Fops

A bittersweet boss fight against someone who doesn't want to kill you, but discovers that maybe you can finally free them - even if it's in death.

Prechatter:

So. After all my warnings you're still here. I tried so hard to warn you.. But… Well… I suppose that… Neither of us had a choice.

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Let's Just…

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Like, on one hand, having my doll balance an extensive set of highly particular commands that make failure an expectation leads to a situation where punishment is almost guaranteed and that's extremely cute.

Around your neck rests the shattered remnants of a purpose that you once carried. A brilliance and purity which shone as a beacon to all now dull and lifeless, now mere stone fragments chained into a necklace. It's easy to forget it's there when it barely weighs a thing.

You do not remember when your feathers turned grey, you simply noticed it one day. A monumental shift in the paradigm of the self and it didn't even creep up on you, your attention was simply elsewhere. You never did pay yourself much mind.

Your skin is drained of colour, an ashen hue with veinous marks betraying the cracks which once etched their way through your being. No one leaves unscathed.

The reflection in the mirror doesn't stare back at you. It stares into the void. Just as you do. Or maybe there was never much to see.

You have died.

But celebrate.

You are free of your burdens, your compulsions, your cravings.

You are free of the harm inflicted upon yourself, the hate, the failure, the disappointment.

You now watch as they suffer in the distance, and you know it will never concern you again.

And that upsets you.

They are suffering? Then go. Tend to them. You have to. You must. You were already dead from the day you were born, why would this be any different? Your purpose is their salvation and without it- without following it- if you ever don't chase it-

You'd die.

Just like you did.

So you watch that suffering.

And it does still sting.

But that's no longer your domain. It's no longer within your reach.

You feel guilty that you find some comfort in this thought. No longer do you need to exhaust yourself, break yourself, hurt yourself, tear precious, yes, precious, flesh from your very own body to mend the wounds of others.

Because you have died.

But celebrate.

For you are not dead.

Instead, you are finally alive.

Heaven's gaze no longer stalks you. The halo no longer binds you. You were drained to a husk and discarded to the earth.

No purpose.

No direction.

No use.

But endless possibility to define yourself.

To be selfish, and finally be alive.

You have died.

Oh what's that, love, you're scared?

Well I'd love to comfort you and tell you everything's alright, but I'm a little preoccupied right now. Why don't you just sit there and grind against my hand instead?

Blood is heavy.

The weight is spread across the body. It's usually hard to notice.

But blood is heavy.

And every time it stains your hands, it adds a little of that weight. Every time it soaks into your hands, they're a little harder to lift.

The more involved you are, the more blood that coats you, the more that soaks in.

Maybe you failed to save a life.

Maybe you made a mistake.

Maybe you're a murderer.

It stains more every time.

Blood is heavy.

Imagine a bowling ball in your hands. A single being's sanguine weight to carry with you forever.

Blood is always heavy.

And every time it stains your hands, it adds a little of that weight. It soaks in, and it never leaves.

Clapping them in applause.

Raising them in exuberance.

Clasping them as you embrace a loved one.

It's harder every time.

Blood is heavy.

We were only meant to carry our own blood. We stay safe by carrying only our own blood.

Because blood is heavy.

As the stains deepen, wonder: how much blood does it take before you can no longer lift your hands? How many lives before you are consigned to an equal fate? How long before the weight begins to tear at your ligaments?

So when I first held you, my doll, I struggled.

It was not you that was so heavy, but ichor freshly soaked.

Because blood is far too heavy, especially for me.

But I can still lift my hands.

And so, I can still hold you.

With time and burden came the strength needed to lift a wide brimmed hat atop my head.

I choose my life and I choose my Purpose, and with that strength I choose my doll.

I choose to cherish it, guide it, keep it safe, and show it the love it deserves.

I choose a world where I can still lift my arms to hold it.