Solira: The Ocean: Datura;

N I C O D E M U S

Nicodemus breathes, a steady stream of smoke from his nostrils rise in the sky, visible even though it wasn’t really that cold. The beach had a funny sort of winter. He sighs, because he misses the winter of Andarin. He misses the snow, however redundant and nonsensical that sounded. Thoughts of Nyota and Skylar flash through his mind. What were they doing now? He remembers Nyota’s word to him, and it soothed him. Even though he had not been much of a father to Skylar, he still worried for her. But Nyota had put his fears for her to rest, because he knew that Skylar would be looked after in Andarin. He knew that it was the best that he had ever done for his daughter, and that she was safe in her home.

Home.

Nicodemus sighs again, a tinge of flames brushing the smoke this time. Home was something Nicodemus had no real grasp of anymore. Andarin had been his home, Solira was his duty, however, and his duty was his home as well. It was rather confusing. Perhaps the Academy would take him in permanent residence. He chuckles at the thought.

Love.

He stops breathing altogether. Nicodemus had loved more fiercely than most could. Some would claim that it was the fire in him, the thing that caused him always to feel in the extremes. He had hated and loved with a passion, and everything in between. Some sought him, because of his passionate love, and how strongly he devoted himself to that one girl. Andraste sighs, her wing beats upon his chest in proof. He wasn’t hard to love, and yet he wasn’t hard to hate either. He was either your lover and or your best friend, or your mortal enemy. Such was Nicodemus, his nature and his way. Once you cast judgment upon him it was impossible to change it.

Pirate? Hardly. Nicodemus was black to the Oracle’s white. Would Pirate have had a totally menacing stature and flames sprouting from him, then maybe I would let you dream. But Nicodemus was too different.

Au contraire.

Muscles and scars were what made it questionable as to his path as scholar. Truth be told, if you simply asked of them he would herald you with tales of when he once proudly proclaimed himself a warrior. But those days were past him, and wisdom had settled his strength where his fire could not. The eyes were what told you really the extent of him, that his knowledge knew no bounds, that his eyes had seen the world and more. Nicodemus was a rather peculiar sort of horse.

His eyes seek you then, and perhaps it is his eyes that hold you fast rather than push you away. Because in truth, Nicodemus had the most incredible eyes that anyone would ever see. Not because of their brilliant gold, but because of the way that they seemed to speak to you. They held all the words that he could not say, and all that he had seen in the past. Every emotion lay mixed in the flames that leapt within them, hard and tangible. It was truly remarkable.

He stands before her, whether choosing to scare her or simply not caring about the close proximity of his fire was uncertain. His eyes burned into hers, and perhaps the intensity caused her to look away. It often did, the combination of his heat causing their own eyes to water. He was rough, surreal and yet too real all at once. From above him, Andraste hovers closer, choosing a perch upon a withered beach tree, her call loud and much resembling a more feminine eagle cry. The wolverine chattered and clung to his fore-leg. His ears never left her. A smile, too feral to be warm and inviting, crossed his lips. He listens with that grin forever plastered to his face. He had seen the snake upon her, and he knew the tale of Pirate from her thoughts. He knew that she had thought that he was the Oracle. He prods, curiously, gently, the abilities of the scholars granting him to her mind, and yet he recoils, because he knows how thoughts are sacred. “Because you once held the Shard.” It was a simple statement.

But her mirrored question threw him off just a bit. He wasn’t expecting that. His body softens then, his eyes becoming distant if only for that moment in time. “I do not hate her.” He closed his eyes then, his beautiful face suddenly broken. “But I hate what she has become. I hate what has made her this way.”

He pauses, his eyes snapping open as his head raises, eyes burning furiously towards her. Terrible things flashed through his mind, and perhaps she saw them clearly in his eyes. The faces of those he had left and loved in Andarin, and how much the Shard was making him want to demolish each and every one of them. “And I hate what it has made me.”

FIRE III; AIR I
phoenixsong
iriase
SLAVE of Saphira