sharpened talons poised as weapons ready to leap and strike at a moment’s notice.
Donning a sage green shirt and some older, grass-stained brown pants that he couldn’t care less if they got dirty, the teenager’s father hardly boasted a bead of sweat running down along his matured, chiseled jawline, much less a true sign of injury from how son’s attacks.
“Yeah… guess I can.”
‘Keep going’ was still a very, very generous way to describe the boy’s side of the fight, considering such a harsh difference between the two.
On one end of the field: a poised, true master of his own Stand stood with the perfect balance of grace and tension. He was a sword tested, nicked, sharpened, and ultimately polished to the apex of his ability’s application. Trials by fire throughout the years have brought Scary Monsters to such a staggering height, undoubtedly making Diego Brando the most lethal User residing on this side of the States.
And then there was this boy. His son.
While not clumsy by any means, the teenager currently trying to keep strawberry-blonde curls away from his sweat-coated brow simply stood out as the complete amateur between the two. Scary Monsters was an ability with no separated body and instead changed the physiology of Diego into a monstrously brutal force of nature and precision. Giorno- as they all came to discover- did in fact have a Stand that functioned as most others, appearing as an ethereal being separate from the owner.
Except that this Stand lacking even a proper name was only able to get its arms out, shoulders still directly linked to Giorno’s.
It shamed him to think about, but try as he might, no amount of training nor exercise was able to force out more of Giorno’s Stand, which was a particular disappointment whenever he gazed upon the design of those arms.
Shimmering with gold, they boasted a girth just a bit more muscular than his own limbs, the power they had proven to display whenever actually hitting a target many times stronger than what the teenager could manage on his own. But not only did it constantly shine with such brilliance, but every inch of those arms- from the fingertips to the shoulders where they ended- seemed to be ripped right out of the pages from some medieval fantasy book!
Armor. Armor of perfect symmetry with the opposing limb, yet adorned with several fine points along the way, especially in spots where joints were exposed whenever finger or elbow clenched together. Though whenever Giorno tried to peer into the little gaps those spikes protected, he simply saw… nothing.
Well, perhaps not nothing, but something similar to an abyss. An inky blackness beneath such shimmering gold, ‘flesh’ that didn’t even seem like it’d feel solid upon contact.
Father said that Stands borne from its User were manifestations of the ability to fight. The soul. Their true self.
So Giorno didn’t like to think about what he saw might imply.
“Pay attention.”
The miasma of exhaustion and retrospection is immediately cut off with just Diego’s words, however. At a speed he knows his son can just barely keep up with, he launched forth from a single foot’s hop, his swinging claw damn-near slicing a line right through the teenager’s cheek if he didn’t leap back in time.
Which Diego knew he would. Probably.
“I’m completely controlling your central line. Maintain your balance.”
He had that look in his eyes. The true, undeniable difference between father and son were their eyes whenever in the heat of battle.
Giorno still sparked with emotion, struggling between the emotions of panic, comprehension, anger, and even fear as mind scrambled for the best route out of the situation, much like how his face clearly expressed such annoyance and surprise from the towering man’s pounce and strike.
But Diego?
Eyes of cyan were unclouded, essentially inhuman in their focus. Without remorse nor malice, they were tools to better serve the purpose of killing an enemy, activated with an instinct that the father could switch on and off at a moment’s notice.
If anything could speak volumes about the difference of their abilities-
“Why the hell are you so scared?!” Diego was beginning to lose his patience, if the snarl to his tone was any indicator.
Slashing at the air only fractions of a second after his son’s body was in its place, the father was leading the dance with too much ease. Rather than finding a way to regain his footing, Giorno could do nothing but defend and back away, the arms of his nameless Stand doing all they could to just parry the incoming strikes of those talons.
“You know I’d never kill you, Gio! Take advantage of that! Look for ways to get into my defense and land a serious hit!”
But in an attempt to stop his father’s mid-fight lecture, Giorno attempted a few swings at his head… attempted them himself.
Rather than calling upon the arms of his Stand to deal the blows, it was worn around his own arms like the true armor that it resembled, launching the frantic punches with limbs both spiritual and physical all at once.
“What did I say about that?!” The gnashing of teeth promised another lecture after this, but Diego Brando focused on just weaving around the hits for now.
