Blacktail Deer Plateau the swelling of broken violins

[table width=55%][tr][td]
oh, but it was diverting, was it not? to wallow in the slough of despair — to drink bitter wine and chew upon the marrowless bones of all that once was. to bed down in the dust of crypts, both real and imagined. and to never stir. to remain there forever — yes, yes. this was armand's lot, and he no longer strove for the happiness he once craved, for new joy could never be so pure as the remembered sort, and so why would he reach for illusions, even if he was able to pluck them down from the tree of life?
why he could not speak openly to this soul, armand did not not — perhaps it was the belief the ganymede suddenly held that she could not carry the weight of all that rested upon his shoulders, and he saw no reason to transfer such a burden to her slight form and nurturing voice; why drip poison down the stone walls of her well when he could merely take it into himself, as he had done for so long?
armand did not realize that he had closed his eyes upon the vision of his compatriot until the lap of her tongue across the tangled fur of his shoulder roused him; the boy blinked lashes against the angular jut of his cheekbones and turned to her. "armand," he whispered, and that was all there was to say; let her guide him now. he would follow.[/tr][/td][/table]