#devorantescorda2

The injury was so grave that no matter what Obi-Wan chose, it was very likely a death sentence. Either he was going to bleed out, or present himself to a Sith lord while practically on death's door, and all the man would have to do was give him the last push. Though, to be fair, Gabriel hardly needed Obi-Wan wounded to be able to kill him if he wanted. Though Obi-Wan had regained his spirit and will to fight for what he believed in, the long years without combat practise had left him..well, out of practise.

"Unless you have a package of bacta hidden in your cloak, I don't think I'll let you look," he huffed. But despite his words, his back, which was pressed against the wall, slid down as Obi-Wan sat. His feet refused to carry him anymore and sitting down seemed like a very good idea. There wasn't a way to hide his injury anyways, since now that he had removed his arm from his chest, the dark red stain on his white robes was unmistakable. "I really liked these robes," Obi-Wan murmured, blue eyes fluttering shut.

On her journey across the galaxy, hunting for the knowledge and power hidden within ancient Sith artifacts, Talon only ever encountered two kinds of people within Sith tombs: grave robbers and other Sith. While she preferred the latter to the former, she knew better than to trust anyone. Only a fool would ever lower their guard around another Sith. Perhaps Jedi found safety and comfort in one another, but the dark side offered no such luxuries, even to those who lived and breathed it.

The chamber was dim, shadows stretching along the ancient stone walls. At her request, her company stepped forward into the flickering torchlight, revealing his face for the first time. Talon studied him. The man was unfamiliar, a stranger to her memory. He was handsome, his posture exuding confidence, a man assured of his own power. Yet what caught her attention most was his gaze - sharp, cautious, and utterly fearless. The dark side swirled around him like a cloak. The question was: was he friend or foe?

| ℒ | ~ @devorantescorda-2

❛ no one touches what’s mine. ❜ What on earth had possessed him to utter such words? As far as greetings went, it was a catastrophe. It was unsurprising that Gabriel had reacted with such defensiveness, and yet, upon sensing his offspring in town, he hadn’t anticipated feeling quite so… protective. ( It had been ages since he’d permitted himself to care for anything. ) Yet, one undeniable fact remained. He was an inherently possessive being, and upon witnessing Gabriel marked by a hunter, he had instinctively acted. The wooden stake, intended for him, had been shattered, and its owner? Well, he was now rather unrecognisable.  

Since that fateful day when he’d retreated, burdened with regret, he’d been wrestling with an overwhelming urge to reach out once more. It wasn’t as though he expected Gabriel to comprehend. ( The scuffle in Whitechapel had been wholly unplanned. ) He’d been a wreck back then, grappling with the newfound freedom from Mephistopheles. He’d been living life at the very edge of despair. He hadn’t even understood the gravity of turning someone without consent. There was no justifying it, but he’d had his reasons, however flawed they might have been. 

Now, he knew better. He had witnessed the repercussions of his actions as he watched Gabriel battle his inner demons. He’d been secretly rescuing him from the clutches of drug dens, pulling him out while he lay unconscious, for as long as he could remember. ( Yet, he had never approached him, not until the encounter with the hunter. ) Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, he reminded himself that Gabriel at least deserved the truth. Deserved to know that his maker had never truly forgotten him. 

Whether Gabriel cared or not was uncertain, but hadn’t he endured similar trials? ( One should always be aware of their origins… Right? ) Resolute in his decision to handle things better this time, he waited until he was clear-headed, knocking on the door of the place he knew Gabriel resided, then slipped back, waiting silently for whatever fate had in store.

the young wolf welcomes the member of house martell to his table, within his tent. the king in the north does not eat differently than his soldiers, and so there is nothing grand to offer his guest. yet wine is poured and food is served.

He stood with one hip braced against the sleek edge of the table, a cigarette between his lips, shirtless, ribs wrapped tight in white bandages —Gabriel’s handiwork.

Simard had taken a fucking knife for him.

The burn of it still throbbed, deep and hot beneath the gauze. He hadn't even bothered to wash off the smear of someone else’s blood on his hands or his boots. Let the bastard who owned this carpet worry about that.

Gabriel had been quiet while patching him up but there'd been something simmering behind his eyes. Hard to name and even harder to ignore for Simard.

They'd always danced too close to the edge, but this time something else hung in the air. Thicker. Tighter.

And then, that look Gabriel had given him as leaned in close enough for him to have felt his breath. The heat. A pull like gravity, dark and magnetic. Simard hadn’t flinched, hadn’t moved. Not until the space between them had been opened again and Gabriel had already pulled back.

Simard's lips had curled after that, not into a smile but into something far more dangerous. Knowing.

"If this is weakness to you, then all I can offer is pity." It was not unusual for dark side users to scoff at the light. The path of the light side was arduous, demanding, and often thankless. It required patience, restraint, and sacrifice, qualities the dark side neither valued nor understood.

But when the light rewarded its followers, oh, it was beyond anything the dark side could promise. More profound than the fleeting power it dangled like bait. To be one with the Force, even for a single moment, was a beauty beyond words. It was to become one with the stars, to transcend the limits of flesh and bone. A humbling reminder that one was but a single cog in the vast machinery of existence.

It would be easy to believe the man's words. Obi-Wan had known weakness. Moments where doubt coiled around him, threatening to consume him whole. But the truth was undeniable: the path to balance in the Force was paved with loss and sorrow, shaped by forces beyond his understanding or control. No matter how deeply he wished to change its course, some tragedies were always meant to happen.

"The code hasn't failed. Perhaps it has failed you, but not me, and not the galaxy either, because it weren't the Jedi who chose to bow to evil." It were those the Jedi had vowed to protect.

Simard stood there, hands in the pockets of a soaked black coat, collar turned up as we waited and waited and waited. His blond hair was darker now from the rain, a few strands plastered to his forehead, water trailing down the curve of his scarred jaw.

"The fuck, indeed," he echoed, both brows raised, half a smirk pulling from the corners of his mouth as Gabriel's face went from surprise to recognition.