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Entry tags:
- !event,
- #innocence,
- archduke j: visionary,
- barnaby brooks jr: lover,
- estinien wyrmblood: firebrand,
- eustace: firebrand,
- father paul hill: martyr,
- kaeya alberich: lover,
- kim dokja: martyr,
- kim kitsuragi: martyr,
- liem talbott: champion,
- majorita: firebrand,
- makoto ("m"): firebrand,
- meteion: innocent,
- ryunosuke naruhodo: champion,
- tartaglia (childe): firebrand,
- yuya sakaki: lover
EVENT #5: SOVEREIGN CITIZENS (VENERA)
Sovereign Citizens
VENERA
In contrast the Aion's last visit, they now arrive in Venera on a completely average day... or so it seems. Unlike Godsblood, Venera has been given no warning as to what's about to befall it; the Kenoma are simply authorized to arrive and begin their bloody work without fanfare. Even their entourage of Achamite soldier don't stick out that much; in the time since the plague left, the city has refilled with occupying forces. Notably, the Hylician ones seem to be keeping out of the way, almost as if they've heard some things and would rather not be involved too closely in what's to come.As opposed to the ghost town it was during the plague, Venera is now reasonably active, with most attending to their usual business. Shops are open, and its people are withdrawn but superficially friendly when meeting strangers. Initially, the targets of the Kenoma hit list will have no way of knowing what's coming for them, but after the first couple attacks word will begin to spread. Those that have recently been engaging in seditious behavior will become harder to find, leaving their usual homes and workplaces to stay elsewhere, and making other attempts to escape the Regent's attention.
Once those alerts have been raised, the Kenoma will have to engage in more detective work to find their targets, questioning other Venerans and seeking out fugitives in the homes of their family and friends. In the meantime, some of those who believe they are in danger may become desperately enough to seek out the Pleroma directly, imploring them for aid. Unfortunately, seeking out one sect may just as easily draw the attention of the other. Most uninvolved Venerans will be too terrified to intervene one way or another, reluctant to aid in the persecution of their neighbors but fearful of consequences. If your Aion travels openly, it will take some effort to pin them down long enough to hold a conversation.
SEEDS OF DESPAIR
Several days into the culling of Venera, the Aions will have witnessed the city gradually withdraw into itself. The streets become vacant as more and more people decide it isn't worth the risk to be seen outside, abandoning work and play alike to hide out in their homes, refusing to answer their doors to all except the most desperate pleading. Those that can't avoid their daily obligations are quiet and morose, trying their best to remain unseen and unremarked upon.
If your character has been observed as a Kenoma, either now or in their previous visits to the city, the citizens will look upon them as if they are the messengers of death. If you are seen as a Pleroma, they will resist your gaze, as if fearing your presence alone might leave them marked. In rarer cases, you will see those with stronger spirits, with glares of hatred or determination. They are powerless now, but seeds have been sewn, and whether they are the seeds of despair or of action are yet unclear.
By the time the Kenoma's hit list has been fully addressed, several have been killed and several more have been rushed from their homes to flee the city entirely. There have been holes left in the tapestry of the community they were once part of. One way or another, their absence will be felt keenly by those they left behind.
If your character has been observed as a Kenoma, either now or in their previous visits to the city, the citizens will look upon them as if they are the messengers of death. If you are seen as a Pleroma, they will resist your gaze, as if fearing your presence alone might leave them marked. In rarer cases, you will see those with stronger spirits, with glares of hatred or determination. They are powerless now, but seeds have been sewn, and whether they are the seeds of despair or of action are yet unclear.
By the time the Kenoma's hit list has been fully addressed, several have been killed and several more have been rushed from their homes to flee the city entirely. There have been holes left in the tapestry of the community they were once part of. One way or another, their absence will be felt keenly by those they left behind.
QUESTIONS
What is the best way for Aions to travel to Venera?
