calamity —「andal | day 8.」
Dec 15, 2022 13:53:42 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Dec 15, 2022 13:53:42 GMT -5
He snuffs out another one's fire and calls it redemption. A lit candle, now only a dying stick of wax. The altar he worships at is pooled in darkness.
He hunkers atop the roof of the ruined chapel, one arm wrapped around the spire, and looks ahead. Everything is shadows and shapes, shapes and shadows, sometimes apart and sometimes altogether. Maybe the world ended yesterday, ravaged by a tide of dark, and he failed to die in the destruction. Or maybe he was the cause of it. With his cheek flayed open and body in tatters, it certainly felt apocalyptic to be Andal Searley right now.
It’s hard to mull over the past.
Not because he can’t – he can, and therein lies the cruel irony, the fact that he is cerebral and present and yet trapped behind animal instincts – but because it hurts. Too damn much. To picture evenings doused in warm firelight, sunsets over the prairies, cows grazing by as he walked past fields, the scent of summer storms and the sweet of autumn apples, carving wooden flutes and toy soldiers – he lets out another howl of pure, unbridled pain into the black night.
Hurts to remember what being human was like. What being a boy was like. Standing here, he looks up at the stars and feels nothing but the burn of them now.
The end is here. He can feel it in his bones, smell it in the rot-leaden air. Someone had only died, and if you subtract two from four, you are left with the eventual ending, the final standoff.
And he is ready.
Ready to redeem the last living monster in the arena.
He hunkers atop the roof of the ruined chapel, one arm wrapped around the spire, and looks ahead. Everything is shadows and shapes, shapes and shadows, sometimes apart and sometimes altogether. Maybe the world ended yesterday, ravaged by a tide of dark, and he failed to die in the destruction. Or maybe he was the cause of it. With his cheek flayed open and body in tatters, it certainly felt apocalyptic to be Andal Searley right now.
It’s hard to mull over the past.
Not because he can’t – he can, and therein lies the cruel irony, the fact that he is cerebral and present and yet trapped behind animal instincts – but because it hurts. Too damn much. To picture evenings doused in warm firelight, sunsets over the prairies, cows grazing by as he walked past fields, the scent of summer storms and the sweet of autumn apples, carving wooden flutes and toy soldiers – he lets out another howl of pure, unbridled pain into the black night.
Hurts to remember what being human was like. What being a boy was like. Standing here, he looks up at the stars and feels nothing but the burn of them now.
The end is here. He can feel it in his bones, smell it in the rot-leaden air. Someone had only died, and if you subtract two from four, you are left with the eventual ending, the final standoff.
And he is ready.
Ready to redeem the last living monster in the arena.
