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09-14-2015, 05:29 PM
He feels his whole side come apart and he knows he is bursting.
In the distance, Manhattan is crying so loud long and low that Knox almost does not recognize the sound. It cannot be his companion, howling out in hurt like that. Manhattan is a warrior, and warriors don't cry.
He thinks this as the fight ends and his brother screams, something so enraged it becomes indecipherable. Knox knows this, that it cannot be Manhattan, as the dark wind rushes over his existence and wipes him clean of hurt. He pulls his teeth from his brother's raw black next, flinging silver loops from broken chain mail onto the ground. He knows his brother is screaming and he can feel it, but he cannot listen.
He doesn't know what Archibald is saying, and now that the fight has ended, so too has Knox's moment of vulnerability. He cloaks himself with expertise, covering himself in shadow and faint dapples of light, revealing his shifting and broken body to no one.
Slowly, he makes his way through shadows. In Zsoka's young form, he hopes the pain will be diminished. If the body is small, mustn't the wound be as well?
But it isn't so, and such retreat serves only to heighten the pain and the effects of the black lung, slowly beginning to drip from his nose and eyes, slowly clouding all of his senses. By the time he finds Manhattan and cloaks her in his magic, by the time the Moon God sends strength his way, he no longer knows who he is or what he has done.
Slowly, delicately, he and his burned companion retreat to the shadows of sidelines. There, away from all prying eyes, they lament ever leaving the other alone. Somehow, they both know such hurt is their own fault.
They should have been guarding each other. They should have been healing the bond.
In the distance, Manhattan is crying so loud long and low that Knox almost does not recognize the sound. It cannot be his companion, howling out in hurt like that. Manhattan is a warrior, and warriors don't cry.
He thinks this as the fight ends and his brother screams, something so enraged it becomes indecipherable. Knox knows this, that it cannot be Manhattan, as the dark wind rushes over his existence and wipes him clean of hurt. He pulls his teeth from his brother's raw black next, flinging silver loops from broken chain mail onto the ground. He knows his brother is screaming and he can feel it, but he cannot listen.
He doesn't know what Archibald is saying, and now that the fight has ended, so too has Knox's moment of vulnerability. He cloaks himself with expertise, covering himself in shadow and faint dapples of light, revealing his shifting and broken body to no one.
Slowly, he makes his way through shadows. In Zsoka's young form, he hopes the pain will be diminished. If the body is small, mustn't the wound be as well?
But it isn't so, and such retreat serves only to heighten the pain and the effects of the black lung, slowly beginning to drip from his nose and eyes, slowly clouding all of his senses. By the time he finds Manhattan and cloaks her in his magic, by the time the Moon God sends strength his way, he no longer knows who he is or what he has done.
Slowly, delicately, he and his burned companion retreat to the shadows of sidelines. There, away from all prying eyes, they lament ever leaving the other alone. Somehow, they both know such hurt is their own fault.
They should have been guarding each other. They should have been healing the bond.
BARELY ALIVE
Knox