Estinien has plans to get an early start for the Pleroma by teleporting to the Lover's shrine and flying somewhere closer to set up a portal from the ocean caves near the Godsblood Lodestone to a spot of farmland closer to Venera. Paul will be setting up a portal directly from Achamoth to one of the Achamite outposts in Venera.
How much force can the Kenoma use while interrogating Venerans?
While they are generally not permitted to kill Venerans who haven't tried to physically fight them, they will be permitted to apply both physical and mental pressure upon those that refuse to provide them with information regarding the whereabouts of their targets. This duress should be proportional to the resistance the Veneran is offering. The Regent is not inviting them to terrorize Venera on a level to a level they cannot reasonably blaim themselves for.
Estinien has plans to get an early start for the Pleroma by teleporting to the Lover's shrine and flying somewhere closer to set up a portal from the ocean caves near the Godsblood Lodestone to a spot of farmland closer to Venera. Paul will be setting up a portal directly from Achamoth to one of the Achamite outposts in Venera.
How much force can the Kenoma use while interrogating Venerans?
While they are generally not permitted to kill Venerans who haven't tried to physically fight them, they will be permitted to apply both physical and mental pressure upon those that refuse to provide them with information regarding the whereabouts of their targets. This duress should be proportional to the resistance the Veneran is offering. The Regent is not inviting them to terrorize Venera on a level to a level they cannot reasonably blaim themselves for.
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[ Again, that whiplash-inducing gearshift. Gen's voice emerges as a guttural snarl, accompanied by the sound of another step forward, bootsoles bearing down on the decorative bricks underfoot. ]
Look at me if you're gonna waste my time with that self-pitying drivel.
[ 'But I wonder why they couldn't say it?' Is he asking that for real? Is Dokja really that much of a shit-for-brains idiot? It's obvious that he has allies here who care about him far more than he deserves, scrambling to cover for his pathetic ass even as they kindly refrain from blaming him. Dokja, for all his claims of having nothing but a fictional story to cling to, has people here who would suffer for him, and this is how he talks about them?
(He remembers Reiji, asking to die by his hands. Acting if the prospect of death alongside some washed-up former idol is the most he's ever had.)
It pisses him off. Infuriates him. The low burn of frustration crawling through his veins threatens to boil over, and Gen ignores the exhausted complaints of his body to take another step closer to Dokja. The mace -- filthy and battered by now, the metal covered in nicks and dings -- gleams under the moonlight as he adjusts his grip on it. ]
You should've turned and left the moment you saw me. You know that, don't you. But you didn't, 'cause you just can't wait to see how you can fuck things up for everyone else this time. [ Is what he's saying the truth? Maybe, maybe not. He doesn't even care. Gen gives a derisive scoff before continuing. ] What're you gonna do this time? Ask for another beating? Or go crying for your friends to come help you again.
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...
He should have thanked them more.
Even if he can't understand their motivations or their reasons for wanting to assist him, they were still kind to put forth their efforts for him. It's nice to know people like that exist in today's world, despite their own personal hardships. They'll be okay. He trusts them to be okay. They're stronger than he is.
When Gen steps forward, mace in hand, Dokja does the same. The sword in his grip is a familiar one, its long blade in one piece unlike the last time he'd seen it. He remembers that memory clearly, one of the few he had thought important to keep with him, and how this sword had been his one attempt at salvation. His out. Until Yoo Joonghyuk had grabbed the blade with his bare hand to keep it from sinking into flesh.
He's found another way out now, and there's no one here to stop him. ]
I'll kill you if you hold back.
[ So make it a good story. ]
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But funnily enough -- he can't bring himself to care.
'I'll kill you if you hold back,' Dokja says, and his blood boils. Maybe with anticipation, maybe with rage. Maybe both. Regardless, there's immediately the creak of the leather grip of his mace as Gen tightens his grip on the weapon until his knuckles pale.
He doesn't bother dignifying Dokja's shitty challenge with a response before moving.
