“All of this bright hot anger just for me. I’m flattered.” he
is no Lazarus to her. Unworthy of such a name or story.
(though she doesn’t place much importance on these tales
of old. They’re merely entertainment, with vague cautionary
takeaways for those who bother caring.) “So you claim. The
physical evidence, however, disagrees.” her clawed hand
reaches for tendrils of supposed smoke, watching unstable
strands coil around her digits, settle on the skin. Disappearing
just as quickly, absorbed by the ever hungry energy coursing
through her own body. His cellular decay is clear for all to see
& she knows too much about his condition—about HIM—to be
fooled by such brave lies.
“You can not unleash this anger upon the world if you cripple
yourself. It’s foolish pride that’s holding you back.”
“Your fragile state will force you to seek me out sooner rather
than later. Why not come along willingly.”
HIS flesh burns. His body, ancient tomb -- decrepit, BEGS for release. He can no longer differentiate : his reality from hers. What reality belonged to him -- ? What was his -- ? Was he ever anything -- ? Already, he has begun the agonizing process of dissipation. His bones - oh how they ache. And even so, he holds steadfast. Or so he thinks.
Weight shifts. These old bones splinter almost. Once prideful king finds himself slumping downward. Gravity and it’s cruel pull spares him no MERCY. A growl. Inhuman. Lost in the static. Buried in the soot, lost to the pyre. Broken void-walker succumbs to his own fragility. He is failure in this moment. Wretched, violent, angry failure. “ And who are you to tell me so -- ” she, his only means of temporary repose.
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