saints don't make the papers | {woodsmen day 2}
Mar 6, 2020 20:27:02 GMT -5
Post by dars on Mar 6, 2020 20:27:02 GMT -5
you think you want the best for me
but nothing really matters
if you force it won't come
i guess i'm feelin numb
A fight won and even still a man down, Silas gritted his teeth. Reckless ambition was beginning to outweigh his pride; he should've forced her to come, or the others to stay. Even if it meant chaining them down or carrying her on his shoulder until she could walk again. He cursed himself for being so right about her nickname.
Martyr, right up to the end. She'd die as one, he realized, and it was because he had allowed it. Because she had to die, anyway, and it didn't matter that he'd done everything to help her. It didn't matter that he'd given her a better weapon, or that he'd made mince meat of someone who was attacking her when she was down. Because he was still the monster; that's what she saw when she looked at him. People like her, walking around casting their light on anyone who could see it, were the reason he'd grown so comfortable in the dark to begin with. Still. He should've made her come.
He told himself that it was purely logical: power in numbers, more bodies meant more targets.
He sat after walking for some time, glowering at his feet. He didn't have to look to know they'd be riddled with blisters; he could feel the irritated skin beneath. He let fly a colorful barrage of swear words, painted black, dipped in ink, filled with contempt for the gamemakers and their need for everything to be ridiculous. Even if it meant the expense of practicality.
"Fiend, Princess," he called, more as a warning to the others than anything else. His words packed a message: I'm not walking anymore right now, so if you want to continue hiding behind me, you'd better take a break with me.
He leaned himself into the dirt, dry and still warm from the unfairly hot day, and stretched his legs out in front of them. Four to three; he wondered when he would see Martyr next, if it would be with that weapon he'd given her pointed toward him, or if it would be her face in the sky and he'd have to wonder which cannon he'd heard that day was hers.
"If anyone else has plans of leaving before shit gets good, go now. Wouldn't want you spoiling the fun."
He squeezed his hands into fists, placed them in his lap so no one would notice; his weakness was chemical. He worried it would be his downfall.
He let his gaze roam between the two of them: from one to the other, each time lingering for a moment to see if he recognized any sort of intention he needed to know about. There was nothing. He cleared his throat.
"Good. We need to discuss what comes next, then. We need food and water."