The only warning Dokja get is a small quiver of the earth beneath his feet before Gen snarls and gives a wide swipe of his free hand. Then there's the sound of dirt shifting, tiles cracking, bricks crushing against each other as the ground beneath Dokja's heels suddenly erupts outwards, aiming to spill him forward. In that same moment, Gen lunges forward, mace swinging a wide arc, the heavy head of it aimed right where Dokja's chest should land.
Perhaps it would be more efficient to aim for the head. Try to kill in one blow. But Gen isn't even thinking that far ahead. In this moment, all he cares about is inflicting as much violence upon Dokja, as efficiently as possible. ]
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If anything, this is the perfect setup for this stage.
For now, he's relying on his swordsmanship, and even that feels like a stretch with the way his injuries scream in protest at every slight movement. There's a barely there tremble in his right arm, and his left comes over the hilt to support Unbroken Faith's weight. Like this, he moves to meet Gen.
He doesn't get very far before the ground crumbles beneath him, and while he does lurch forward, he does so purposefully, using the momentum to drive his sword toward the oncoming mace. The blade takes the brunt of the attack, steel singing upon contact, and Dokja pushes forward from the uneven ground to try and drive Gen back and find solid footing.
They've fought like this before. They know each other's moves. All it takes is gaining the upper hand in one instant. ]
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Fuck. It pisses him off. Pisses him off that Dokja hadn't simply crumbled before his words this time, pisses him off that Dokja isn't a complete pushover when it comes to combat, pisses him off that Dokja has the gall to threaten him with anything. Everything about this situation is just another needless stressor grating at his nerves on top of the strain of enduring the past few days in this city, and it pisses him off.
Anger over pain. Always. The moment he stops focusing on his rage, the pain comes back. And so he feeds the flames of his hatred and ire, reminding himself of that shitty look Dokja had worn so many months back in that cave as he spoke, casual as anything: 'Have you ever killed someone?'
The guttural roar that tears from his throat is a truly hateful noise, cut off by the shriek of steel as Gen forcefully untangles his mace from Dokja's blade with a hard outward swing. And without waiting a beat, he hammers the weapon down at Dokja. Then once more. And again. Again. It's a mindless downpour of violence that he rains down upon Dokja, driving him back with sheer force, step by step. How long will he be able to endure under this onslaught of loathing? ]
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Each downward swing reignites the pain already shooting through him, makes him more aware of every injury dashed across his body as the blows continue on and on. They thrum and echo past skin and sinew, to the point where it feels like his bones are rattling with the amount of exertion and strength Gen pelts down on him. Like this, there's a noticeable difference between them, made especially obvious by the way Dokja's arms shake with the effort to hold on despite the heavy strikes landing again and again. What has he been doing these past few months besides being holed up in his room with only books for company?
He's out of practice. He's out of options.
Not to mention, he doesn't have anger on his side. There's nothing inside of him but an emptiness to reach into, with only darkness to lap at his fingertips. He's not fighting for anything. He's fighting for the sake of fighting.
Eventually, he's pushed back enough that the heel of his boot touches upon something solid, and Dokja doesn't have any time to turn and look at what it is that's behind him, all of his focus honed in on fending off these brutal blows that seem intent on shattering his blade to get through to him. ]
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And maybe Dokja can spot the way Gen's gaze flickers briefly towards that something behind his back for a brief moment before the next blow comes.
This one hammers down just as hard, of course, the ring of metal on metal enough to send a shiver down to the marrow. But the one that come after that -- is Dokja astute enough to sense the change in its tempo? Because this one comes lighter. Not because Gen is relenting in his ceaseless violence towards Dokja. But because Gen needs to reel back from this blow a half-beat quicker so he can instead lash out with a hard kick, aimed at Dokja's unprotected midriff while he still has his sword raised to guard himself from the mace's impact.
If he was quick enough, it should knock Dokja back over. And with the fountain's lip catching at his calves, unless his sense of balance and recovery are truly prodigious, it should be enough to send him toppling right into the fountain.
