❛ i talk to the gods, but the sky is empty. ❜ from bellara (@whencicatrized)
He'd had her gods more recently than she did. The golden voice echoing in his mind, comforting as the sun, lighting his path. Until his choices had suffocated it in darkness for himself and for the rest of Thedas. Over a thousand years of silence for all of the worshippers on their knees, cradling a bloodied knife, begging for their faith to be rewarded. Only disappointment. She is young and curious and he could tell her so much, but that hunger would not overcome her revulsion of him. Of what truly he is: monster. But he finds himself moved, a rare and tender feeling like the bruise of a fruit. "Sometimes I go to the blighted branches at the beginning of the Crossroads and listen," he confesses, his fingers threaded together as they rest in front of him. He shouldn't confess, but perhaps she might understand? Tension like vines squeezes at his nerves, believing he should hold himself back. He is so tired, so alienated. All of those who knew him are now his foes. The waves of troubled waters are in his eyes as he looks at her. "But I imagine that would only be worse, to hear them like that."
