@itsawitchx3 YOU š«µš«µš«µš«µš«µ KEEP TALKING
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It had started simple, just like every fight of this magnitude.
A spoken threat of control from the demon king,
"You will fight, and you will lose. In the end I will either kill you, or I will slip into your thoughts so quietly you will dream in my voice."
And a promise of pain from the Lonely Hunter,
"If suffering is the only music you dance to, then I will turn you into your own symphony."
It escalated, just like it was expected between the clashing of giants.
Trees were burnt or felled. Rocks shattered and fissures were formed.
The destruction would be labeled a forest fire and a typhoon by the public. It had started raining pretty heavily in the end, after all.
It was a grueling fight, don't let anyone else tell you differently.
Gwi-ma might wish to spare his pride through lies, and Celine might wish to preserve hope with her own. Or perhaps she'd simply like to preserve her image.
The stern but fair mentor was the picture she'd want her successors to have of her.
If they saw what she had done, what she was capable of, then that illusion would surely crumble to ash.
It was a grueling fight.
One that tore her skin and singed her hair.
One that had her mouth tasting of blood and her nose clogged with smoke.
But in the end, he was left worse off.
They had raged against each other for hours. The sky turning dark in the night, yet the stars had been invisible against his flames.
He could burn as bright as he wanted, it wouldn't save him from her.
Celine had cut through his puppets and his fire.
She had reminded him of how quickly a candle was extinguished in a blizzard.
No longer could he hold onto the form he had adopted when coming to the surface.
Celine had grabbed him by his collar and torn his face off until he could no longer reshape it, uncaring of the way it burned her hands.
She had ripped his arms off until he could no longer raise them against her, had broken his legs until he could no longer run away.
And as he faded back to where he came from -not dying, never dying- he had wondered over the cruelty of the world's supposed saviour.
"Mercy is for priests and poets. I am neither." She had whispered as an answer before letting him go with a promise:
"If you come back, you will do so kneeling. The floor will be far kinder than myself."
