THE FAMILIARS SCATTER, dispersing across the battlefield to evade the onslaught, while nightmare remains, turning only to shield its master from the hail of thorns. V, swallowed by the shadows of his past, does not cower in the face of those memories. he welcomes them with an icy resolve, even as the ground ripples beneath his feet with every step forward urizen dares. he’s been trapped by his regret for so long, he had forgotten what it was like any other way.
wrinkling his nose, he considers the situation as a grave hue of acceptance besets his features— this is not his torment to bear. leave it be, he urges himself, before he is taken by that which chains him.
every word left unsaid, every small or great thing he could have done differently… the song remains the same. he cannot simply make his mistakes disappear, only do better by those he has wronged, and lament what his foolishness has cost them all.
❝ … nero… ❞ V utters the boy’s name softly, as a father would his son, unto an imitation who is none the wiser, ❝ i’m sorry. for everything. ❞
it’s not that easy— this is only a memory, yet he is compelled to make amends to the ghosts all the same. he must find a way out of this nightmare, before it completely consumes him.
The fragment of memory on the ground, struggling, his ribcage heaving for air– he doesn’t hear any of V’s lamentations, nor does he care. Not right now, in any case. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t die, he thinks, finding the strength to crawl to all fours with her voice in the back of his mind. Kyrie is waiting for him back home. Nero scrambles, fighting the agony that threatens to take him back down as he watches, waiting for an opening.
Urizen continues forward– an unstoppable force in the face of an unmovable wall. “REGRET… COMPASSION… EMPATHY… YOUR VERY VEINS ARE RIFE WITH DISEASE,” he says, tendrils at the ready to lash out at either Griffon or Shadow should they dare to approach. “THIS DEMONIC POWER IS ALL THAT STANDS BETWEEN YOU AND THE DUST OF THIS PITIFUL, HUMAN EARTH.”
The demon king marches forward, fully prepared to raise a hand to bat Nightmare aside, to cleave through the hulking beast, or to otherwise dispose of it entirely when he pauses, watching Nero take advantage of the chaos to circle around to V’s side, his amputated arm lacking a devil breaker to even press against the bleeding gash in his side. “V,” he gasps, “What the hell–” he pushes at the other’s frail shoulder, an attempt to encourage him to flee. “–we’ve got to– I don’t know what to do–”
He can’t catch his breath long enough to finish a whole sentence. We’ve got to run, he wants to say, and though his eyes shine with both the urgency of the situation and the humiliation of being bested not once, but twice, it’s that, or it’s death.
And he’s not ready to die, he thinks, just as a needled tendril bursts forth from the ground, impaling him through the back.
( You can see it all, can’t you, @stormslayer? )
The fog of memories is dense. It traps people on its own whims, forces them to confront demons of the past. Perhaps there is some mercy to be found in this mist— some form of kindness to be savored. But so far, no such mercy has been laid before him. Once again, misery has taken familiar form. However, this trial is not for him.
This is a battle between two opposing halves. One, the might of his father. The other, the frailty of his mother. The raw might of demons mock the fleeting power of humanity. This was hardly a battle at all, honestly.
It is foolish. That man should know that by now. He should have cowered before the overwhelming might, flee while he could. And yet, he fights. For what purpose? For the sake of his own pride? For the safety of the boy— who may also be a mere memory of illusion? Perhaps he simply grew weary of running. ... Foolish.
And yet— how is he any better? The mere sight of the boy being wounded awakens a silent fury, well beyond his focused rationality.
The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.
Swiftly, a spectral blade cuts through the air. The tendril that dared to take root in the boy’s flesh is severed. It then lands on the ground, separating the demon from his prey. A mirage of a blade long lost, yet still humming with power. It is more than enough of a distraction, allowing the slayer to step onto the stage.
Two halves now stand before the whole. The blade of judgement shall soon fall.
