It is the last thing Celica feels she can say, let alone do of her own free will. She is a passenger in her own body that exudes a disgusting force of power that is more than enough to knock Alm and his sword away; try as she might to wrest control back, her soul is feeble and mortal, fleeting against even that of a maddened god.
Her body advances despite her disarmed foe. The blade drives deep into its mark, and she can do nothing but watch and listen to the pain as if it had been her own body she stabbed.
She feels the tremble in her body wishing to rip the weapon away; to let him lie in a pool of his own blood, but all she wants is to end the misery this has caused.
That thought allows her to move away with an intense struggle. Step, step, step. Celica should finish it, yes, but all she can find in herself, if only to gain more control, is scream—
The sensation of lightning jolts into her veins, scrambling her train of thought with crimson precision and forcing memories to the surface. A tower midst a glowing sunset. Tears of joy in her eyes as he turns around, and she tackles him to the stone floor. Things tumble off the balcony and onto the steps below, but she doesn’t care— after seven years, she’s finally found him. He’s here, in the flesh— “Alm!” she cries— alive and well… and he whispers her name in equal recognition. Celica.
Another bolt of lightning, shorter this time, but even more potent than before. The memory replays, hazier than the last. Her, bathed in a red sunset, and him. Alm.
Unaware of her writhing, her mental struggle as she clings to the memory, the image of him despite the jolts striking at her again and again— steadily losing the image now, but desperately clutching at the idea, the concept of the person she refused to let go— that she refuses to lose in the sea of red. Refuses to finish.
She can’t finish it— finish him. She won’t. She’s done enough to him, to…
Something sharper than the shocks pulsing into her body enters straight through her, blinding white and brighter than that crimson color she chokes on.
Faintly, she reaches a hand out to grasp at it, unaware of its sharp edge— unseeing of the bloody hands that wield it; of the bloody hands her fingers rest upon.
The whimper of his name is all she can manage against the blank and searing white filling her, taking away the breath and the voice and whatever power remained in her left from the struggle—
Her pliant body slides to the floor. Red stains the regal and holy kingsfang from its bladed end. Ears hear not the cackling laughter, or the despaired cry. Eyes meet, but she sees nothing. Feels nothing— not even the tears on her dampened face.
Celica is set free, yes— free from the life that had been corrupted by her foolish mistake.
His strike rings true, but there is no fanfare to celebrate, no triumph welling in his chest. Just like his two earlier victories against foes he thought he could barely overcome, his chest felt hollow rather than fulfilled, and he—
His rasping, wheezing breath hitched at her whimper, her hands weakly grasping his own, and he stumbles to reach, and reach,
Celica collapses, Alm’s weak grip unable to hold them both. He falls with her, the impact jostling his wound and the sword still stuck in him. His world goes white from pain, a raspy wheeze escaping him. His mouth opens, and within his struggle, blood surging at the back of his mouth and spilling forth, he weakly calls her name in return. A call she will not hear, his gaze clearing to see her own... empty. Empty unlike before, no spark of life left within. A choked sob leaves him in his struggle to breathe, and hands weakly reach, grasp, pull at the damn thing. Gloves and skin tear at contact with the blade, and yet it does not deter him.
It hurts.
He has to remove it.
It’s so
Cries of pain and sobs of mourning sorrow echo in the silent chamber, tears escaping his eyes and joining on the pool of blood beneath them, growing larger and larger as the liquids meld and it is unable to tell which is hers and which is his. Metal clatters upon the ground, and Alm realizes then what he has just done is likely a mistake. It’s so hard to breathe... it’s so hard to...—! Coughs and wheezes leave his irritated, wounded throat, blood spurting from the newly exposed and deep gouge as well as his mouth.
Light fills his vision, and Alm is dimly aware of the fact that it comes from the Falchion before the pain overtakes him. Wheezed, pained breaths almost seem to slow to a stop as the bright light paves way to darkness.
His consciousness fades as he hears the call of the voice he heard before, pleading for him to hold on.
The coughing and wheezing returns with a vengeance, Alm’s eyes snapping open, even if unseeing. His left hand slowly, weakly, clutches at his throat, a dim realization hitting him that while the wound remains, it is not as painful as before. In and out, he tried to breathe, but the air irritated him so...
And the coughs that came after just made it worse.
titsay
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
prguitarman
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
izzy806
