𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖒— [ᵃᵖ]

however, prostrating was not the only way such manifests. there was offering oneself to god — baring sins for deliverance — and there was exposing one's humanity so that the honest truth may reveal itself. here, she is inviting man to take another bite of that forbidden temptation. to peel back that ripe skin and sink teeth in deep. it's right in front of you, so what are you waiting for? ah.

all at once, those nerves were quelled, washed away by a sealing kiss of consecration as body goes still. a realization makes itself known, and then he closes his eyes for a brief moment in consideration of this new fact. she's right. she may be a flawed god, but that doesn't make her words any less true.

he frees her finger from between teeth and detangles their rosary-tied hands, now opting to hook his arm around her waist and tucking face to neck. if he is to free himself from imposed boundaries, then he ought to shatter them, devouring the whole — body and blood.

There is something there, beyond the fear of the blood- one only has to find the courage to reach for it. Has he perhaps finally found that courage? Or is it simply a new type of belief, spurring him forward, just as it has ever done before. Does he now look at her and she the hope she was always meant to become, or does he look at her and see something new to which he must devote himself to in order not to lose himself completely?

(Regardless of which he believes, both are equally true and false; she can only return that which she is given.)

Fingers tighten around his, a sigh leaving her throat, soft and chilling as a death rattle. Salvation is the greatest hope of men like him, and it is what drives them to their direst straits. What his revelation will be after he tastes the fruit, the body, the blood once more- she cannot wait to find out. It's strange, this feeling of want- this consuming curiosity to witness an as of yet foreseen outcome for herself.

(Drunk on sacramental wine the same as blood the same as her, her, her- haunting and holy and hellbent.)

Her neck arches, an offering as certain as a hand held out, the host in its palm. Flesh pale as an apple, inverted, the red no more than a hint beneath thin skin.

i-no was fighting for her truth and humans impeded on her wish after condemning her to the same fate of liturgical exile. and what of ky? rather, he is painfully aware of his lifetime of sin, of murder, that perhaps all he can do now is pray for salvation.

his breath catches in throat. i-no, knowingly, plucking at the threadbare strings of self-restraint, sends a shiver down his spine. “i don’t know if you know this, but i have a habit of biting and holding on.” he recalls the rumors passed around; he knew exactly who they were about and it hadn’t been the actual gear that had infiltrated their ranks (of whom he would describe as more a brute). oh, he knew who the real monster was, white garbs stained deep sanguineous scarlet. on his face, matting his hair. iron in hand, iron on tongue. in his soul, as he sent men, honest men, to die.

but it’d been a white cloak once, under it all. with effort he can remember that time. even now, he can’t let go of white vestments; white like god’s untarnished light, white like a virgin canvas, white like old world marble. he was beautiful, once. he knows he was. he pretends he still is and holds on to that past truth tightly.

though he is learning to accept that red into his life. it’s in his veins, his heart. at the end of the day, white is what makes someone heavenly. red is what makes him human.

“you’re right, there are worse things than animals— after all, by nature, they’re free of sin. so what does that make me?” the timbre of his voice wavers and a shaky laugh follows, “…a man who can’t help himself.”

“especially not with you.”

It's the fear that holds him back.

Has always held him back. Not a fear of death, or violence, or even of the monstrous things he'd constantly had to turn his blade on. The things he'd been willing to give his life to defeat. (Had given his life to defeat, in some cases.) No, what Ky Kiske fears isn't external force, but internal truth. He fears what he may become if he ceases to restrain himself, but in so doing, has only crafted himself a prison in the shape of what he thinks is belief.

But now those beliefs are shattered, because God is not so pure as he'd thought. She's just as scarlet as the blood in his veins, on his blade — between his teeth, if he'd only allow himself the indulgence. The problem is, he thinks that wanting it makes it wrong, but how can anything freely offered be a sin?

Fingertips settle on the underside of his jaw, nails pressing, the barest amount of pressure.

Eat me, drink me — is the blood of your God not sacrament enough for you?

