[ Caren's voice does not reach him, the lashing of the wind and the blood rushing through his ears the only sounds audible to him as he pitches himself forward in flight, defying all that which he'd been created to be in pursuit of something far more precious: a life. He thinks not to guard his back, no more than he cares to avoid airborne debris, molten gold gashes renting his skin as he cuts through the sky, blitzing forth with fury and with might, an avenging angel turned guardian true as he sees Guiding Light returned to its place at his back, his arms freed and given to a singular purpose—Alice, who'd toppled from her floating isle, red blossoming upon the white of her coat, her green eyes lost in the sea of her dark hair as it swirled about her.
He does not doubt still, in his ability to catch her (there is no other option, he must—always, he would lift her up if she were to fall), though he finds...
He finds that he hates these hands (even as Alice falls into his arms, her body angled protectively toward his chest as the winds whip about them), those which can either attack of defend, but never both. It is a reality of battle, sustaining injury. Prolonged combat is marked by the toiling of soldiers, of Heroes who have been greatly weathered and worn by their trials and still continue on. But what the King hasn't yet grown accustomed to (and likely will never be able to accept) is the role which has been imposed upon him by the powers of this realm—instead of rising to defend those comrades which face danger before him, he must watch them be wounded and bear it with the knowledge that, in the moment he so chose to mend them, they would be beyond exhaustion when he bid them to rise (to fight, to cast unimaginable cruelties upon their enemies) again.
Though...
Long ago, he had forfeit his heart, and if anyone should bear so unkind a role...
Should it not be him? ]
What I seek is sanctuary!
[ —is the incantation which falls from his lips in the instant when his heels touch with the large island both Aisha and Caren have ascended to. Mana drains from him as the rubble is shrouded in iridescent light, bathing the whole of the party in its gentle warmth as it heals in steady increments and degrees, knitting his own lacerations together as surely as it sees Alice's injury closed.
He trusts in Aisha and in Caren to turn their eyes toward the sky as he sinks to his knees, the golden blades of his wings fading into tenuous strands of light before disappearing entirely. Gingerly, gently, he lays Alice to rest upon his lap (and secretly, he hopes for her to rail against him, to prove to him that she is well; that she is all right), his fingers dancing delicate and deft as they hover over her collarbone, casting a secondary healing magic at the root of the injury, where the fabric her coat has been seared open by an errant split of the mana beam.
(How he should have taken the brunt of it, sacrificed the whole of his body to shield the others from the spell.) ]
Alice... [ Her blood replenishes, her strength renews, and everything in him goes to seeing the wound carved so deeply into her chest mended in full that he does not notice it, the moisture which wells at the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek. ]
You held your ground, Alice. [ And he remembers how she'd done the very same on a night which seems to be a too-distant memory; a nightmare which she had fought and triumphed over as he had followed, guarding her as an echo of light in her wake. ] Thank you.
[ And I am sorry, he whispers, only for her to hear. ]
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He does not doubt still, in his ability to catch her (there is no other option, he must—always, he would lift her up if she were to fall), though he finds...
He finds that he hates these hands (even as Alice falls into his arms, her body angled protectively toward his chest as the winds whip about them), those which can either attack of defend, but never both. It is a reality of battle, sustaining injury. Prolonged combat is marked by the toiling of soldiers, of Heroes who have been greatly weathered and worn by their trials and still continue on. But what the King hasn't yet grown accustomed to (and likely will never be able to accept) is the role which has been imposed upon him by the powers of this realm—instead of rising to defend those comrades which face danger before him, he must watch them be wounded and bear it with the knowledge that, in the moment he so chose to mend them, they would be beyond exhaustion when he bid them to rise (to fight, to cast unimaginable cruelties upon their enemies) again.
Though...
Long ago, he had forfeit his heart, and if anyone should bear so unkind a role...
Should it not be him? ]
What I seek is sanctuary!
[ —is the incantation which falls from his lips in the instant when his heels touch with the large island both Aisha and Caren have ascended to. Mana drains from him as the rubble is shrouded in iridescent light, bathing the whole of the party in its gentle warmth as it heals in steady increments and degrees, knitting his own lacerations together as surely as it sees Alice's injury closed.
He trusts in Aisha and in Caren to turn their eyes toward the sky as he sinks to his knees, the golden blades of his wings fading into tenuous strands of light before disappearing entirely. Gingerly, gently, he lays Alice to rest upon his lap (and secretly, he hopes for her to rail against him, to prove to him that she is well; that she is all right), his fingers dancing delicate and deft as they hover over her collarbone, casting a secondary healing magic at the root of the injury, where the fabric her coat has been seared open by an errant split of the mana beam.
(How he should have taken the brunt of it, sacrificed the whole of his body to shield the others from the spell.) ]
Alice... [ Her blood replenishes, her strength renews, and everything in him goes to seeing the wound carved so deeply into her chest mended in full that he does not notice it, the moisture which wells at the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek. ]
You held your ground, Alice. [ And he remembers how she'd done the very same on a night which seems to be a too-distant memory; a nightmare which she had fought and triumphed over as he had followed, guarding her as an echo of light in her wake. ] Thank you.
[ And I am sorry, he whispers, only for her to hear. ]