Day 24: Scapegrace

Word of the Day:

scapegrace

noun

a complete rogue or rascal; a habitually unscrupulous person; scamp.

Ooo.  Fun.

Perhaps the reason so many of us were scapegraces was because the world left us no other option.  Many of us had no real taste for mischief—most had inherited our mortal parent’s desire for the calm, the mundane, the silent.  Ironically, it was this race that had most ostracized us and forced us into the existence we knew.  Our mothers were often Fae who seduced mortal men—men who thought they had somehow won the hearts of fairy women with their charms.  The Morríganna were the byproduct of what was really just a complex, interspecies power struggle that each side believed it had won; how could we help but represent conflict with such a burden upon us from birth?

Probably could have had more fun with that one, but oh well…

Cara Kennaway

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4 thoughts on “Day 24: Scapegrace

  1. They made for an interesting pair: Titus the unstoppable scapegrace and the girl who (sometimes) kept him out of trouble. He was always breaking hearts, making messes, wearing bright colors, and accidentally revealing his immortality to strangers; she followed behind him like a shadow, black-clad and unobtrusive, tidying up barrooms, hushing up rumors, and drying other girls’ tears.

    “I can’t do this forever, Titus,” she said once (though she was smiling as she said it).

    “That’s exactly what you can do. Forever. Literally forever,” he slurred. He was drunk on more than blood that night.

    “How do you stand the taste of it?” she asked softly.

    “The taste of what?”

    “Alcohol.”

    He laughed. “It’s like fire, my girl. Like glorious fire. I don’t see how you can live without it.”

    She’d gotten him home by then, and was helping him into his bed. She smiled again as she bent to snuff the candle. “I’m not living, remember?” she murmured into the darkness. “And neither are you.”

    He heard her, but what with the state he was in her words didn’t properly reach him until two nights later. He was dancing on a tabletop when, mid-spin, he caught sight of her watching him from the doorway. By the time he looked again, she’d vanished.

    “Not living,” he repeated to himself then, the words and the thought of her briefly penetrating the fog of his intoxicated mind. “Oh, my love… You really aren’t, are you?”

    She waited on the roof until he was ready to be helped home.

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