Story time with Ithuriel!!
The field was an eerie silence, a sort of silence you should not hear in war. Its vast and prideful stretch, the pervasive line of dissolution. The men and the women. The beasts that he sent to kill and be killed: and the souls he offered necrosis and forced down their throats. Perhaps the world would thank him for the feed. Blood was good for the earth. His monolithic donations to its greed and its gluttony for growth, for natures want to spread and infect, taken in with voracious teeth by jovial roots.
He is going to join those roots.
It is a fact that everyone does. You can live your life how you wish, and you may thrive, or crawl, or survive, but the earth does not care. No being is important, not compared to the world. The sky and its views. You are but a speck to life. Life could not bat an eye to your extermination. Your own genesis is not of recognition to your god.
Winter does not care for god. He does not wonder if, when he rots, should he be lifted or kicked. If hell is truly so terrible, and if he really is not going to be forgiven, then he must deserve purgatory. Because he is really dying this time. There is nothing anyone can decide to revert that curse.
As he clutches his chest, with his cyanic blood pumping and pulsing over the long, slender fingers of himself, slowly oxidising and letting shadow creep, he crawls. Pitifully.
The sun, trembling behind his cranium, was a streaming blue. Like a mirror. And the silhouette of his kith, outlined its fear. For her. She was her. And that is as much that can be said for Constance. She is the sister that he hated, that he detested, that he disesteemed and loathed with the flesh of his body, and the muscle under his skin, and every bone of his cadaver, and every vein in his nervous tapestry, and every broken and tramped tell of hope in his soul. There is not a word that may describe the hate, and yet, the guilt. His guilt was not crushing, it was not pressing, nor was it terrible nor bad, for it was pure. It was oscillating through his ichor. It glistened and was white-hot and blistered his tissue. It built behind his eyes and scarred his larynx when he wept. It stung the leg that was not there, replaced but his hornets nest that he did not deserve.
“Oh, Dimitrius” He felt himself crooning for that tone, of where her voice had been ripped by its own twist of wretchedness that he had known. He had known. He had known and remembered and remembered that memory was a terrible thing and that he should not ever rely on memory. How can you trust your own mind, if it can so easily play its own labyrinth.
“Dimitruis, Dimitruis” Her skin was taut and dark, and it seemed to melt under the early dawning light, bubbling up and over the canyon of the socket of her loss. Her crooked hands sunk under his mane, and dark cyanic blood pumped and pulsed over the long, slender fingers of her. Irony was sadistic. Scathing. He could tense and stiffen over this, and fully see that the holes, in both the one that ran and the one that stayed, ripped cleanly through.
She collapsed to her knees.
And the field fell to an eerie silence.