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" The finger between his teeth twitches, and she pushes herself higher, closer-

Her lips land on his forehead, gentle and fatal as a blessing.

when a being, born of man's wish for salvation, offers the opportunity to be as equal as them — devoid of strife, suffering, guilt, shame, and all which has been deprived after falling from eden — is it right to accept it or more humble to deny? the question raced through his mind as his white blade's tip pushed tentatively into the surface of i-no's neck, impalpable form unbothered by such mortal travails. forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. ky knows those words well, just as he knows that he is, indeed, doing exactly every single one of these things.

"then you'll have the truth." light eyes pierces into hers, cool like the edge of his blade. undauntedly in the face of her inevitable impossibility. words slicing through his own pretenses. "because wanting makes us animals. and animals started this war."

because his want to kill scares him. his hatred scares him. all the frustration, impatience, and ugly vices that have taken root within his body like uncontrolled weeds sapping life right out. he's been poised — shaped, shattered — into being the pinnacle of human resilience. only to still be infallible in the face of self-reflection. the light against the darkness. a fight he's exhausted of. and if he's honest with himself, at last, he wants to be set free of that cage, half self-imposed, half crafted by the hands of others.

taking on the burdens of others. what's another one to the pile at this point, he asks as the wolf within snarls and gnaws at the bars of his ribs. his own little personal defects from growing up with the blood of monsters and men on his tongue.

i-no isn't the answer to that. he knows this, she knows. but that's never been the point.

Because of course, that's what it is. The man believes- has always believed in something, if perhaps not always God. At some point that 'something' must have been people, must have been humanity. Must have been the thought that mankind could not possibly deserve their current conflict despite not knowing the truth of it. Is it because now he does? Or is it only that now he has allowed himself to see?

Is it because now, knowing humans, knowing Gears the way he does, he understands that in reality, the difference between them is wholly negligible?

Questions she might get the answers to, were she only to ask, but they're negligible, now. She will ask them, eventually, and get her answers. Pull the words from him like loose teeth, string them together to make a facsimile of greater understanding, a testament to his honesty. For now, she will give him guidance, because isn't that what a good God must do?

"You've never truly stopped being an animal," I-no tells him, coolly, because it's the truth. "Maybe you've been domesticated, and maybe you've been leashed and locked up to keep you pointed at what's convenient... but the wanting won't make you a monster. The people who leashed you might have, but not anymore, I think." She can say this because if nothing else, there is something about him that won't let him become any such thing- not for himself. "...and you know you've always been all teeth, don't you?"

Her hand turns in his grip, the back of a long, scarlet nail pressed against the soft skin beneath his lower lip, notched neatly against the soft curve there. The contact he might have made is eschewed, but only just.

hope. when he had nothing else, not even food nor drink, he'd feast on traces of hope left behind after a successful campaign, slaying beasts that had ravaged a village. "hope" that showed itself through persevering survivors of the apocalypse. "hope," a thing he clung to as he spit up blood and braced against his fallen sword. "hope," a concept which no one could take away unless you let them. "hope" was everything. it was the bare minimum, present in everything, proof of god's existence.

but now he had plenty of things, and hope wasn't all that he had. so, what then did he want? ky thought of the question often. when settled on for too long, however, it would be shooed away with the fact there is nothing more he could want. wanting was selfish, wanting distracted from his duties to others. ky, long regarded a weapon since childhood, an instrument against demons, must how face his mortality head on. the unfortunate part is that with i-no he cannot cowardly dodge the question as he always did.

( at that moment, he felt himself becoming like sol in that regard. )

"i did, yes." ky admits quietly. "i never thought that i'd have more than the idea of a better life. now that i do..." i have no idea what to do with it. it goes unspoken. "how can i even begin to want if i avoid wanting at all?"

They are the lamb, they are the knife; they are the answer to the prayers of those who offered their lives up for humanity, whether they like it or not.

"The question of the hour," I-no hums, fingers squeezing his where their hands are still clasped tight. The rosary wound around them glitters prettily, too delicate-seeming a creation for the severity of the tie it represents. "...is why you're avoiding wanting."

