#fearsomeflame

Exhausting was the word he would use to describe everything that had gone on. Rather, everything that was still going on... it was just a matter of him being completely drained. No, not of power. Of course he wasn’t drained of power. It was... everything else. He was done with it all. Was there even anything left, anyway? ... It sure didn’t seem like it. After all, any chance at normality from this point onward was practically unattainable.  There was no going back from this. This was going to stain his conscience, stain his memory, and most importantly, when it was returned to him, stain his heart. Maybe his actions were out of pure cowardice. After all, maybe he was afraid of all of the change that would come with being recom- pleted... So he was choosing, as he stumbled, bloodied and burned, fatigue and exhaustion written across his features, to end it all.  Fuck, he was so angry at himself. At the world he’d been plunged into. 

Emerald hues gazed out, from the peak of the still rumbling, still furious volcano. He looked past the trivial places, and stopped when he lay eyes upon the absolutely enflamed city of Calcheth. It was a place he’d called home -- a place many had called home. And as he continued to stare at the damage he’d done, he couldn’t help but feel sick; feel nauseous at what he’d caused. It was a good thing the volcano was going to serve as a means to his end. Now he blinked, rather groggily, down at the boiling lava within. It would just take one more step; he could just make the scorching substance rise up enough to swallow him whole and then -- Footsteps interrupted him.