( @crystalblut ) no prompt, always accepting : → “ Remember your promise. ”
A reflection of cataclysmic end, bathed in the moonglow of wildfire. He rests his hands to the soft wood of his desk, fingertips stained in the poppy ink of bloodstain, and through the haze of unrelenting weariness shutters a breath through barely parted lips. He’s tired; so, wretchedly tired. Will it be another night of violence for them? Beasts at the fang, to fight over a hazy future that may or may not come to pass.
( Etheirys is a reflection within a reflection; an image suspended in time, like a sky full of stars, like a corpse hanging limp from a hangman’s noose ).
Leaving, he delivers. The last cut upon his tired body. Esteemed speaker of the convocation, the great and noble Lahabrea whomst will deliver their star from its wretched fate, scarcely reacts. He turns his head to stare out the window, at the high and clear sky beyond – dusk, now. He had hardly even noticed the day go behind. Blackened fingers rub along his jaw, the ache of his neck. An aetheric exhaustion that goes beyond physical form.
There are questions on his tongue. Demands and harsh words and hate, and worse still, the adoration still twisted into all that. If not for his pride, perhaps he’d find himself on his knees pleading for mercy. Stay with me. I do not think we’ll make it, Apollo. I feel the end, like a certainty, like something that haunts my dreams – a sky of darkness, the world on fire. Instead, he clings to his silence, to the enveloping safety of his own distance. Floating, numb, where the pain cannot hope to reach him. They dangle on the edge of his own inaction, until he blinks hazily, carmine cutting clear through the divide to look. Commit to memory the last moments of their wretched wedding.
“ I couldn’t hope to forget. “ He answers, finally, through a voice gone rough and tired with long disuse. He wants little more than to beg. For what? Warmth, or comfort, or a hand in his own. Loyalty. But he will not be a dog salivating at scraps ( they will survive this; they will survive this; he will will it ). “ What else would you have of me? “
A last ditch effort. Desperation, a clear reed through the biting thinness of his own pride. He runs a hand through tallow hair, long mussed by similar movements, and closes his eyes. There is no answer but the finally clicking of the door shut. The steadfast violence of nothing, and a promise at the long end of winding tunnel.
I will find my way back to you.
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