The truth, such as he did not — should have considered: the maws of the room snap shut and grind him, and its teeth are blunt and numerous and strong, and the energies of the Chained God's halls churn him. He is a dust mote, irreverently absorbed, carefully digested.
The god yet rests in his presence, rejects the swirling tempest of his frustrating frailty, how he presents a spark of hope in the chasm of its dormant, all consuming, destructive power. He emerges — eaten, stained, immersed. Chewed out. Spat back, energies entirely drained and corrupted, weight of him as if the flesh of his back wishes to melt and only scars linger.
He feels dragged, and dragging himself. Limbs torn, ligaments strained. Walking, mouth far too dry, ripped and bloodied. His thoughts have stilled.
In the corridor, where air is no longer a punched force and sugar-spun thick, he breathes. And breathes.
And does not, cannot rush for Wei Ying, but simply — accepting somehow the blood-let miracle of him — crawls toward the rasped, clawed sound of his hums and drags a hand onto his shoulder, anchors on him. The full weight of him now is kitten-like, strained. )
no subject
( He does not linger.
The truth, such as he did not — should have considered: the maws of the room snap shut and grind him, and its teeth are blunt and numerous and strong, and the energies of the Chained God's halls churn him. He is a dust mote, irreverently absorbed, carefully digested.
The god yet rests in his presence, rejects the swirling tempest of his frustrating frailty, how he presents a spark of hope in the chasm of its dormant, all consuming, destructive power. He emerges — eaten, stained, immersed. Chewed out. Spat back, energies entirely drained and corrupted, weight of him as if the flesh of his back wishes to melt and only scars linger.
He feels dragged, and dragging himself. Limbs torn, ligaments strained. Walking, mouth far too dry, ripped and bloodied. His thoughts have stilled.
In the corridor, where air is no longer a punched force and sugar-spun thick, he breathes. And breathes.
And does not, cannot rush for Wei Ying, but simply — accepting somehow the blood-let miracle of him — crawls toward the rasped, clawed sound of his hums and drags a hand onto his shoulder, anchors on him. The full weight of him now is kitten-like, strained. )
Have your say home. ( Only, get him there. )