A duck below.
Sharp lunge away from the right.
Circling around to Giorno’s left and non-dominant hand.
Clenching a his claw to deliver a punch rather than a far more lethal stab, the father was ready to deliver righteous punishment for his child’s mistake- though he didn’t anticipate the Stand’s arm separating from its User’s at the last second! In a motion now considered a flicker jab, the whipping motion of the ethereal arm just barely missed its mark, still managing to leave a scrape onto an otherwise flawless face.
“Cheeky.” That was enough of that, however.
With the flicker having failed to hit true, the beast was in range.
His feet slammed down onto the ground below, his posture was lowered, knees bent, and gravity completely centered for a solid horse stance. Motion began from the soles of his feet, transferring along such sturdy knees before true rotation of the body took place from his hips to back to shoulder.
The father’s right arm didn’t have the reach to fully perform the snapping motion of a full-length punch, but he didn’t need it. With that much power stored away in the back and shoulder, he launched Giorno Brando’s nerves into a fit as that short-ranged punch throttled away at the teen’s waist.
God willing that it was Girono’s left side and not the right, lest he had to learn the terrifying reputation of a true liver punch.
“G-Gnnggh..!!” Keeping those teeth clamped down together so tightly that it felt as though molars might snap; that was all he could do to stop a scream from bellowing out.
He had taken round-ending hits before, but this was a new level for even Girono. Without a blow to the head or anything that really rattled the brain, his sense of vision and color remained solid, even if he felt as though passing out from one sensation alone was a very real possibility.
Pain.
Raw, unrelenting pain.
While those body blows were not ideal for the knockout in a given battle, they were perfect stress tests for an opponent’s tolerance to pain and they had more than discovered the teenager’s current limit.
Knees had lost their ability to stay solid as the shimmering armor around Giorno’s arms dulled to a muddied yellow before fading away completely. The spot in his side from where the punch originated was a core of nothing but throbbing, searing fire. Its inferno lashed out in all directions, violating every nerve and muscle of even his well-trained body with the licks of hellish pain it had to share.
But not the brain, oh no. That delicate little noggin suffered no direct blow, leaving Giorno perfectly conscious and aware of the agony rippling throughout.
So that was probably why his knees didn’t buckle completely, technically keeping him in the fight.
“Not quitting yet? Hey, that’s pretty impressive, kid.”
The most inappropriate time for Diego to feel some pride, of course.
All the same, the man that frequently lacked tact in these crucial moments allowed his knees to ease their bend, slowly elevating him to a higher stance. He’d allow the boy just a few more seconds to gain his footing, but after that? Well… he was very interested to know if he could properly block a roundhou-
“No. Enough.”
Through the son’s agony. Cutting past father’s instincts of the hunter. The most booming voice of authority of the Brando estate echoes out from the open door to the immense home’s back porch, allowing for her to step out.
She had allowed for her smooth locks of rose to grow out slightly over the years, sometimes able to be tied up in a little bun when she needed to do housework. But overall, it was hard to tell that she had aged at all since the days of the Race, much less had given birth since that time.
The skin of that face was perfectly smooth but the lines to those features hard and rigid, confusing many into thinking she was man if not for the swell of her chest that she no longer felt the need to keep hidden away to such a fervent degree. Whilst her husband’s eyes tended to pierce right into the soul, her pink hues instead judged and demeaned, liable to convince any opposition into thinking they were somehow ‘lesser’ than herself.
Dark suit-paints clearly more befitting a man clung to the waistband, a blouse of white with red pinstripes adorned atop, Hot Pants made herself the end of this spar that had gone on long enough, her brown boots stamping away at grassy tufts on her way toward the keeling teenager.
“How nice of you to avoid using your claws, but didn’t I say to take things easier on him?! I don’t have an endless supply of meat to patch him up, you know!” She shook her head in disbelief at how far her husband had taken things, easing Giorno down to his knees so that she could help lift his shirt. In comparison to her barks and little glares at the arms-crossed Diego, the touch of those hands both feminine, yet riddled with callouses, were perfectly gentle, cradling every aspect of her precious kin as if he were an injured, baby bird.
