Giratina! Strike them down!

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DIAMANTENT — ind. adaman / seki rp blog. written by robin. follows from @syringia or @fleurdelysandre

It wasn't a threat, it wasn't a warning. It was a state of fact. If Volo wanted a silent Giratina, then they shouldn't have shared flesh and blood. He shouldn't have given them a reason to do anything other than be angry, to be wrath.

Their voice was no longer angry. Volo was screaming blood, spitting it at their face. They stare, unblinking. The blood sublimizes into nothing. First from their face, next from Volo's own body. The excess ichor turning into nothing, feeding the crawling darkness around them. Volo wanted the abyss? He would get an abyss.

"You believe I had a plan. There was no more plan here other than to do as you do: scream into the void."

And the void was screaming back.

Again, Volo was not listening. Volo wanted death; Giratina was not death. He was not pleading with Yveltal. "At least the void cares enough to keep answering."

Death was not Giratina.

"Your death would only be a temporary satisfaction that would never satiate my entirety."

Giratina killing Volo would truly make their misery immortal.

Their body faded, but the grip remained, staying at that imprisoning clasp. No eye, but Volo's own offered one stared at him... and another, then another. The darkness sunk into deep paradox: nothing seen but all that was seen. There was no light.

A twitch. Then nothing. True nothingness. Volo was nothing. Every speck of his flesh and blood unraveled in an instant and an eternity. His thoughts, feelings, gone as if he was never there. Ambitions burned off of the skin of reality. Pains wiped from the forethought of mind. There was no rage, no happiness. Nothing. Assimilation into the abyss that Giratina was. A peverse sentience that was betond comprehension. Terror, the unknown beyond all at Giratina's very core.

Everything Volo was, will be, and more? Gone. There was no Volo anymore.

A paradox of time, instant, and eternal ceases. In the palm of those winged claws, Volo returns as he was. For that time, Volo knew. At eye level once more, standing freely. Upon the visage of Giratina was a torn hole in one of the eye sockets - the same as when he offered. From the mouth, the blood of the man crawled its way down.

They stare expectantly.

Waiting.

It felt like experiencing everything and nothing, death and birth and death again and rebirth and reincarnation all at the same time. He stared at the abyss, and the abyss stared back; he screamed, that much he knew, and the abyss screamed back. …did it scream back? Something screamed. Someone. Somewhere. Somehow.

It was his first death all over again. Disorienting, too unfocused to truly be painful, too painful to remain focused. Future and present and past and nothing and everything and life and death all at the same.

It would be enough to make anyone go mad.

He was already too far gone, however.

It was an entire man's life span, and it was a blink of an eye; Volo returned, he reformed, and all he felt was cold, sweating, his head twirling. Dizzy.

He stared at Giratina, Giratina stared back - their eyes burning like fire, their throats tasting the blood.

And at that sight, finally his brain gave up.

His screams did not bother him. His laughs did not bother him. Volo could punch at Giratina all he wanted. The only reason Volo's fists hit anything was because Giratina gave him the satisfaction; the sensation of worn knuckles on scales. Maybe even the sensation of physical pain to help bite at every emotional and soul scarring rip they knew was in Volo.

Claws and ethereal shadow wrap around Volo, picking him up to put at their eye level. A piercing gaze driven through him, back at him, reflecting his own madness in his own iris. "You have learned nothing."

"How would you perceive me without your very being rotted and festering into oblivion, were it not for a definition you could cope with?" They ask - no, demand. "Your humanity uses that title of 'god' to help cope with a reality you do not understand. A title imposed for reverence, fear, and respect. Yet when one slight against you happens, you are quick to blame those 'gods'. You create these 'gods' to put on pedestals just so you can swiftly cut them down with a responsibility you falsely gave us. So tell me, what meaning does a 'god' have?"

The man is squeezed with a drowning tightness. If Giratina was any less of what they were now, Volo would have been crushed into darkness within a blink. Giratina held restraint. As much as the rage said to turn Volo into nothing, they were not going to. Giratina was blamed for the wrongs of many things they were not responsible for, but relapsing now would undo so much.

Volo didn't deserve that.

"You blame Life for not letting you rest when it is out of their hands. You scream at the cruelty of Death when the time draws, when it is your own doings that bring them to and fro. I have never claimed to be a so called god. Arceus was the beginning, and I am the end. That was all I was meant to be.

"̸̢̱̦̰̺̲̜̝͂Į̵̹̃̃̇̋ ̸̜̱̫͚̬͔͗̄̂̈́͑ă̸̧̦̩̼̘m̴̘͙̞̘̐̐̆̋̽ ̸̜̳̪͙͖̞͂̇t̴͈͎̦̮̘̬͂h̸̟͖̙͓͛̒̈́͆̎ͅe̵̖̬͖̰͓̗̠͗̌͆͛̓̇ ̸̹̐̓͐a̶̧͎͙̅̊̍̇͝b̷̙͓̖̘̈́̈́̇̆̒͗͝y̸̭͙͙̐̔̍̍̋̊s̵̛̥͓̞̉͗́s̷̼͈̥͒̊͆͑̿̓.̶̞͖͊́̍͗̎͒̓͜ ̴̡̹̜͛͋͋T̷̡̢̫͛h̴͚̹͔͎̬̆̇̉̑̉̿ḛ̷̮̭́̑̇́̒͝͝ ̴̳͚̟̤̎̒E̶͕̪̠̤͉̣̼͍͊̉̉͐n̷̮̩͈̦̝̝̥̍d̷͇͙͎͕͓̑̏͗ ̶̲͙͈̼͉̆̑ơ̷̙̘͓̲͒̾̃͗̊f̷̢̹̮̬̔̎̀ ̶͕̾̒̏͂͑͠A̸̩͒̍ļ̴̞̭̝͕̀̃̍͗̂̒̃͝l̷͎͖̆̌.̴̟̝͍͈͍̓ͅͅ I wanted an END. YOU deemed me to be a saviour I never was."

