![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
[ open ] when you're barely breathing; while your heart's still beating
Who: Adrasteius; perhaps you
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
When: June 21
Where: Early morning - Lasker Cathedral; Night - Caissa; the House
What: it is his birthday and he will be sad and die if he wants to
Rating: rated a for angst
i. i'm so stubborn; that's how i got here;
[ This is not a cathedral of Light. The people of Lasker do not worship as he does, do not believe as he does, and their sacred house is like his own in design only. But it's better than nothing.
Adra walks--limps, really--down the aisles, leaning on his staff, feeling as tired as he ever has in his long life. His blood burns in his veins even so, a hot itch that prickles up and down his limbs, across his chest and stomach and throat. He's a walking desert; he's scorched to the bone. It's Midsummer, it's the day he was born, and he feels just about ready to die.
But he has to do a few things first.
Adra makes his way past the nave, past the transept. He stands before the choir. No one's really here yet; it's hours until the 8'o'clock bell, which suits him fine. There's just the altar, the stained glass, and rows and rows of unlit votive candles.
He thinks of the war, of their failure. He thinks of the corpses, civilian and soldier alike, their bodies twisted with agony, their lungs full of lightning and poison. The coagulated blood on their mouths; their ashen skin. He thinks of the people he healed, of the close press of the air in those train cars. The metallic and earthy scent of torn flesh, the sweat and the salt, the crisp ozone hiss of residual magic.
He thinks of the people he killed, and he thinks of his twin brother.
Adra waves his hand over a candle, lights it. Lights two more, then five or six after that. Ultimately, he just thinks, hell with it, and doesn't stop until every wick is burning.
Then, he sinks down into the front pew. He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead to the staff, and he prays. ]
Light give me strength. Bless me, Light, where I am. Bless him, Light, wherever he is. Keep us from harm. Keep us from doing harm. Bless us.
[ He sighs. ]
Give me strength.
ii. like a hurricane, it takes everything from me;
[ He's home, at last. It's early evening; outside, the sun's just setting, the end of a long, long day. Its warm glow suffuses his garden, turning everything to molten gold. Adra stands by the window in the kitchen, fingertips against the glass, watching. From his vantage point, he can see not only his blazing flowers, but the thin, foamy strip of sea just beyond. The waves shimmer as they rise and crash, brilliant in the fading light.
He feels dull and thin by comparison; he feels diminished. He presses his forehead to the glass. Everything aches, from his heart down to his joints. The ride home was agony. But he made it, somehow.
Pain pulses between his temples. He should drink some water, he thinks, but he doesn't move. He just stays right where he is, held up by will alone. He's sure that he'll collapse eventually, but that's all right. He's in his own place. If he's allowed to fall apart anywhere, it's here. ]
no subject
So... what does that mean? That you have to keep casting magic or something?
no subject
[ He frowns, because things are a bit different--and even more aggravating--in Enprise. ]
In Azeroth, I would drain small elementals of their energy, or draw magic out of otherwise inanimate objects. Here, the only way to satisfy the addiction is through this world's concept of 'exchange'.
no subject
[ He can figure that it would've been difficult for Adra, when he seemed so averse to physical contact, but the elf seemed to have become more trusting lately. Bolin doesn't think anything of it then, when he holds a hand out as an offering between them. ]