The Door.
Cardin grunted as the doors, older than his family, groaned as he kept them closed. The metal bolts and hinges, rusted and worn from the centuries of use had snapped long ago and the wooden planks were nothing but potential kindling.
But by his frame, his strength, his armor and his father's shield and his aura and semblance. They held. And they would hold as long as he breathed.
Even as individual boards were torn into, as claws and teeth and bone punctured through and scarped against his armor, even as the red glaring eyes of death gazed in from the holes and the stench of death and brimstone became unbearable.
It would hold. Because anything less would mean death for all of them. All these people, children, elderly, the injured, the maimed. All of them would die.
And he had enough of death. Of losing friends and loved ones. Of not being enough.
With a roar he thrust the broken piece of wood in his hands through the door and was rewarded with a pained growl. He pulled back out and stabbed through another hole, spearing through a clawed paw with ease and striking something important as black ash filtered through.
The door eased for a moment before he felt a thump as another Grimm replaced the one he had just killed.
He didn't care though. No matter how many came, he would kill them all. He would hold, he would stand. He wouldn't run. And as he glanced towards the hundreds of faces sitting huddled together looking towards him, he saw hope and awe.
And that was enough. Enough for him grit his teeth and press harder against the coming tide. Thrusting his makeshift spear again and again. He would hold and hope that it was enough. That what ever crazy plan his friends made up would work. That they would live through this night. That the hope and awe these people gave him was enough to make up all his mistakes. That it would be enough to finally be at peace with himself.
So he held.
