who we are and all that we're trying to be
By the time he’d managed to stand, Kiada had become a wall in front of him – defiant and commanding. If he hadn’t been irritated, exasperated, apprehensive, and wounded, he might have been appreciative and commending the girl’s seditious efforts. He ignored the way his entire body ached, the way his lungs rattled in his chest, the way blood continued sliding down the length of his arms, the way his eyes stung and burned – turning that piercing, vicious gaze on her. “Let me pass,” he growled, still a menacing, daunting force, even within his vulnerable state, intending to either ram into her or merely outpace her (not necessarily a given, with how much his figure yearned to collapse). Jigano was more important than standing idly by, waiting for something to happen. He didn’t even let the thought of losing Amalia rush to his head (already there, really, churning and burning within his mind, barbaric and wrong, not intending to repeat past mistakes).
Then there was something else ahead – catching his attention, giving him a moment’s reprieve from any further movement except the rough intake of breath. Thrashing gave way to the intriguing set of hoofbeats, rushing across the grass, a unicorn, like Isla, and he stepped forward the slightest bit, trying to rationalize the occurrence. Some other shape made its presence known, chasing after the equine, teeth snapping, ivories flashing, like a shark but conformed to the earth instead of the sea.
Something coiled in his chest.
He advanced, slowly, steadily, watching ichor linger on the beast’s flank, predator instincts snapping back into him, even if he was mauled, even if he was brutalized. Kiada permitted him to move only because she was in the air, hovering, intending to save the creature.
A part of him pondered if this was his chance. If he could just utilize this opportunity to head straight back into the Spire, get them all out, everyone safe and secure.
But then there was a pulse raging in his mind, a rising need to assist, and he turned away from the Spire, stare occasionally cast in that direction (hope lingering in his skull; that silly, stupid emotion that did nothing), slowly meandering in the landshark and unicorn’s direction. He’d have to time his strike perfectly – his speed was gone, his mobility severely decreased. One hand grabbed hold of a throwing knife still left on his belt, the other still enclosed over the staff, fingers positioning carefully, precisely, on the sharpened edges. He drew his arm back, and then let the stiletto fly, hoping to catch the predator off-guard, penetrate, lacerate its side, ceasing the chase.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
