i am the vanguard of your destruction

[ Warning for some bad language, I wasn't sure if you minded or not but if you do let me know and I'll edit it out and find other words to use in the upcoming posts <3 ]

There had been entirely too much yelling as of late. He was tired of it, sick to the bones. He couldn't even think. He didn't even know the time of day, or what day it was, or how many had passed since he'd discovered Psyche's body and shit had just gone all wrong, everywhere. His world was burning, and he along with it.

So when he'd found himself forced back onto the scene of her death, there had, of course, been more yelling. His name rang loud and clear over the sky island; he flattened his tired ears to his neck, but it couldn't block the sound out. He knew who it was, though. Kahlua. Kahlua, who had run away from the crime scene without a word. Kahlua, who hadn't seen the fucked-up stand-off that came after. Kahlua, who hadn't witnessed some fucking moron trying to rip him from someone else he cared for.

Tolio. Kou. Psyche. And after a fashion, Ophelia. Or maybe not. Or maybe just for now. For a little while.

He was tired. He was tired, and he hurt—there was a constant throb in his chest and head, a little reminder of all he had lost or was losing. They had shouted at him, more than one of them, about different things, until their voices grew blurred in his memory and he could barely recall what it had even been about. What they'd said. Who'd said what. If he'd said anything back.

It was a black, bleak mess, and most of all, he just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again. Swallowing, he turned to face the incoming storm, because he had no other choice; the framework of Helovia kept him grounded, and with a haggard, beaten look he watched her stomp up to him. Yelling rarely meant good things. Stomping up like that rarely meant good things. So, what had he done this time? What precious little heart had he broken? Whose idea of perfection had he ruined, and whose kind, loving soul had he hurt with his flawed attention?

“You promised you would come back to the Edge,” she was saying, and for a moment—for a brief, precious moment—he thought she was angry because he'd been delaying his trial for what, a year? That it was no more than that. Just the same old thing. For a moment, he thought that things would be fine, but then she went on, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

She drained his world of color. She drained his world of warmth, and feeling. His heart beats felt hollow; the ground spun under his feet, the surroundings turning into a nauseating blur. “Just imagine all the lies you would have told, and I would have stood up for you.” His shallow breathing grew faster and faster, sides barely heaving. He felt cold. Clammy.

This wasn't happening.

What the fuck was going on.

She was abandoning him.

He was losing her. Like he lost everyone. Like he would lose everyone.

He didn't even know where it had come from. Just imagine all the lies... But he hadn't planned on lying—he would've gone to the Edge for truth, to clear his name, to make them understand that it had been an accident and nothing more...

“But I guess I should have guessed… once a murderer, always a murderer.”

It felt like an eternity, standing still as a statue aside from the rapid movements of his stressed breathing, eyes glazed over. Once a murderer.

Always a murderer.

And then it hit him, a punch straight in the solar plexus—he hadn't even had a chance to defend himself. A murderer.

He didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to acknowledge the hunch he had, to look at the theory, examine it, but fuck how could he not? It was too recent in his mind, her body still crackling in his dreams as he woke roaring, sweating and shivering—crying. He was losing everything he had. And everyone just kept yelling at him.

"Fine!" he spat at her, the death of his expression shattered as a veil of blue rage ignited in his mind. The glass cast of his eyes burned up in the fire, and his ears fell back as he thrust his head higher. He'd had it with this shit. They called him Frostheart, and they called him Ice King, and they called him monster and murderer and at the first sign of anything, they blamed him. He was tired of it. He was tired, so very tired, and he was tired of being sad, and tired of weeping, and tired of caring about others, or caring if he upset them, or caring about any fucking thing at all. He was tired of being tired.

So he was angry instead, burning the tears up in the furnace of his fury.

"Have it your way, then! HAVE IT YOUR FUCKING WAY, KAHLUA! Because you know what?" And from his high perch he stared hotly at her, a sharp note of pain reverberating through his every word, and dancing behind the flickering fire of his gaze. "I've had it with this shit. I've had it with being treated like this." You were supposed to be my friend. "But I guess I'm just a filthy murderer," he hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to keep the tears away. "So it doesn't matter if you stab me in the back. I guess, it doesn't matter, because in your mind, I was always a murderer, wasn't I? Wasn't I?" Why else would you so readily jump to this conclusion?

She didn't even ask questions. Just assumed. And he'd had it with that, too. What kind of friend was she if she instantly assumed the worst?

"I don't need the Edge's forgiveness," he went on, his voice rock hard, just like his heart. Murderer. "Because I don't fucking care." Not anymore. He'd wanted to clear his conscience. Stop having to look over his shoulder. Now.. now, he just wanted them all to burn, and he hated them anyway, so what the fuck did their forgiveness mean to him anyway? Nothing. Coming crawling for it was just weak. Pitiful. Pathetic. If he wanted something he'd take it and he knew the truth everyone else closed their eyes to—that he wasn't guilty of this. He didn't care what they thought anymore.

He wanted to say he didn't care what Kahlua thought, but he did.

It hurt. This hurt. But it had to hurt. He had to purge himself of this.

He had to lose everyone. There was no other way, so he bit down on the pain, shouldered through.

Was this the way he had to live? Was this the only way to live? As the Bane?

He had been silent for just a second, his thoughts reeling. He still felt sick, but he stared down at her with all the smoldering judgment he could muster—all the darkness and all the rage, every dark damned thing that lived in his soul. His breath punctured the Birdsong air as white clouds, fueled by the ice in his veins.

"You know nothing of my murders," he finally said, a harsh whisper dripping venom and pain.

He had no more to say. He'd done enough damage. The words in his mind were burning up, consumed by a soul-agony so hot it made his bones ache.

Was this what he wanted? Was this how he wanted to live? He asked himself again, but he found no forgiveness—for too long he had lived as a dog and let the world kick him as it pleased. He was done with it.

So he swallowed the tears back, fed them to the blue wrath, and turned to try and walk away.

He'd been so dumb, thinking anything would ever change.