But just in case that kick isn't enough, Gen follows it up by lunging in close as soon as he's recovered from the kick, his battered body driven purely by rage and adrenaline. Mace raised as he prepares to swing down once more, aiming to catch Dokja while he's still disoriented. ]
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But it's still not enough to prepare him for the what.
The kick lands squarely in his middle as intended and Dokja feels the air leave his lungs. With nowhere but the fountain to drop back into, he falls, toppling over without an ounce of grace as he tries desperately to suck in a breath when it's like his entire body feels the need to readjust itself just to remember how to breathe. He hits the bottom of the fountain with a grunt, though he's spared any extra injuries in his fall. The water's shallow, but drenched as he is, weighed down by his wet clothes, his movements aren't as light and quick as before. When Gen comes hurtling toward him, he has a split second decision to make.
He raises his arm to cover his vulnerable head, and he hears it before he feels it. There's a sickening crack of bone that rings in his ears, and his mouth drops open in a silent cry of pain. It's like his arm's on fire with how much it burns, and if he could afford to spare it a single glance, he'd find his arm in an unnatural shape.
Too bad that he doesn't have that sort of time to waste. Despite the agonizing pain coursing through him, this still puts his hand close enough to the mace that he can latch his trembling fingers around the handle of the weapon, looking to fix both it and Gen in place while his good arm comes swinging with his sword, its blade arcing through the air at a brilliant speed to cut any part of Gen it can reach. ]
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only for it to catch against Dokja's hand.
It's only a split second that Gen hesitates. Only a moment where he's caught off-guard by the fact that Dokja can still move that hand despite the obvious damage it's taken. The timespan of a single breath where he's frozen in indecision, needing to course correct. And that tiny sliver of time is all it takes for things to go terribly wrong.
The gleam of the sword's blade is followed by a strange impact that catches at his left arm, jerking him to the side. Vaguely, Gen's aware of the sound of fabric tearing, steel rending through something, then the sound of a heavy object falling into the nearby foliage. And there's no pain, but ...
As Gen reflexively catches himself from that backwards stagger, lunging forth to stomp the heel of his boot right against Dokja's sternum, he wonders why the water in the fountain around them is beginning to dye red. Wonders why his balance feels so off when he gives a vicious swing of the mace, its head catching against Dokja's sword to try and disarm him; he almost unbalances himself as he straightens up, swaying for a moment on his feet. Wonders why there's a strange chill starting to settle ever so light over his shoulders as he takes his next ragged breath, an uneasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach -- the sense that something is wrong. And it's only then, as he sees another gout of blood patter into the fountain's surface and send ripples across its moonlit surface, he realizes where that blood is coming from him.
From where his arm's been severed halfway down from the shoulder. ]
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This much he should be able to take, because Dokja has taken the same and worse.
When the heel comes down, it comes down hard, right against the shard nestled there. A pain unlike anything he's experienced before pierces through his mind and body and he cries out, swallowing a mouthful of fountain water in the process while he thrashes, broken arm no longer a concern with how much the rest of him hurts. He's barely aware of the fact that he's been disarmed, Gen's mace sending his sword plunging some distance away into the other side of the fountain.
All he knows is he has to relieve this pressure pushing down on his chest. With his broken arm nearly useless, he uses his other hand to come up to grab at Gen's leg, mustering up his remaining strength to yank him off and hopefully unbalance him further.
They've both sustained grievous injuries. Dokja knows there's not much longer left to this. ]
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Gen watches the next spurt of blood gush from the jagged wound, eyes wide, like he's hypnotized by the flow of opera crimson. And how can he not? There's something truly surreal about that sight, like he can't quite connect it to his perception of reality -- that his arm is gone -- and Gen swallows thickly as he reaches a hand towards that injury. The sound of his mace landing in the fountain next to Dokja's leg sounds like it's coming from terribly far away, and even when he touches a finger to the frighteningly clean edge of that cut, his sensations are muddled.
