He only fuzzily remembers being carried away -- the howls of the creatures that still mass around them, the frigid bite of the wind. Lucky that his trust is rewarded on this cold morning, that Lan Wangji is not a petty man and Archeval's acerbic behavior hasn't earned him a moment of disloyalty, because without two strong weary hands lifting him up he would be fodder for the corpses now. The scenery passes by in a blur as he bleeds slowly on Wangji's clothes and fights a battle still entirely within himself.
The warlord, the hollow thing he's called inside, it's not him and it can't have him. His name is Archeval and he still owns this body and he's not done-- He beats it back with memory and will, wrestles with Unhalad within the currents of the Force, he knows who he is and he will not be denied-- peace is a lie, goes the Code, and he remembers it because this creature is not him and can't have him-- peace is a lie, there is only passion, through passion I gain strength, and the Force shall free me--
He can hear himself think a little more properly again by the time he's deposited inside the farmhouse, stumbling to hands and knees and thinking at least to try to right himself into sitting, breathing hard. He can feel a pain in his side still, vaguely, far away, but pain was never of any consequence. There's blood dried cold down the front of his robes by now, and other substances that don't bear naming. The wound down the side of his torso still seeps fresh and wet at its center, but -- even if he had the presence of mind to reach up and knit it closed right now, he might not have the energy. Like everyone here, he was already near exhaustion to begin with, and it's taking all he has simply to hold onto himself.
He can hear footsteps hurrying in his direction, and more on instinct than conscious thought, green eyes turn up to take notice of his friend with a half-focused gaze.
As Eleven approaches he may feel something on the air around Archeval, a little darker than usual. A little unpleasant to the touch. But the fighting today has been long and brutal, demanding everything out of them; the Dark Lord's power is frequently uncomfortable to be around, sucking away the light where it passes. Perhaps it's only that. The lingering feel of the battlefield.
post-siege - for Eleven
The warlord, the hollow thing he's called inside, it's not him and it can't have him. His name is Archeval and he still owns this body and he's not done-- He beats it back with memory and will, wrestles with Unhalad within the currents of the Force, he knows who he is and he will not be denied-- peace is a lie, goes the Code, and he remembers it because this creature is not him and can't have him-- peace is a lie, there is only passion, through passion I gain strength, and the Force shall free me--
He can hear himself think a little more properly again by the time he's deposited inside the farmhouse, stumbling to hands and knees and thinking at least to try to right himself into sitting, breathing hard. He can feel a pain in his side still, vaguely, far away, but pain was never of any consequence. There's blood dried cold down the front of his robes by now, and other substances that don't bear naming. The wound down the side of his torso still seeps fresh and wet at its center, but -- even if he had the presence of mind to reach up and knit it closed right now, he might not have the energy. Like everyone here, he was already near exhaustion to begin with, and it's taking all he has simply to hold onto himself.
He can hear footsteps hurrying in his direction, and more on instinct than conscious thought, green eyes turn up to take notice of his friend with a half-focused gaze.
As Eleven approaches he may feel something on the air around Archeval, a little darker than usual. A little unpleasant to the touch. But the fighting today has been long and brutal, demanding everything out of them; the Dark Lord's power is frequently uncomfortable to be around, sucking away the light where it passes. Perhaps it's only that. The lingering feel of the battlefield.
Perhaps.