“M-Mom, it’s nothing too serious, really.” The blonde teen did what he could to prevent his entire shirt being removed, even if a certain shoulder was screaming in agony. After all-
“He kept the arms attached to his own again.”
With his father’s righteous snitch, it was a complete end to all of Mrs. Brando’s tender touch. Her eyes flared with annoyance and concern, giving the end of Giorno’s shirt an upward yank so fierce that he had none of the strength needed to fight against it. In seconds, the dark-blue shirt was tossed aside, exposing a young set of abdomens and torso hardened thanks to all of the physical effort and the routines he had undergone… save for two major blemishes.
The first- of course- was the nasty bruise developing along the base of the ribcage’s left side, indicating the spot where Diego’s fist made impact. He’d get a lecture for that, but it clearly wasn’t HP’s true concern…
“Mother of Go- what have we told you, boy?!”
The reason why Hot Pants gnashed her teeth as their son was located squarely upon the teenager’s left shoulder as it oozed his blood from numerous little cuts and gashes that shouldn’t have been there. At least, not from anything that his father inflicted, considering he never made an impact there.
“Are you just going to ignore us at every turn?! There’s a reason why people with your Stand Type use attacks from at least some distance!”
She was completely right. These ‘Power Types’ boasted limited range but staggering force as a trade-off. But rather than keeping that distance between Stand and User to a maximum of one or two or even stretching it to three meters, what if it was completely kept at zero?
“I can heal you now, but what the hell do you plan to do if you end up pulling this nonsense away from us!? And if the damage is far more severe!?!”
Diego Brando never needed to consider these questions, as Scary Monster’s self-application inherently changed the physiology of his body. Though it meant constantly putting his own physical form into the front lines, his bones, muscles, nerves, senses, and especially his destructive power all took monumental boosts, able to endure any impact received to a fine limit… or tolerate the blinding speeds in which he moved or struck.
“Is this hurting now, Gio?!? GOOD! Because your skin popping and muscles bursting at the seams is nothing compared to how badly it could have gotten!! Your entire goddamned arm could have–!!”
Yes, Giorno Brando keeping the arms of his nameless Stand completely attached to his own physical being granted him defense and strength that was unnatural for someone so inexperienced, even for his Stand Type. But when the fighting spirit takes on the role of puppeteer rather than the puppet… it simply writes down checks that a normal body cannot possibly cash in. In just those few blocks and swings that the boy tried to pull off against his father, the Stand was forcing Giorno to move beyond his normal limits, the physical puppet breaking as a direct result.
“But you know…” Of course Diego had more to say. Even as the cause of a blow to Giorno’s side and the one who ratted him out to divide the wrath of a mother, the grinning patriarch simply didn’t keep his mouth shut.
“The kid actually managed to separate the left arm for a good little sneak attack on me. Wasn’t a totally dumb plan, either.”
A glare is enough to get him to shut up, HP Brando digging into a pocket to produce Cream Starter.
“Yes, that makes me feel so much better, love! So when he ends up completely popping his arm off, maybe he can swing it around at his opponent like a sword! All a part of his great strategy, right?!”
Thick layers of sarcasm aside, the grumbling mother just focused on the damaged shoulder first, the months-worth of flesh she saved up within her Stand instantly healing the teenager, a sigh of relief taking him away from at least a good majority of the pain that racked his form without mercy.
“...Dad’s right, though.” With the damaged blood and skin along his side being the next to go, Giorno finally spoke up, his composure far more stable now that he was completely alleviated.
“Don’t you start now-”
“I’m getting better at it, I swear!”
…
A very slight pause in the air. Normally, they’d remind the son of his manners and to especially refrain from interrupting his mother, but he was allowed to say his piece, considering all the damage he just endured.
“...I’m getting a hang of it. A little at a time, maybe, but… it’s getting there.” Raising a right arm, the armor of gold is produced, completely surrounding the Brando heir’s limb with its jagged, shimmering splendor.
“It’s like trying to reach for something that’s just too high up. I try and try and just stretch out as far as I can…”
Looking directly ahead, the cyan gaze of the boy’s spots a tree at the furthest end of the field. His arm outstretched, he stayed in place, trying to accomplish the impossible task of reaching out for something several meters away from him. His parents can only watch, trying to understand despite their Types being so vastly different.
