the evidence is on my body
but I never complain
but I never complain
It’s pain, trauma filled memories that flit through the butcher’s mind at first. So much that the way Danta’s arm tightens around him doesn’t register as any kind of restraint. His hands are free, his legs are free, he had not been tied down at the middle. The gore crows had done a good enough job with that to keep him from getting up in the centuries before. At this present moment, there’s the sharp tang of iron that’s all too familiar to Astaroth, but the fire isn’t. The way it grows higher and taller to craft a dome.
The way that the corvid’s feathers hiss where they meet the flame shield as the crow he’d bloodbaned plummets. He’s limply drawn back against Danta’s chest, finally gasping in a breath as he trembles and presses against the wound with his other hand, so shakily that the red smears across his palms and fingers. “Sorry.” He says again, because he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it wasn’t fair for Danta to witness this, to have to fight with creatures he was more than likely able to be content wandering around with and doing stupid things (as he’d seen with Moira on those rare and few drunken nights).
He doesn’t bloodbane another crow, though, not with the protection of the dome of fire. If anything, he curves both into and away from Danta, his back pressing harder against him as he tucks his horned head until his bearded chin presses against the fabric of his shirt, blood coated hands pressing against his forehead and his eyes as he forces himself to take measured breaths, as if he can hide the streams of tears that carve through the blood.
The way that the corvid’s feathers hiss where they meet the flame shield as the crow he’d bloodbaned plummets. He’s limply drawn back against Danta’s chest, finally gasping in a breath as he trembles and presses against the wound with his other hand, so shakily that the red smears across his palms and fingers. “Sorry.” He says again, because he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it wasn’t fair for Danta to witness this, to have to fight with creatures he was more than likely able to be content wandering around with and doing stupid things (as he’d seen with Moira on those rare and few drunken nights).
He doesn’t bloodbane another crow, though, not with the protection of the dome of fire. If anything, he curves both into and away from Danta, his back pressing harder against him as he tucks his horned head until his bearded chin presses against the fabric of his shirt, blood coated hands pressing against his forehead and his eyes as he forces himself to take measured breaths, as if he can hide the streams of tears that carve through the blood.
Astaroth
i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing
