➣ . To be made of sin was to be consumed by it. It was to acknowledge and accept that each part of him was no longer his to fully own or to control, and with that Vergilius had made it his mission to remain steadfast. To keep himself contained — controlled — by wrangling each sin that threatened to overwhelm him. The determination to cling onto that illusion of humanity that'd been stripped away from him long ago, as if desperation alone could keep him from bringing harm upon others.
...And yet, the moments in which he found his hand slipping upon the reins... perhaps he ought to consider them testament to his humanity, proof of his flaws and failures. For his hubris had built desire within him with no room for pressure to escape, leaving him woefully vulnerable at times where his grip faltered. Luck, perhaps, that today would not be the day that wrath or envy greeted them. Instead the sins of choice manifested in the form of a weighed body, as if his very vessel were a burden, and the kindling of a burning ache deep within, clouding his mind and his reason with a yearning all-too-familiar.
" ...Whitenight, " their name falling past Vergilius' lips in a drawled mutter, a quiet sigh escaping him as he leaned into their touch, a faint relief. His eyes fluttered, ever-so-slightly, faint hues of familiar colors mixing among the red of his dormant wrath, " ...Must you make me beg ? " ...Couldn't even find the energy to figure out what it was they wanted him to say. Haah... How tedious.
