@viceruin said: “ i’ve got you. ” :D
after the damage // ACCEPTING
It seems now, things always seem to go wrong at the most pivotal stages of his research.
It is a hinderance, a flaw in which Lucilius must learn past and move on from – a stain to be rid of. Even still, though he has the patience, it makes things no less frustrating – a damning infringed by way of the questioning of his intellect. The heretic, proclaimed – the whispers of both doubt and fear. He cares little for them, but despises that flaw is the reason in which they’re created in the first place.
There’s rage – always, rage, when Lucilius fails. The cold of his body warms and melts in the wake of stoked fire filling his lungs – dragon smoke bellowing out of him. Fire, too – hot in his veins, burning the inside of his skin. It is familiar – an unnamed token of a split long forgotten, much to his frustration. That, too, adds to the wrath.
Now, he’s tears his lab apart – throwing empty and full glasses alike in a quiet flurry. Nothing above a grunt leaves him – the rage all welled in the brightness of his eyes and pounding in his ear drums. A rotting carcass serves as proof of his frustration, and it stays there – untouched, the stink of its death served as reminder. And its then, his fury finds it a mockery – a hand readied to direct his tempest to the thing he was angry about, and–
A hand raised, now stopped. The storm is quelled against its will as a snapped glare finds the crimson of Belial’s eyes. A thin wrist remains clasped in a stronger hand, and Lucilius shakes it once to find the other isn’t budging. His eyes narrow into a squint, questioning of why Belial even dared to–
‘Come on, that’s enough,’ comes the coo, ‘I’ve got you.’
And logic breaks through the fog, making Lucilius blink hard. Twice, now. Then that squint turns into the simple blank expression – a slight overlooked. Lucilius shakes his wrist free shortly after – looking around at the aftermath, and regards it for what it is: failure.
Now, Lucilius breathes in, then out. His eyes close, and fingers come to rise to massage at his temple – a headache building with the tension of his clenched jaw. A turn – the flow of his robes, and Lucilius makes his way to the exit.
“Clean this up,” he murmurs – his voice still caught in the fire of his throat. He says little more – offers no thanks. This, now, is the cold of Lucilius – the void of his chest, and the ice of his heart returned.
When he leaves, he leaves as winter – frostbitten once more.
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