liars and lovers combine tonight, we're gonna make a scene
The last thing Neron remembers of the world is how it had yawned white and hot before him, his sensors burning clean through, the fluid in his veins combusting from the heat of the Sparkbird's ire. He remembers being puzzled, above all else, quietly uncertain of his own ending after years of dancing with death and managing to take the lead.
But he had died, and until tonight that had been the full-stop, stark and final, at the end of his story.
Thank the gods for epilogues.
Every nerve feels charged with electricity as he steps through the door, such that he's almost convinced he's reliving his last moments alive but with the addition of pain, only realising belatedly that, no, this is just what it's like to be able to feel again. Inhaling the sea air as if able to taste it on his tongue, ultimately it's that old Launceleyn composure that keeps him from falling to his knees in his overwhelm.
Instead he exits the doorway and, realising he must be in Torchline of all places, unceremoniously tosses his coat - dark, wool, expensive, so care would be appreciated, Remi - at the waiting demigod. There's no quiet gratitude, no gushing thanks - merely a quiet expectation in the wake of his entrance.
He does glance around for his date, though, quietly fixing the cuff of his black shirt as if his fingertips aren't almost crackling with sensation.
But he had died, and until tonight that had been the full-stop, stark and final, at the end of his story.
Thank the gods for epilogues.
Every nerve feels charged with electricity as he steps through the door, such that he's almost convinced he's reliving his last moments alive but with the addition of pain, only realising belatedly that, no, this is just what it's like to be able to feel again. Inhaling the sea air as if able to taste it on his tongue, ultimately it's that old Launceleyn composure that keeps him from falling to his knees in his overwhelm.
Instead he exits the doorway and, realising he must be in Torchline of all places, unceremoniously tosses his coat - dark, wool, expensive, so care would be appreciated, Remi - at the waiting demigod. There's no quiet gratitude, no gushing thanks - merely a quiet expectation in the wake of his entrance.
He does glance around for his date, though, quietly fixing the cuff of his black shirt as if his fingertips aren't almost crackling with sensation.
Neron