He learned nothing. It's true. He didn't learn anything at all. But what was there to learn? To stop hurting? To understand something he could never- something that no human was bound to understand? God, Pokèmon, human, does it matter when you're dealing with something that might put an end to your life in the blink of an eye?

Just at the end, as he lets his head fall on his chest, finally a scream of his own leaves his gritted teeth.

"SILENCE!!"

Screaming hurts. It feels as if his lungs were about to burst, between the anger and the grip tightening ever so slightly by the second.

"Look at you--!", Volo lets out another breathless laugh, shaking in that deadly grip "Look at YOU! Preaching to someone you know won't listen--!

Seems like both of us are cursed to do the same for the rest of eternity! No wonder the Almighty decided to leave me stuck here with you...!"

He coughed, he snarled.

"Claiming to be the end, when you can't even put an end to our own misery."

The grip tightened. He coughed again. He tasted iron.

"What was your plan with this, hm? M-Make me repent? Think about myself?! About you, us, the very concept of a god?! DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ALL THAT?!

Come on! Get it out of your system! Kill me, one, ten, a thousand times! Show me your Abyss, I'LL GLADLY VOMIT ALL MY BLOOD INTO IT IF THAT MAKES YOU FEEL A HINT OF SATISFACTION IN YOUR PATHETIC EXISTENCE!"

Another cough. This time, iron filled his mouth, bringing him to spit at the beast's face.

[ volo gore under cut ]

He can look away all he wants. He can deflect the equal failures on their part. Giratina, for once, was getting tired. Getting angry.

Giratina did not remember their past transgressions until Volo came back. Piece by piece, they remembered atrocities and rage unfetted and unable to be controlled.

L̸̺̍̑͗o̶̪̪̭̚ǒ̵͎͇̜̋͂̔ḱ̵̫̭͍́͌͒ ̸̮̉̓͌a̴͓̱̹͐t̴̨̬̯̗̍͛̐ ̵̞̞̜̽̉m̶̝͆̚ȩ̵̹͈̓͑̐̀.̴̫̬̭̪̈́̒͂͠

You gave Giratina your eye, Volo. Did you forget? How can you not be gazing at the personification of nothingness when you gave it a very window into your soul? Do you remember the reds and golds that passed glimpses into your eyes when you first met?

They remember. They remember as those same hues bleed unto their once pristine and sparkling form. Claws flex in ways they shouldn't, cracking the ground in pure silence. Where one eye should be, there is Volo's staring back at him. The eldeitch gaze, a paradox of being seen too much and not at all. The way it did not make sense when eyes peeled back every raw string of your being to tug at the metaphysical beneath.

"The wrath you feel? The pure hatred in your soul? That is my one and only creation. Mine and mine alone. It was our downfall."

Over millennia, Giratina learned one thing: no more was the blind rage rampant, but honed. A bitterly cold atmosphere that burned as the sun did.

"I was never what you called a god. Your title thrust upon me, a falsehood - a pretense you failed yourself to understand. A human concept that does not fit. Your own expectations failed you, for you can not see beyond your own ambition. You can not blame me without blaming yourself.

"And now, we are eternally trapped together."

Maybe it was not the wrath of Giratina that was destroyed in their recreation.

For a good handful of seconds, Volo remembered why gods should've been feared.

Giratina kept on talking, and the Wielder's shoulder shook, first because of his heavy breaths, then for the chuckle rising from his throat - bitter, false, yet so paradoxically genuine. Low, not unlike the wheeze of a dying beast.

"A title thrusted upon you?"

The chuckle grew, turned into a joyless laugh, then a scream.

"A TITLE YOU TOOK WITHOUT HESITATION, YOU STUPID, DAMNED THING!"

His smile remained as his voice grew louder, a hand still pressed on the borrowed eye, the other pointing a judging finger at the creature.

"My wrath is yours in the same way my life is Arceus, in the same way my eternity belongs to Dialga, that this earth to Palkia and Groudon and Kyogre! Their creation, now belonging to the idiots roaming this cursed earth!

this one, touched by one so similar to it, yet different in it's maker--or perhaps in it's lack there of. for an iteration it was; shattered evermore, while this, created of its own accord. it was familiar with the one of many arms--just as it was familiar with it's children. how it wished it could grasp onto those that made; to grant their memories, their dreams, their wishes.

yet there it remained, in it's perpetual slumber awaiting the end of the beginning into a new era it may bring about through it's own awakening.

oh, perhaps it could help this one as it had with another begging for a new beginning.

' have you dreamed of this end? of the flames of your ambition? of the pain you wish to inflict? have those that have brought this feeling upon you wrought your mind with nightmares? may i see them? may i breathe your thoughts into manifestation? may it wake me soon and i can show the world your dreams of infliction? is that what you dream for? what you hope to occur? when you rest, do you wish to awake to the end? or the beginning? '

He should know better. He should walk away.

To hell with any gods who think they could change his life in any meaningful way.

However.

However. What does he have to lose? An eternal prison he never asked of? A handful of nights of sleep? A few hours, wasted daring to dream? He has all the time in the world, after all.

"...heh."

Fine. He'll bite. What's this, if not an attempt of trying something new? He doesn't have anything better to do, anyway.

"If this can change anything, feel free to feast on any nightmare you like, if that means feeding any flame."

Metaphorical or not, who cares. Flames are flames.

"As long as you awaken me during the end, of course. I've seen too many beginnings anyway.