He puts on his combat boots. He opens the kitchen door, and exits to Ringo, and picks up the bat. He looks up to the tattered sky, and wonders if they'll ever get him. He wonders if it will be the lightning, the weight of Psalv-Muron or the darkness that follows.
The gashes in his hands are deepening. Sometimes, when hes working, they rip open and blood spills lightly to the floor. And thats when that taste, the very taste of arx-ignidermis comes and resides upon his tongue. As we speak, and no matter what he eats, the taste will not leave. He hungers for the world. As he is reminded of his hunger, he clenches his hands, the wounds open, and blood gushes from his fists.
In his pouch are the last of the bandages left to him by the Champ of Angels. About a month ago, they finished there journey together. The Champ of Angels had his own destiny to keep, and as much as the torchbearer would like to follow, The Champ of Angels travels to a place where the Torchbearers foolishness is not allowed.
Honestly it saddens him, but he knew all along that day would come. He just wished it wasn't so soon. He wishes he could just be the Champ's shadow, for the monsters did not attack when they were together. They attack now.
He looks over his shoulder and pulls the bat to his breast. He knows they won't kill him, they never said they would, but they suck away at his soul.
They aim to pry from his hands the eternal anchor. Rearrange his face into that of a blinded bastard scientist. His eyes always search for light, but do not remember what it is. His hands grope for his torch but find only the oil which he is drowning in. Thick black oil. He shakes at the thought of their plans.
The lightning sun sets before him. The stars dissapear behind ashen clouds. His face is wet. It is raining. He was chasing that starlight, but now the waters rising.
Where shall he go.
He goes home. He goes to Blackbird, a decorated child of the King of Day. A noble princess. Holding her in his arms lets everything fade away. The thick clouds start snowing. He is appalled. He asks how. She had been talking to the King, learning his language. The tongue of her ancestors. She could not treat the torch-bearers wounds, so she went to the architect of her beloved puppet. She thought herself to be overtaken by the summonia, and not healthy enough to be in the presence of the King. She took her lifeless legs and leapt the gap between her logic and my fairy tale. She could not recognize the king, for her blood-tyrant, should of been an ambassador. My kind King stepped down to take her hands, and she gave her heart. The most noble King of Day, my Eternal Lover, heard her call. She brings great pride. The Magnificent brings pure adoration.
The white snow casts out their black hearts. He takes a sigh of relief, for he can keep his burning eyes another day. He holds the hand of a princess.
Oh, Jesus. THANK YOU FOR BLACKBIRD!!! Thank you for the sun. You are so lovely.
Listen to Push Away by Versant
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