It doesn't hurt. His fingers come away wet with blood. But his arm is gone.
Even that sudden yank at his leg doesn't fully break through the thick haze of fog that's settled over his thoughts. Gen stumbles back a step, water splashing loudly around his boots from the movements, and even then, there's a moment's pause before his gaze slides down to focus on Dokja.
Ah. Right. He needs to kill Dokja, doesn't he?
Gen inhales sharply. Then crushes his heel into Dokja's chest once more, hard, right at the solar plexus. Sways, still struggling to balance himself, then shifts to stomp down on Dokja's good arm with his other boot. Bears his weight down on it fully as he heavily brings his other knee down on Dokja's chest. Then firmly wraps his hand around the slim column of Dokja's throat. ]
You need to die.
[ His words are deliberate. Clear. There's no mistaking what he's said. But Dokja might notice that Gen's gaze is starting to go distant even as his palm starts to crush into Dokja's adam's apple. As fingers start to squeeze. ]
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He wants so badly for it to end.
But at the same time, he knows it has to go on.
As soon as he feels a hand around his throat, he tries to raise his broken arm to stop it. It's almost involuntary with how automatic his movements are, but it's no use. Even if he really wanted to stop this, he doesn't have a drop of strength in him, let alone in a crushed arm. And as the blood-soaked water laps at him from all sides, as his body begins to fail him, as he watches the faraway look fix itself into place over Gen's eyes, a long forgotten clarity comes to him. ]
You—
[ He gasps around the word, chest heaving in a desperate attempt to suck in air. Just enough. Just barely enough so that he can say what he needs to say. ]
Do it right.
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[ Those words that Dokja forces out past the crush of his throat are rebuked without ceremony or consideration; Gen's gaze is cold as he stares down at Dokja's miserable, water-flecked, choked face. The low tone of his words, only loud enough for the two of them, is at odds with the way he steadily bears his weight down on his hand. ]
Shut up and just die.
[ But past the encroaching darkness starting to take over his field of vision, maybe Dokja can hear the sounds of Gen's breaths growing increasingly ragged. The way his hand trembles unsteadily, even as his nails dig into the soft skin at the side of Dokja's throat. The way his silhouette, backlit by the moon's glow, hunches smaller in on itself -- his weight crushing down steaily against Dokja's windpipe, even as he seems to want to hide away in his own shadow.
-- his head's full of static. The sound of water splashing is overlaid by the scrape of fingers clawing through dirt. The soft of Dokja's throat feels exactly like Reiji's had under his palm; Dokja's labored gasps are a mirror for Reiji's. Not so different from the dying gasps of that man who'd pretend to be Reiji's father as he lay bleeding on a bathroom's tile floor. The air smells like blood, just like six years ago. It feels like something heavy, heavy that's always been laid over his shoulders won't stop growing, boring into him like a cancerous weight. Crushing into his lungs.
The desire to end this matter as quickly as possible has Gen reflexively jerking his truncated arm forth, trying to add the weight of a second hand against Dokja's throat. But all that does is splatter his blood across Dokja's face; the stench of iron is so thick in the air he can taste it on his tongue. And even as his breaths sharpen to reedier gasps, Gen mutters between them, ]
Just die, just die.
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With his previous deaths, there had always been the certainty that he'd be back. It was just a temporary, yet necessary, measure. Another plan, another method, all for the sake of what he thought would be his happy ending. The curtains would close and he would be able to rest, once and for all, with the people that he loved most and couldn't live without. That was how it was supposed to be, that was what he had envisioned to be the end every single time the lights would fade and darkness would swallow him whole. He'd be back. Just one more sacrifice. Just one more after that.
And then his real conclusion had come. For an existence like him, there's no such thing as a happy ending.
