he does not linger on the disgusting nature of what he is, of what his decisions have made him to be. a hand, cold as ice, with pointed claws and an unnatural stain overtaking his eyes, tainting an iris once crystal clear purple and dark.
he has never been one to linger on anything- heâs never been permitted such time. he remembers flames, and screaming- his own, echoing through a vast room. then he remembers very little, for a very long time, until he wakes up against in a pain more agonizing than he can explain. somehow all at once like the pain the ring had brought expounded on and multiplied by ten. he hadnât realized heâd undergone an operation to mend his arm until he felt the chill of metal against his own skin. he couldnât scream, despite the- the unexplainable burning, aching that trailed from his shoulder down through his chest, like a constant feeling that someone was pressing a knife into his heart and lungs.
even months after the operation, that same pain lingered, pulsing like a second, unnatural heartbeat that threatened to drive him mad. he couldnât sleep, most nights- though he pretended that was a facet of his raised position within the military. glaucaâs death had left a hefty absence in the commanding force of the army. ravus had been vying for the position since he was sixteen years old, scraping his way with bloody fingertips up the ladder just to put himself as close to his motherâs killer as he could, so he could take from glauca everything when finally heâd been cut down in the field.Â
he wouldnât let an aching prosthetic stop him from stealing into glaucaâs place, upon the former generalâs death. he wouldnât be seen as weak for it. for luna, he can handle any pain. any.
------ but that is not to say the pain itself, almost like a living entity in itâs own right at times, does not strive, maddenly so, so put him through the ringer at every waking moment. there are many an evening spent wishing so desperately he could simply make it stop- but he hides everything he feels behind a carefully crafted mask of nothingness. of feeling nothing- not the pain, not pride, not anything. because it is the safest course of action.Â
itâs only when heâs alone, as alone as heâs ever allowed to be, that he teeters on the edge of breaking down. teeters, never toppling, solely for instances such as now: one simple knock on the office of his allotted quarters is all that separates him from appearing in all ways a confident, unstaggering leader to being seen for what he fears he is inside- sixteen years old at heart, wanting desperately to sob to a mother he no longer has about a wound that hurts but shouldnât.Â
â you may enter, â he says, shuffling documents back into place in a manila folder, uncertain how much time has passed this evening while he worked and ignored his thoughts. / @adnihilatus. sc.
