06-06-2021, 01:32 PM
selaphiel
(He, with the strong heart, who should had made it so much further. But he is so tired, this angel carved from ice. Tired of the suffering, tired of the stench of death trapped in his sinuses, and he had tried so desperately to warn Mazikeen that death would come for her a second time.
But she had not listened.
She had marched headlong into it, the warrior he had always known her to be.
This death was different.
It sank its teeth into the meat of that strong heart.)
The heat of summer melts his halo’s ice in his eyes, dims the glow of the crevasses cut into his skin. He is much too young to feel this old. (Even here in the meadow he cannot escape the horrible smell of so much death, no, not with the way the dark things had ravaged the poor souls who had tried to find refuge here. There is no place he is safe from it. He is a damned thing.)
His own wings droop against his sides as he walks. (Stumbles? Ambles? Trudges? He is so tired, you see. So dreadfully tired.)
He catches sight of her by accident and he wonders if she is similarly damned. He approaches, the heart heavy in the cage of his heaving chest.
“Can you smell it, too?” he asks. All the death, all that suffering.
I just bite my tongue a bit harder
@Lillia