“I guess when I try to force it, it doesn’t work as well, but I swear that…!” Little grunts and twitches of the finger voice the teenager’s strain. He was stretching out his arm as far as it could go, but needed to go… further!
Not to what his fingers may be able to grasp, but… to just grasp a target he shouldn’t be able to. Ignoring what was possible or impossible… he
to touch that other tree. The more he struggled, the greater his annoyance, thoughts of quitting and just looking silly in front of his family slowly overtaking his mind… but he
to prove that he was improving.
Desire added logs to the embers of his annoyance that had roared into a rage. And rage encouraged desires to keep fighting for what they wanted, even out of pure spite. And through that endless cycle of ambition–
“Gio…!”
The gasp of his mother was essentially ignored in his focus, but the boy could almost feel his father’s smile and nod. After all, the limb of golden armor hadn’t just separated from his own by about three or four inches… but a good half of the Stand’s back was beginning to crystallize into visibility, aching and reaching and wanting until…
“That’s-!”
Finally allowing himself to exhale, Giorno almost collapsed onto the soil below, his Stand vanishing from view as both palms kept him seated upright.
“That was much better, honey!” Even if she hated to even see him spar, Hot Pants couldn’t stop at least some pride from welling up inside of his, fingers pushing back on his pectoral as the other side pulled at a shoulder to help his posture, the sheen of sweat dripping from the teenager’s temple making his exhaustion obvious.
“But… but you… you see what I mean, right? Dad’s… right.”
Even if he wanted to sleep like never before. Even if his arms felt like lead and lungs wheezing with every breath. Giorno gazed up towards his father through all of his strife, the eyes of cyan he inherited directly from that towering man still so full of his life.
“I need to keep up the training. I won’t name my Stand until I can show you two its entire body!”
Hot Pants could only look at her son with such bewilderment, but her husband understood.
His son was hungry. He was starving for something.
Though Giorno Brando would never know the kinds of horrible circumstances that pushed his parents to the point they were all in now, that was by their design and will. He was spoiled rotten in comparison to how the father climbed out of the gutter and his mother walked through fogs of the worst kinds of mental strife imaginable. And in the end, it made them frighteningly strong, starved for the happiness they lived with every day at long last.
Now it was going to be his turn to find something to push himself. So if it was something as minor as completely honing his Stand, then the wildly grinning Diego Brando would always be there to smack the boy on the back and keep him moving for-
“Kyaa~aaa~! Boys, you didn’t go too hard on one another, did you~?!”
Hot Pants grimaces. Diego gains a stupidly excited expression. Giorno scrambles to cover himself with his shirt as the high pitch of pure femininity echoes out from their home, on its way to meet them in the courtyard.
“Oooo~ooh, Master Dio, you might look absolutely stunning while you work out, but you really must be careful with the little prince! He’s already well on his way to be a heartthrob!”
As she stepped out into the sunlight, she becomes such a stark contrast to Hot Pants’ perfect balance of androgyny. Whilst the women of early 1900’s American society demanded for its women to still dress in such a conservative manner, that Egyptian flower paid none of it any mind, allowing herself to flaunt such a tall figure with luscious curves in all the right spots with whatever the home of her employers allowed.
Red heels click-clack as they hit the porch's oak, their music deafened when in contact with dirt, balance never lost. A tight dress of black covers her from the skirt hugging her sauntering thighs with every step, all the way to the generous cleavage window before the V wraps around her shoulders. And just to show off her personal flair, a shoulder wrap of red silk is tied around and draped around to cover the neck and biceps, covering up most of the bust other than the very lowest part of the V.
“Mariah,” Mrs. Brando finally utters with such a dry breath, her tongue feeling dehydrated. “I thought you wouldn’t be needed until the weekend, correct?” Her neck cautiously cranes to give one of the servants of their family a very unamused stare, even if her features must force out a slow, cracking smile. “So why do you grace… MY… home without any warning?” She contemplates giving the boys a glance, but knows where their focus will be.
“Oho… ohoho…”
‘Oh dear Mother Mary, here it co-’ Hot Pants cannot prepare herself fast enough as Mariah revs up her very-familiar laugh, its high pitch bellowing through such an empty field with ease.
