Thread by @dontenchantme

#scaralumi slight violence warning //

he wants to crush her.

she’s too bright. it hurts, looking at her. like staring straight into the sun and hoping it won’t incinerate you where you stand—

a foolish thought. a wasted dream. he can mourn and repent all he wants and he’ll never get anywhere.

her chest rises and falls gently as she breathes, and he looks at her; looks at the peacefulness of her slumbering face, and he wonders.

mortal flesh is so weak. human and vulnerable, muscle and sinew that give way to the jagged edge of poison dripping pretty from his lips.

if he sank his fingers through her ribcage and cradled her bloody heart in his hand, would he understand her better?

sometimes, he thinks it’d be better if he had never been born.

what’s the point of existing in solitude? removed from the trials and tribulations of the weak—he can never understand what they struggle towards.

maybe that’s why they’re afraid of him.

maybe that’s why, when he looks in the mirror, it’s not himself he sees—rather a phantom turned to flesh, an echo of a past that should no longer exist.

irminsul. the heavenly principles. the meddling of istaroth—all these, do they really matter in the end?

and still, the traveller sleeps, unfettered and unbothered by the pains of the living.

he lets his hand drop to her neck. fingers digging in just slightly, crescent marks left in her pale skin. just a thoughtless, mindless little experiment.

will she wake up? will she reprimand him, push him away with fear on her face, revulsion in her eyes?

or will she forgive him instead, the way she forgives every other mistake—grant him peace and absolution for decisions not of his making?

he never once asked for forgiveness. never asked to be delivered from the weight of his sins.

life would be easier if she would hate him. the gears of his world shift and spin—he knows this pattern and he understands it well.

she defies all logic and convention. there’s nothing to study; a puzzle that defies even divine comprehension.

he wants to tear her apart just to see what makes her tick. blood and viscera staining his skin, proof that he’s alive.

proof that he has impact on this world, one way or another.

instead, he lets go of her. she’s barely even stirred, so deep in slumber that he doubts she’ll even realise what he’s done.

“sleep well, little bird,” he whispers, observing the play of moonlight across her face, how her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks and turns her silver, ethereal, a dream turned real. “and when morning comes…”

when morning comes, everything will reset, and the world will spin anew.

- fin.

i dunno i was kinda going somewhere with this but i lost the plot halfway lol