' FORSAKEN.

FINGERS FLICK THROUGH THE AIR AS IF PUNCTURED by the tooth of an animal in the wild. slight crimson oozes slowly from inigo’s index finger & gerome can hear a hiss of pain slip through his teeth before offering his anticipated excuse. if it were such a pain, then perhaps he should have refrained from persisting that they do something that gerome likes to do. he speaks tiredly, unenthused.

                             ‶  And you make it more difficult than it’s worth.  ʺ

inigo holds a needle laced with thread ( one that gerome had looped himself ) & a tampered cloth in his hand. he watches him for a moment, his fumbling fingers quite entertaining to keep watch of, despite of how he’d never care to admit it. honestly, he doesn’t even watch that long, for in no moment’s time, inigo has prodded himself once more, almost in the same spot as before. his eyes tighten closed in some sort of traumatic turmoil, as if he’d never felt the sting of a blade rip through his flesh.

gerome sighs a sigh not of irritation, nor impatience, no, mostly one of exhaustion.

                                                                           ‶  Allow me.  ʺ

& his fingers find themselves wrapped around inigo’s, applying pressure to his ‘ wound ’ as to stop the redness from leaking onto the already dirtied fabric. he holds it briefly before releasing his grasp & fixing his hold of the needle. truthfully, he’s surprised that inigo hasn’t made some childish remark, nor screamed as if he were being murdered by a wyvern set aflame. gerome looks to him, seeking some sort of anticipated ill reaction, but he only sees wide eyes carrying the weight of surprise, astonishment, & confusion. embarrassment washes over him suddenly as he realizes inigo’s expression is born only from the result of his actions.   ‶  Ergh  .  .  .  ʺ  with a low grunt of humiliation & a quick release of his hands, he pulls himself from the boy completely in the realization that perhaps his actions were not entirely appropriate for the situation at hand. 

eyes that had darted to the wall wander back to inigo if only to reassure himself that he’s still there, & he is, only smiling. in the moment, gerome cannot tell if it is a smile of conniving fulfillment or one of genuine compassion, however he finds it in his best interest to leave that conclusion to the gods. for now, he pulls quickly into himself, stands & supplies great distance between the two, nearing closer to the exit. in a quick & serious tone, before making his desired escape, he demands,

                            ‶  Do not speak of this.  ʺ

CREATED FOR DESTRUCTION, CEASELESS CYCLES of birth & death, casting a blade & having blade cast into oneself. these words set off some familiar rage within him, something concealed with no room for breath. he’s held it captive in his palms, where sweat forms at his lance, where his fingers clutch for the sheer ounce of reassurance that this world is real & that he is alive. he doesn’t want it anymore. he never wanted this. some sick game of fate left on repeat, where pain knows nothing but hurt, sorrow, & rage. none of his father’s words can sweep the scars from his flesh. none of his words could right the wrongs of the past, or the treacherous fate which has stripped him of EVERYTHING. there is nothing for him here. 

the blood of one’s kin means nothing but the blood left to dry at the tip of his blade. he stands with eyebrows knit so tight he can feel pressure swell within him, headache’s onset forming beneath a shouldered mask ( the weight never relieves the pain beneath his eyes ). nothing is revealed but the scowl that he will not let falter, despite how it pleads to quiver with the grief buried beneath guilt, shame, resentment & some false facade of hatred. he never danced with the touch of forgiveness.

                                                       ‶  Your words are naught but excuses.  ʺ

it takes everything to speak, to carry the words through his tongue, & to sound so absolutely repulsed to a man who he so desperately craves at least the bare touch of. the man of whom he loves so fervently & cherishes like he never got the chance. he cannot bear to let him in because he can not bear the tragedy that fate has already showed him. he cannot bear the waves of tears that stain his eyes with dry pain each morning he wakes after what little sleep he just barely managed to obtain. he is bitter. he is a boy worn of death & defeat, a child who knows not what it means to love or be loved because all that he loved was stolen so soon. so he stands now, minerva at his side, feigned abhorrence in his words, never breaking this barricade he’s reinforced for so, so long. he stands, with aching hands & shaking knees, because he can just hardly hold onto the idea that his father believes he does not care for him.

                  oh, how he yearns to let himself forgive. he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

                               ‶  You were careless. Leave me at once.  ʺ

TALONS & HOOVES HIT & MUD SPLASHES INTO THE ATMOSPHERE. they are paired for combat, an order that must not be disobeyed. the two fliers have landed in a den of dripping leaves that mask some egregious foes -- archers hidden in a forest of their own protection... the day grows dim, rain falling hard, & he finds travel in these lands best fit for nightfall. 

                     ‶  This area is full of archers. Minerva can sense them. 

                                                                      It’s best that we’ve landed.  ʺ

he proceeds onward at a steady rate, eyes squinting into the distance through the limited vision of his own false damnation. in the distance, there is something of a shelter -- he can’t quite make it out with his mask shielding his eyes, however, he would sooner accept death than risk its removal. 

                        ‶  I am not here because I wish to speak idly with you.  ʺ

VISION IS SHADED WITH PALE LINING, CRAFTED ONYX CONCEALING  -- obscurity, a safety net. his words fall with unmet certainty, but he knows them, & he knows what he wants ( to say , to do ). he is to the point, there no dancing around subjects of which he fears however greatly. he is no man to take a craven’s path . . . however, he is here, and he is here for a reason.

                      ‶  Why do you fight ? Do you merely expect to fall in battle ?