“OOOOOH-hohohohoho~!” One gloved hand toying with her white locks and the other dragging its very tips along her own ebony jawline of flawless skin, Mariah has lasered in on the wife of her obsession, ruby lips curled into a smile–
“Myyyy laaaa-dyyyy…!” Every syllable brings her closer and closer, emphasizing how much taller HP is than the Egyptian beauty when she finally decided to stand.
“How many times must I say it~?! I do not just help and take jobs from your family! This is my family! My home away from the home you gifted me! And whilst my heart and soul may belong to Sir Dio…!”
Her emerald gaze falls toward the blonde man, whose wink will absolutely be punished later on.
“...I understand that he is simply not just a single man, but a third of your family trio. As such, that love extends to not just the little Prince…”
Her fingers wave toward Giorno, whose flushed cheeks and legs scramble to bring him back up, only to nearly stumble and trip several times.
“But the Queen of the Castle Brando…” And as if weightless, Mariah seemed to just float over to the stoic statue known as Hot Pants, wanting her whispers to never be known to Giorno’s ears. Diego could naturally understand what was said with his senses.
“...And us three already know how much I adore to spend time with either Mr. or Mrs. Brando, don’t we~? As a matter of fact, I can arrange for a time to drop back in when Little Gio isn’t around; I’ve particularly missed that stony gaze of yours, Mila-”
Mariah was suddenly silent.
A shadow taller than them all appeared out of nowhere, extending a long arm of obscenely powerful muscles from the maw of that abyss to pinch Mariah’s cheeks shut.
If it didn’t silence her, HP was liable to smother her nostrils with a spray of Cream Starter; anything to stop her cheeks from becoming any redder.
“My greatest apologies, Lady Brando…” The shadow dissipates as Mariah squirms and fights, even her head looking tiny in comparison to the massive hand that kept her silent and away from Hot Pants. “I tried to keep her waiting in the living room, but she insisted she had an appointment. I can see now that it was a lie to annoy you all.”
There’s a glare of indignation from the Egyptian’s behalf, but she knows better than to let... him see it. With the shadows no longer encompassing him, the goliath of nearly seven feet in length was completely visible.
“Aghhh, she was almost at the best part, Vice!” Diego gives a little wave as the only gesture needed for the giant to release Mariah, the poor thing rubbing her sore cheeks.
“My apologies, Master. I only intend to serve the best interests of the house.”
Though his physical strength and stature was ripped right out of a folktale, that booming bass of a voice remained utterly calm, almost oddly comforting. Like the distant thunderings of a storm that was of no bother to whomever was listening, it was a voice that seemed to offer perfect background noise with every hum and syllable spoken. If the storm was not upon them, of course.
With skin almost deathly pale, longer hair of dark brown neatly tied up in a ponytail, and features that showed him as an emotionless brute of some kind, the walking, giant enigma of a man was sure to stand out in the memories of anyone that might lay their eyes upon his towering presence. Mostly out of fear, but always out of a sense of awe for such a man exist among them. Even as he was completely dressed in the traditional garb of a butler- a suit that needed to be custom-made just to fit his staggering dimensions- the man only known as Vice was anything but a regular servant of House Brando.
“Oi, the hell did I say about touching my face without my say-so, you big oaf?!” Now was the time for comparatively-tiny Mariah to bear her fangs, smacking the back of her hand onto Vice’s stomach… and pretending like she didn’t hurt her fingers on those abs of rock.
“...” The gentle demeanor of neutrality that he held out of respect for the home’s master slowly shifted to utter condemnation as Vice glared down at the annoyed Mariah, making her feel damn-near cornered from such a power gaze. “You are far too familiar with the family. Moreover, you disgrace them with such crass and vulgar displays and innuendo.”
“I… Well, that’s…” It wasn’t a terribly warm day… So why was Mariah sweating a bit? Especially when in the giant’s shadow?
“Perhaps I should ensure you never think to set foot on-”
Diego and Hot Pants knew that spark in his eye. With one hand extended whose palm was easily as large as Mariah’s whole face, Vice was truly contemplating his brand of punishment for the less-than-formal servant of the family. She knew what that meant. The married couple knew what it meant. It was why they were mentally scrambling for a way to calm him down, Diego in particular literally on the verge to pounce Mariah right out of the way of the hand making contact–!
