He sinks, and he cannot breathe, and for a moment his only thought is that he should not have looked, that he should have averted his eyes, for if he gazed upon his (the Hero's) memories for a second too long, there looms the possibility that they might become synchronized. Already, the line between them has blurred as he walks this plane, one of many sealed away within his mind, experiencing the recollection as though he were the one walking as the moon made its ascent above fields of wilderness, like his had been the voice which called out—sword—rippling through the land, violent and vacuous as it echoed from the depths of the abyss.
His emptiness had instilled fear in even his creator's heart, in the very center of the world.
He is the equation of their design, their personal chasm, the thing which destroyed and devoured all before it, but this...
This is not his body.
(Somewhere, on the outside, there is a force which would move him—someone who has foolishly remained by his side.)
Sion looks up, the vessel of his soul adrone with dread, the hollow where he kept everything precious to him now infested with darkness. How dare this come to pass, how dare this happen when he had taken great pains to avoid it—who could think he would willfully remain here, roaming this place until his consciousness eroded away.
(A voice reaches his ears, familiar and sharp at is edges, not so simply calling, but demanding...)
"I will not walk on this path!"
(Demanding that he...)
"I will be no one's marionette, this time... the ugly story that created will end here!"
(...wake up.)
All at once, with long-shuddering sigh that courses through the whole of him, the darkness ebbs, lifting from Sion's eyes. As quickly as it had surfaced, the oppressive air has gone, leaving Tieria to breathe easy—
—and Sion not much at all. ]
You will have the whole of the fortress convinced that another attack is upon us if you continue to yell like that, Tieria.
[ His heart beating fast in his chest, Sion's voice sounds weak to his own ears, but it is his own voice, all the same—this is his body. His body which is very much gathered into Tieria's arms, held so very tightly that it is difficult for him to move, to manage lifting his good arm, but somehow yet his hand rises, his fingers resting atop the crown of the man's head in a comforting gesture, stroking through locks of hair. He does not wish to think about how fearful his ward must have been (what Tieria must have glimpsed) before he woke here, in such a position. ]
...and more than that, you would see me crushed beneath you, robbed utterly of breath?
[ And reeling, as though he had been shaken, such that he cannot be helped if he leans forward, resting his forehead against Tieria's own. ]
no subject
He sinks, and he cannot breathe, and for a moment his only thought is that he should not have looked, that he should have averted his eyes, for if he gazed upon his (the Hero's) memories for a second too long, there looms the possibility that they might become synchronized. Already, the line between them has blurred as he walks this plane, one of many sealed away within his mind, experiencing the recollection as though he were the one walking as the moon made its ascent above fields of wilderness, like his had been the voice which called out—sword—rippling through the land, violent and vacuous as it echoed from the depths of the abyss.
His emptiness had instilled fear in even his creator's heart, in the very center of the world.
He is the equation of their design, their personal chasm, the thing which destroyed and devoured all before it, but this...
This is not his body.
(Somewhere, on the outside, there is a force which would move him—someone who has foolishly remained by his side.)
Sion looks up, the vessel of his soul adrone with dread, the hollow where he kept everything precious to him now infested with darkness. How dare this come to pass, how dare this happen when he had taken great pains to avoid it—who could think he would willfully remain here, roaming this place until his consciousness eroded away.
(A voice reaches his ears, familiar and sharp at is edges, not so simply calling, but demanding...)
"I will not walk on this path!"
(Demanding that he...)
"I will be no one's marionette, this time... the ugly story that created will end here!"
(...wake up.)
All at once, with long-shuddering sigh that courses through the whole of him, the darkness ebbs, lifting from Sion's eyes. As quickly as it had surfaced, the oppressive air has gone, leaving Tieria to breathe easy—
—and Sion not much at all. ]
You will have the whole of the fortress convinced that another attack is upon us if you continue to yell like that, Tieria.
[ His heart beating fast in his chest, Sion's voice sounds weak to his own ears, but it is his own voice, all the same—this is his body. His body which is very much gathered into Tieria's arms, held so very tightly that it is difficult for him to move, to manage lifting his good arm, but somehow yet his hand rises, his fingers resting atop the crown of the man's head in a comforting gesture, stroking through locks of hair. He does not wish to think about how fearful his ward must have been (what Tieria must have glimpsed) before he woke here, in such a position. ]
...and more than that, you would see me crushed beneath you, robbed utterly of breath?
[ And reeling, as though he had been shaken, such that he cannot be helped if he leans forward, resting his forehead against Tieria's own. ]