There are certainly theories, but they're little more than that- considerations based more on her own experience than the knight's personality. Because he still restrains so much of it even now; he might not be running, but the cage is still shut tight. The desires inside him pace in the dark, teeth sharpened on the bars, waiting.

Her smile is a razing thing, paring him to the bone with the demand for answers.

"We can't be helped by people who speak only with expectations. A real answer requires that there be no judgment. Maybe not even acceptance. Only the understanding that whatever may be revealed is and always has been the truth."

There is no signature, no card- only a piece of paper with the blood-dark print of lips upon it.

(A gift from God for her most favored devotee.)

if he is completely honest with himself, he'd say that there used to be a time where reaching such a big age was but luck of the draw; indeed how many others would suffer a miserable fate under such a immemorial war? countless, no doubt, and here ky had been, on the front lines, diving right into maws of demons and diabolical creatures who knew nothing but to rend the world asunder. then there was a time when ky himself had perished, all too young they'd say, only to be resurrected by the chance fact that he was necessary in saving the world.

there were times where he'd say he didn't deserve it.

but here the king was now, upon such lofty heights that his younger self could never once fathom. an orphaned boy from rural france to illyrian war hero. even still, ky is humble about it, because the deepest recesses of his mind rejected the notion. so, what is a birthday, really? well, with this peacetime, he figures that a birthday was another trophy: it means that he's still here, as life is a gift that should be relished, should be experienced to its fullest. thirty-some-odd years and he's still discovering new things about himself, about this universe he's had a hand in saving.

god works in mysterious ways, and while he and her had never met eye-to-eye, he can appreciate that no matter what, there was a place for the living. it was something i-no herself had fought for.

he returns to his desk (for even on his birthday there were no days off when it came to politics and similar nonsense) only to instantly spot a black box upon it. it was a sharp contrast to anything else that adorned the room, making it an instant attention-grabber— and thus, instantly identifiable. it need not signature, name, or any other marker. its presence alone felt as dense as a black hole. deceitfully delicate hands pick it up, pinching the end of the scarlet bow to unwrap such mysterious gift. within it revealed a rosary lined in seductive padding, glistening with dark age luster. dare he say, it's beauty toed the line of heretic witchcraft and biblical mystique. something contradictory only i-no could manage.

a soft sigh escapes him as conflicted emotions and thoughts run through his brain all at once. of course he is thankful, but something about mixing sinister darkness and divine light unsettled him in a manner he wasn't ready to confront. like anything else regarding her. fingers close, wrapping themselves around beads, and with curious gesture he sends a small spark of electricity through the object. it sparkles brilliantly, as even though these materials shouldn't conduct electricity, it wasn't exactly made by man and instead designed by god, tailored for him, the acolyte.

however he is but mortal and cannot materially return the gesture in any meaningful way. there was prayer, sure, but that was a pedestrian action that was more routine mundanity than anything signifying specialness. and i-no was the queen of dramatics, after all. so when he next has the opportunity to see her, he dresses in a black version of his knight-wear that'd always had a priestly air about it. he then takes her hand with his, twisting about to entangle the rosary and trap them in its twine. he stands nearly flush to her, towering the god but not overpowering. never.

"i remember when you told me about what happened in rome. that it meant that we're inextricably linked." he says it with equal parts exasperation and acceptance. "you gave me a gift and i've been wondering on how to best repay it. it then dawned on me that there is nothing i could give in return. if you're inevitable, then i've decided to stop running."

this was a painful conundrum. too perplexing, convoluted. in her embrace, her wicked wiles, those anxieties washed away with mere temptation. the meager promise of some imaginary reprieve from self-imposed hamstrings. an electric shiver runs down his spine, uncoiling down a lightning rod. "rome..." he murmurs, "tous les chemins reviennent à rome." all roads lead back to rome.

and isn't it criminal to be everything he is not? i-no is the face of everything this world is, ripped apart by an unknown man who thought he could contain it— control it. the age old tale of man becoming god, of imitating a fraction of that power. ky always knew it to be a farce, but in the end, its always humans pretending to be more than what they are.