Oh. He listens to their explanation in silence, a furrow in his brow as his hand shies away from the imaginary circle he’d created, flickering behind his eyes whenever he blinks- Dead tongues of last moments, the precarious balance in a dance with the dark wholly tipped to one side in a final, final blaze of glory. The screams in the pyres. The flames and embers licking up skin, devouring all in its path as the tinder shrieks defiance with wild, glowing eyes. The bright, bright end of the heretic-hunt. All but a corpse, it is the fever pitch that pushes it to shamble just a few more steps further.
It’s a morbidly romantic image in his mind’s eye, though it should be anything but. Drinking deep, letting it run back out with the blood, the guts, with each savage swing of the blade, drowning and drowning and drowning with abandon. A deliberate plunge, if only for a touch longer to deliver hell and all its retributions.
“…and then you die. just like anyone else.”
Fire can kill a dragon, if used right. Just as the Dark can kill its wielder. It is merely a matter of method, of measure; A reckless or final charge, the fine line between simple folly and unshakable conviction. He’s seen his fair share of Temple Knights fallen for the former.
The comparison puts him off as soon as it forms- Whether the look on his face is a grimace or one of contemplation, he cannot rightly say. Death- All paths lead there, don’t they? In the flames or in the ice, to levin or earth. His will come in time, when the Fury ordains it so. Theirs as well.
Part of him was already aware of the consequences, he’s certain; Perhaps he just wanted to hear it in their voice, their words, to sear it into him that he is not meant for this- No, that this is not meant for him. Though he hears the tiny gap in their sentence- One where his traitorous mind thinks perhaps there is a way to– He does not gently tear his hands into the word doubt like he would anywhere but the Brume in the deep night. Faith-driven touches pile crosses upon his heart to resist temptation.
(his mind keeps the runes there, just in case.)
“I find the wielder more important than the means,” he replies nonetheless, his hands both warming themselves against his cup. “-so I wouldn’t quite call it that. Devotion comes in many forms, after all.”
“As for myself, I…” He pauses, frowns, tips his mug towards him to peer at his drink. “Anything I can take to… Anything I can do to make this place better, for everyone. I would do it.”
Green eyes flit up to meet gold, should they wish to. He feels the way they fix on a point somewhere behind him. “In the end, the Arts are most used for justice, are they not?”
Fray graciously resists the urge to roll their eyes into the back of their skull. Zephirin has spoken of his unwavering conviction more than once, grand dreams of justice and guiding the Holy See to a better morrow even if it meant consorting with those who lived in shadow. The sort of things that were far beyond Fray’s ken when they were simply trying to survive each day between scalekin spit and Templars’ ire. Gold receives him without flinching, tinged with the intent to singe away that bright-eyed earnestness.
“Try explaining that to the Inquisition.” They snort, cracking a mirthless smile, a flash of feral and reckless white in the otherwise earthen tones of dark wood and soft glow of candles. “First you’ll be found with tongue and flesh rife with runes, then they’ll accuse you of performing rituals to appease the Dravanians’ gods. Heresy, they’ll cry. Whether they run you through immediately or turn your execution into a spectacle, it makes no difference. The See is purged of another heinous criminal, and peace restored to her beloved citizens... All bullshite, of course. Men who think themselves the voice of the Fury are loath to be challenged. It’s just because they’re afraid of others having power.”
Fray’s voice crescendos the barest amount, possessed of an unsteady tremolo that morphs into a low growl at the last sentence - then hardens when they find themselves vaguely incensed by their own words, the beginnings of fire kindling in their veins. They speak as though they have lived through the descent before, which is not entirely untrue when their newly acquired soul crystal plagues them with visions and portents even while awake.
The memories swirl and churn unending, vile enough to make one feverishly retch if they partook too deeply of the horrors. The abyss burgeons from between bruised ribs like a sickly heart, tightening its vise to choke out the flames. Thick tar sticks to the rungs of bone with each pulse, a constant reminder that it stays, taints, becomes a part of you - that you become a part of it. It wasn’t something to be quickly shed when you wanted to walk in hallowed halls. A scowl affixes itself to their face before immediately slackening, because they’re too tired to properly entertain the emotion welling up between the cracks.
“And power is dangerous. The Arts are used for whatever the wielder wants. The darkness may be channeled, but in the end, the abyss remains untameable. We who nurture it always risk succumbing. If it takes you, you’ll be no better than a beast acting on the petty wants of your heart - fear, hatred, revenge, misguided pain. A slow rot from the inside, if you don’t perish first.” It was why training was necessary, be it through a resolve forged from prior suffering or extensive preparation. Beckoning the abyss meant inviting remorseless jaws to sink their teeth into tender skin, to swallow you in a single flood of black. The festering dark is not silent. The promise of retribution is decadent, infectious, a siren’s call in honeyed blood and wanton slaughter. Not all who took the plunge wanted to return to the surface. “The only reason you know of Dark Knights as agents who deliver justice is because they don’t tell you of the many who couldn’t cross the threshold unscathed.”
They pause, exhaling a quiet sigh. They know the warnings will do little to deter the other from taking what he wants. Zephirin was a perplexing paradox; surely there was something wrong with his head. He wouldn't have endlessly pestered Ser Ompagne for tutelage otherwise. Fray reaches up and touches the scar on their lip out of habit.
“Devotion? You sound like the old man.” They mutter, wrinkling their nose and turning away. Fray always found it strange their master refused to sever ties with the Fury after enduring her silent judgement. He still attended mass, still prayed before retiring each night, still read familiar verses from the Enchiridion to soothe them when they violently wrenched themselves from the grasp of a nightmare. It was his way of honoring the Fury’s design, he explained once. That it was the wickedness of man he subjected to the guillotine, for they were beholden to Her in title only. She would never allow their atrocities in all her boundless, stringent love. If Zephirin felt the same, then why couldn’t he simply walk the path, rather than teeter maddeningly between holy light and damning dark?
(...Yet at the same time, they want to believe in his dream. They want to believe he would be able to make their hell into a home, to prevent an existence like theirs from being necessary, to make a place where tragedy did not claim children and hollow their hearts-)
Fray says none of this, and promptly replaces any admiration they may have for the other with all the instances Ompagne pathetically trounced him.
“Weapons are just steel; you can put them down and lock them away. Steeping your eternal soul in mire is not. So leave the blaspheming to those who are prepared to bear that burden, worm boy.” They sneer, because they know damn well he wasn't willing to forsake his place in Halone’s Halls.
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