“Vice!”
A voice devoid of their collective tension and fear broke through the air of dread. Giorno was already standing beside the giant to tap his arm, the threatening action paused immediately.
“I managed to move my Stand today. Away from my body, that is!”
…
Silence.
Hot Pants and Diego were caught mid-flight to forcibly stop Vice’s next move whilst Mariah was in the middle of a backtrack, but all of their eyes were upon the heir of Brando, his air of excitement being offered for the giant to share in.
…
And share he did.
“Oh… Young Master… that is truly magnificent.”
Mariah simply did not exist in his mind anymore.
Vice’s posture completely turned away from her and allowed the woman to dash behind the back of Diego as a shield, all of them in awe at how easily Giorno calmed such a wildcard.
“Eventually you shall be able to completely move the Stand independently and master all it can offer! Oh… ohhh if only I could have seen such a dramatic new page in your life, Young Master! If only I wasn’t distracted by one of the raptors chewing at the furniture… Oooh, my disgrace!!”
As the giant slumped and needed to be comforted by Giorno’s careful words, Diego Brando could only exhale with relief, whispering toward the younger woman still shuddering behind him. “And the reason you’re here and because…?”
“I… I, I, I ah…”
A pinch to the waist courtesy of Hot Pants gets Mariah yelping like a shocked pup, though she finds her words in that surprise. “Th-The D’Arby brothers! Returning from their assignment this weekend! I-Insisted on another poker night with you to celebrate!”
Almost at a loss for words, Diego could scarcely believe that such something so trivial could nearly spark violence in his own home. But with a clap of the hands, Vice’s posture straightens out, his attention stony and focused for the head of the family.
“Those brothers will be here in a few days. Have an appropriate meal ready for us all on that night.”
With a deep bow, Vice almost moves directly for the home and its kitchen, though not forgetting the Young Master who was in the middle of providing him comfort.
“Truly, we should test the progress of your Stand at a better time, Master Giorno. But your parents and myself are all glowing with pride in the progress you’ve made.”
With that… the staggeringly immense man of muscle was gone. In a literal blink, he had vanished as he always did, likely preparing for the feast coming up and the cleaning that would have to be done to not just the house but front and back porches.
The disappearance act gives Mariah her confidence back, her tongue sticking out towards the space that once housed the goliath before she dashed between all three of the family members, kisses to the cheek being her gift to all.
“So, so, so sorry for the trouble, Sirs and Madam! I’ll be sure to bring in my best drink and snacks for the little party, yes~?” And before Mrs. Brando could chase her out for the kiss, a final wink is tossed Girono’s way.
“You’ll surpass us all, Young Master. If you take after your father and never quit until you’ve won, of course~.”
That was her cue to dash away back to her own, nearby home, leaving Hot Pants exacerbated and Diego just scratching his head.
“I guess now I have to help prepare for a party? My Lord… Giorno?”
The teenager blinked through pink cheeks to perk up for his parent, earning a suspicious glare from the mother.
“Go inside and rest, ok? You can take it easy while your father-”
An impatient hand takes a firm grip of his blonde mullet, damn near dragging the snarling, wincing man along, never releasing him until they were on the porch’s steps.
“He’s going to help prepare. Now come inside before it becomes dark.”
Of course the son trailed behind them all, technically left alone in that field as she vanished into their mansion. But as he slowly closed the distance between himself and his father… Diego Brando had such an odd gaze fixated upon the youngest member of his family. As if… seeing him for the very first time.
The young man almost caught this, ready to ask about it, but the slow smile upon the father’s visage interrupts him, his nod confusing him. But comforting Giorno as well.
“You’ll be alright. After all, you have all of us here for you.”
He’s stunned. Wanting to find some response that might be appropriate, Diego doesn’t even give his child that chance, turning his back to enter the home built with his own mud and bloodstained claws so many years ago.
“Don’t you ever forget these blessings.”
And he was gone, vanished within.
All that was left in the courtyard was a silent young man of strawberry-golden locks, his eyes like jewels as they just stared ahead.
They were filled with such life. Such hunger for whatever was ahead.
But such caution for that future, too.