who we are and all that we're trying to be
(Continuation from KQ)
He ran.
It wasn’t coordinated or swift, a hitch in his stride from the wounds seeping, lacerated, torn open again as he embarked, lungs quaking, sputtering, wild coughs bounding from his chest as his body desperately tried to expel the poison lingering in its depths. His clothes were ragged, just as flayed as his skin, eyes burning, Amalia’s staff in his hand, occasionally lending him a moment of respite, leaning upon its antlers as he charged his way from the Spire.
He really didn’t care who saw him limping into the sanctuary – his gaze were on the shrine, his mind on the promise and pledge he’d made down in the venomous crypts. It’d been audacity and boldness to even believe they could accomplish their goal; he’d done his best, and even that hadn’t been good enough.
But he could try. He could try to plead to Safrin for them.
The Reaper crashed into the relics, upending some of them, hands shaking, quickly kneeling at the altar – the antlers’ red glow lighting his way, his voice shattering and gasping, clawing and wishing, dreaming and hoping, between the entreaties and appeals. “Safrin,” he started, not knowing how to invoke a deity’s name, not knowing if she’d even bother to glance at him, but if it were for the ones she cherished…”Those in the Spire need you. I think they found the tulmhainar.” His chest heaved and his body ached, quivered, shook, the lacerations grinding across his skin and flesh, but their anguish, their melancholy, could wait – his eyes shifted to the shrine, to the pieces of offerings. He didn’t have anything left to give except the blood pooling in his palms, down the length of his sides. What would the stars want with a broken, ineffectual beast? “Please go help them. Please let them be safe.”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
