who we are and all that we're trying to be
The titles and names mentioned, the Warden’s current tools to convince him, felt like lifetimes ago. Like different worlds. Like different planets. Like different realms. When he’d had the Shield, when he’d been General, when the kingdoms hadn’t suddenly been so cracked and frayed, and not some broken husk of things he once knew. It wasn’t the tone, or the insinuation that committed to the persuasive ends, but Zuriel, staring and standing there, cup handle in her teeth, a begging, pleading notion in her thoughts.
He could run.
Not far, and not for long, and he’d be out in the hollows, and gone. They wouldn’t have to worry about him any longer.
He could bury himself in snow until the cold crept in and the winds swept over his frame.
He could leave everything behind. It’d be easy. Simple.
But she kept invading his mind, and he could hear echo upon echo of ghosts, of souls he’d loved and cherished, of a heart filled with their essences because that was all he had left. That hadn’t given up on him, despite his personality, his figure, his demeanor, that had stayed, that had tried, that had thought he was worth the time, and the effort.
His hands reached for the cup, and the mare stared – defiant of one another in that moment. Maybe it will undo me too he thought; morose and melancholy, eyes flickering back to the Ascended, the words that he’d be glad to drink it curling over the fringes. He wanted to do nothing more than spill it upon the surface of the earth, and race off into the void. Let it consume. Let it devour, just as he once had.
The Sword raised the cup to his lips, and swallowed down the liquid; waiting for it to burn him to ash.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
