Post by Sayvahn on Jun 25, 2016 22:04:03 GMT
Starting May 8th (days after Il Tredici)
Time spent, days, regaining senses. Touch, smell, taste, all reborn, all broken, all repaired. The Raven left him in a stupor, left him: barren, naked, lost. His physical senses, not as damaged as: emotional, spiritual, logical, but still, painful— still— vulnerable.
Days of deprivation left the cat in reflection, holed up in an abandoned home, because the one he claimed was too far, was to shaken. A fox, holed up for winter, for spring, for eternity, prevented any return. No, Sayvahn wouldn’t be welcome back. Couldn’t be welcome back. Ever since he remembered Damien, the older man had become jaded, become guised. Any chance with the fox had faded, had withered and died, just like the ex barber when set aflame. Oh, how the flames still clung to his bones, the magic, the purification, still causing skin to tingle, and breath, to catch. Even now, the blonde could see the glow, pulling, ripping at his skin, only to stich it back. His goddess, his savior, still alone, in her church. But her disciple will return, one day. But not until, not until things were settled. And when at last, words could easily flow from chapped lips, Sayvahn staggered out from his crushed abode, layers of clothes, weighing down his limbs, the sun, still seeming to burn, still seeming to chaff.
Steadily, the older man walked down the streets, the layers protecting him somewhat. Gloves and hat, jacket and pants, hiding as much skin, as much of his identity as he could, because, who was he anymore? Now that the intrusive thoughts stopped, and Damien, no longer lingered? In death, some things were purified. But regrets, regrets were not.
He had to apologize to Edleweiss. It was a regret, a torn piece of him that the feline had to confess to: You helped. You’re beautiful. You’re strong. You’re intelligent you’re wise— I don’t hate you. I needed you, I loved you. But not in the love that Lasair felt toward her, or the kids. No, the Crimson Angel held something else. Something different then both Vieka and Lasair. She was his judgment, his guide. After all, who had warned him, who had protected him, even before this whole thing began? Who had been impartial, while he was deluded, was crazed? Sayvahn owed her too much, but right then, what he owed her the most was an apology.
Broken glasses loomed on the edge of the older man’s nose as the blonde searched for an informant, for a worker, for anyone in the theater district that could guide him to her. Yet, he was searching for one person in particular. A young man who he owed another apology too. Yet, the question was, where would a boy with ruby eyes walk? Along the rooftops, or on the city floor?
Time spent, days, regaining senses. Touch, smell, taste, all reborn, all broken, all repaired. The Raven left him in a stupor, left him: barren, naked, lost. His physical senses, not as damaged as: emotional, spiritual, logical, but still, painful— still— vulnerable.
Days of deprivation left the cat in reflection, holed up in an abandoned home, because the one he claimed was too far, was to shaken. A fox, holed up for winter, for spring, for eternity, prevented any return. No, Sayvahn wouldn’t be welcome back. Couldn’t be welcome back. Ever since he remembered Damien, the older man had become jaded, become guised. Any chance with the fox had faded, had withered and died, just like the ex barber when set aflame. Oh, how the flames still clung to his bones, the magic, the purification, still causing skin to tingle, and breath, to catch. Even now, the blonde could see the glow, pulling, ripping at his skin, only to stich it back. His goddess, his savior, still alone, in her church. But her disciple will return, one day. But not until, not until things were settled. And when at last, words could easily flow from chapped lips, Sayvahn staggered out from his crushed abode, layers of clothes, weighing down his limbs, the sun, still seeming to burn, still seeming to chaff.
Steadily, the older man walked down the streets, the layers protecting him somewhat. Gloves and hat, jacket and pants, hiding as much skin, as much of his identity as he could, because, who was he anymore? Now that the intrusive thoughts stopped, and Damien, no longer lingered? In death, some things were purified. But regrets, regrets were not.
He had to apologize to Edleweiss. It was a regret, a torn piece of him that the feline had to confess to: You helped. You’re beautiful. You’re strong. You’re intelligent you’re wise— I don’t hate you. I needed you, I loved you. But not in the love that Lasair felt toward her, or the kids. No, the Crimson Angel held something else. Something different then both Vieka and Lasair. She was his judgment, his guide. After all, who had warned him, who had protected him, even before this whole thing began? Who had been impartial, while he was deluded, was crazed? Sayvahn owed her too much, but right then, what he owed her the most was an apology.
Broken glasses loomed on the edge of the older man’s nose as the blonde searched for an informant, for a worker, for anyone in the theater district that could guide him to her. Yet, he was searching for one person in particular. A young man who he owed another apology too. Yet, the question was, where would a boy with ruby eyes walk? Along the rooftops, or on the city floor?