Post by Sleeves on Mar 4, 2014 17:23:17 GMT
100
Daedarus is kneeling in mud and rain and there is an obscene amount of blood flowing from where the athame has entered his chest. Small hands, much smaller than his own, clutch the hilt. They are shaking.
Enemies and allies alike merely stand and watch, some with hope and others with horror, as a child murders a man (monster?) right before their eyes. But for Daedarus and his young companion, it is as if they are alone.
"All of my plans have gone so horribly, horribly right,” Daedarus laughs, but even to his own ears it sounds weak, “And you, Elliot Sunderland, are to be my judge, jury, and executioner. You remarkable boy,” Daedarus whispers, grasping the forearm of his once-friend and student, “You are everything I wish I could have been."
"Shut up, Daedarus...,” the boy rasps, trembling with fatigue and shock, “Just shut up….”
"You know I won't,” Daedarus says in as flippant a tone a dying man can manage, “I'm proud of you, Elie." And it is the truth. He can hardly fathom it, the fondness he feels for this small wisp of a boy, but it is present all the same.
"Don't...," Elie begs as Daedarus sinks lower to the ground. The blade has entered much too close to his heart. It is only thanks to his Magic that he is not yet dead. ‘
"We both knew I would die eventually, no matter what the Aos Si said,” Daedarus reasons, “It's an occupational hazard of being a villain, not to mention a mentor.”
Elie shakes his head. "I had to do it. I had to. I’m sorry." There are tears on the boy’s face now, hardly distinguishable from the rain. Daedarus feels only a distant, hollow melancholy upon seeing them. There is some regret and nostalgia mixed in as well, but their flavor is lost on the dying Harbinger. He is so tired. There is nothing left in him now but an aching exhaustion. It clings to his mind like cobweb.
"I know,” Daedarus says simply, and there is a note of finality there that tastes bittersweet and right on his tongue. He absently hopes that the boy doesn’t attempt to bring him back as a zombie. People are never quite the same as zombies.
Daedarus Cain takes one last, shuddering breath, relishing the fresh, crisp air as it stirs his lungs. Blue eyes draw closed like curtains at the end of a play. He falls backwards into sweet, familiar oblivion…
And then it is over.
"You thought I was actually dead? How cute." --Daedarus, two decades later (the bastard)
Gone
Daedarus is kneeling in mud and rain and there is an obscene amount of blood flowing from where the athame has entered his chest. Small hands, much smaller than his own, clutch the hilt. They are shaking.
Enemies and allies alike merely stand and watch, some with hope and others with horror, as a child murders a man (monster?) right before their eyes. But for Daedarus and his young companion, it is as if they are alone.
"All of my plans have gone so horribly, horribly right,” Daedarus laughs, but even to his own ears it sounds weak, “And you, Elliot Sunderland, are to be my judge, jury, and executioner. You remarkable boy,” Daedarus whispers, grasping the forearm of his once-friend and student, “You are everything I wish I could have been."
"Shut up, Daedarus...,” the boy rasps, trembling with fatigue and shock, “Just shut up….”
"You know I won't,” Daedarus says in as flippant a tone a dying man can manage, “I'm proud of you, Elie." And it is the truth. He can hardly fathom it, the fondness he feels for this small wisp of a boy, but it is present all the same.
"Don't...," Elie begs as Daedarus sinks lower to the ground. The blade has entered much too close to his heart. It is only thanks to his Magic that he is not yet dead. ‘
"We both knew I would die eventually, no matter what the Aos Si said,” Daedarus reasons, “It's an occupational hazard of being a villain, not to mention a mentor.”
Elie shakes his head. "I had to do it. I had to. I’m sorry." There are tears on the boy’s face now, hardly distinguishable from the rain. Daedarus feels only a distant, hollow melancholy upon seeing them. There is some regret and nostalgia mixed in as well, but their flavor is lost on the dying Harbinger. He is so tired. There is nothing left in him now but an aching exhaustion. It clings to his mind like cobweb.
"I know,” Daedarus says simply, and there is a note of finality there that tastes bittersweet and right on his tongue. He absently hopes that the boy doesn’t attempt to bring him back as a zombie. People are never quite the same as zombies.
Daedarus Cain takes one last, shuddering breath, relishing the fresh, crisp air as it stirs his lungs. Blue eyes draw closed like curtains at the end of a play. He falls backwards into sweet, familiar oblivion…
And then it is over.
"You thought I was actually dead? How cute." --Daedarus, two decades later (the bastard)
