—That's quite enough. [ snarls the man in the present, eyes blazing a furious, bloody scarlet. there's a rushing of magic, a harsh gale billowing away from his form, as if that will dispel the scene set by forest toxin and bitter memory.
(another trick of the dark: a phantom shadow of three sets of dark, phantasmal wings pluming out from the back of the man called robin for a brief instant.)
he has no care to witness this again with the emotions as raw as the day they were first felt. it is one thing to know his own younger self played pantomine through the same scene (and had it not play out the same way), another entirely to live it again—
but whether it be due to his own actions or not, the memory draws itself to a close there, with chrom's body clutched in hands that don't feel like your own as something deep within you shatters into pieces, puts itself slowly back together with all the jagged edges sharp enough to draw blood, snaps back into place with a terrifying finality, and you scream and scream and scream without a voice.
(after all, everything ends, doesn't it? certainly a wishful dream of being human, and living among them must be chief among those things. to someone else, he had recounted: the dragon dreamed of a world that was more than endless solitude...
again.
"these followers of naga will spurn you now that they've learned what you are. kill me, and you incur the wrath of the grimleal as well.
"would you truly choose to be so utterly alone?") ]
2/2
(another trick of the dark: a phantom shadow of three sets of dark, phantasmal wings pluming out from the back of the man called robin for a brief instant.)
he has no care to witness this again with the emotions as raw as the day they were first felt. it is one thing to know his own younger self played pantomine through the same scene (
and had it not play out the same way), another entirely to live it again—but whether it be due to his own actions or not, the memory draws itself to a close there, with chrom's body clutched in hands that don't feel like your own as something deep within you shatters into pieces, puts itself slowly back together with all the jagged edges sharp enough to draw blood, snaps back into place with a terrifying finality, and you scream and scream and scream without a voice.
(after all, everything ends, doesn't it? certainly a wishful dream of being human, and living among them must be chief among those things. to someone else, he had recounted: the dragon dreamed of a world that was more than endless solitude...
again.
"these followers of naga will spurn you now that they've learned what you are. kill me, and you incur the wrath of the grimleal as well.
"would you truly choose to be so utterly alone?") ]