Once, when he was young and translating a book of old myths, Pheres read about one of the very old creation myths, written back before the Tyrian bloodline gained their stranglehold on the throne and the Empire, back long before the first Cuckoo had crawled from the brooding caverns and marvelled at the colour of the sky.
It had been written by jadebloods, back in the days when each caste lived separate in vast, communal hives, and it had said that when the first eggs were sculpted, out of clay and grass and smoke, all trolls had been hatched with black eyes, the better to see in the gloom of the night.
It was only when a greenblood had cut her hand while sculpting and blood had mixed into the clay that the first jadeblood had hatched: a jadeblood, with jade eyes as pale as her blood, eyes that made her strain at night, but made her the first troll to be able to see, and walk in the light of the day.
(He doesn't remember the rest, much to his regret: it was one of the first books he'd done, staying up all day with a dictionary and a pen, and he hadn't known to make himself a copy.)
(He'd tried to buy it back, sweeps later, when he'd had caegars to spare and was feeling nostalgic, only to find the owner had been culled for owning propaganda.)
As a wriggler, he'd thought it was an excellent tale.
As an adult, all he can think is that it was complete hoofbeastshit. His eyes are as pale as they get, and the light of his psionics feels like a punch to the snout, even behind the tinted gloom of the glasses.
He's not blinded, but his eyes are watering as the sparks die down. He can't keep it up, even if he wanted to: his horns ring like he's struck them against a wall, and Riccin's hand is still curled tight around one.
They have the audacity to ask him if he's done yet.
"You're going to get me killed," he says, distraught. There's a buzzing in the distance: he feels it more like a weight in his bones than a sound, and he needs to flee.
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It had been written by jadebloods, back in the days when each caste lived separate in vast, communal hives, and it had said that when the first eggs were sculpted, out of clay and grass and smoke, all trolls had been hatched with black eyes, the better to see in the gloom of the night.
It was only when a greenblood had cut her hand while sculpting and blood had mixed into the clay that the first jadeblood had hatched: a jadeblood, with jade eyes as pale as her blood, eyes that made her strain at night, but made her the first troll to be able to see, and walk in the light of the day.
(He doesn't remember the rest, much to his regret: it was one of the first books he'd done, staying up all day with a dictionary and a pen, and he hadn't known to make himself a copy.)
(He'd tried to buy it back, sweeps later, when he'd had caegars to spare and was feeling nostalgic, only to find the owner had been culled for owning propaganda.)
As a wriggler, he'd thought it was an excellent tale.
As an adult, all he can think is that it was complete hoofbeastshit. His eyes are as pale as they get, and the light of his psionics feels like a punch to the snout, even behind the tinted gloom of the glasses.
He's not blinded, but his eyes are watering as the sparks die down. He can't keep it up, even if he wanted to: his horns ring like he's struck them against a wall, and Riccin's hand is still curled tight around one.
They have the audacity to ask him if he's done yet.
"You're going to get me killed," he says, distraught. There's a buzzing in the distance: he feels it more like a weight in his bones than a sound, and he needs to flee.