He can't say he'll be leaving without regrets, and he hopes he'd kept things shallow enough with the others that they can move on quickly. He'd tried not to get attached, but he thinks he'll miss everyone he's met during his stay. They'd been far too kind to someone as undeserving as him, and as much as his heart aches, he's seen the strength that they carry inside of them. Something he sorely lacks. They'll be okay, he reassures himself again. Even now when he's got a hand clamped around his throat and the pressure feels like too much, like his head is going to burst as he uselessly tries to draw in a breath that his body is screaming at him that he needs, he wants to think about anyone other than himself.
But it's hard when his thoughts keep coming back to the present, to the way his good arm flexes and tenses as his fingers curl and uncurl under the surface of the water. He can't even swallow like this and he's not sure if his face is wet from the splashing, the blood from Gen's arm, or from his own saliva seeping out from the corners of his mouth. He must be making noises, too. Guttural, animalistic grunts and short gasps while his shaking fingers attached to his broken arm weakly grasp at the wrist holding down his neck before they finally fall away.
It takes a terribly long time to die like this, and he doesn't want Gen's face to be the last thing he sees. So he turns his eyes up, or do they roll back that way? Whatever happens, his mind no longer functioning at full capacity, he does at least catch a glimpse of the stars hanging above them both.
Hated things.
The pieces of himself that he'd left behind in the stars will remain to read the story. As for him, the familiar darkness that he's met time and time again begins to creep around the peripherals of his vision. Soon he can't hear anything at all, see anything at all, feel anything at all.
And just like that, Kim Dokja dies. ]
no subject
At least, it seems like an eternity that Gen spends feeling his throat spasm and convulse beneath the squeeze of his palm, hearing those reedy breaths gasped past spittle-flecked lips, watching the way his face contorts with agony before starting to go slack. No matter how hard he bears his weight down on his pale-knuckled grip, it still feels like years that he kneels there on Dokja's chest, watching dark eyes slowly lose focus. How long has he spent there in that fountain? How long does it take the sounds of splashing water to fade out until it's just the rasp of his own breaths and the drum of his pulse ringing in his ears?
He can't feel his fingers by the time he unwinds them from around the spongy, bruised flesh of Dokja's throat and sits back on his haunches; it takes Gen a while to realize he's trembling. His stomach wrenches with nausea, but for better or worse, it's already empty. So when he looks down at the ugly, unflattering sight of Dokja's expression in death, all he feels is a horrid, acrid sensation settling dense and heavy in his lungs.
-- Kim Dokja is dead. The man who placed that burden on his shoulders and mocked his memories is dead. He should be feeling vindicated. Why is it that he feels nothing instead? No, not nothing. A terrible hollowness. (Like six years ago.)
Water splashes around him as Gen starts to rise to his feet, then splashes louder as he stumbles and sinks back down. He can't seem to muster any strength in his legs, and it takes him another long moment to realize it must be from bloodloss; a glance down at his arm -- where his arm used to be -- reveals the flow of blood has slowed but hasn't stopped. The water in the fountain is crimson by now and there's a haze of static starting to settle over his thoughts like a heavy snowfall, quiet and persistent.
... is he going to die?
Maybe that won't be bad, he thinks. Sure, it sucks he'll die alone, but at least he'll get some rest, he thinks. Maybe he should just die here, he thinks.
Even so, he finds himself struggling to yank his belt free and loop it around what's left of his arm. Wrenching it tight with just his teeth and one hand is hard, and the pain almost makes him pass out when he pulls it as taut as he can, compressing the wound; he vaguely remembers seeing this in some TV show, but it's hard to tell if he's done it right. Funny how, even as he thinks dying might be fine, he ends up dragging himself out of that fountain, hitting the ground with a heavy thump and the splat of wet clothes. His fingers are slippery with blood, and it takes him two, three attempts to pull his shard from where it sits at his throat. And though some small part of him fervently welcomes the heavy lassitude beginning to weigh on his shoulders, he still finds himself reaching desperately out across that psychic link for the first person that comes to mind. ]
... Eustace.
[ 'You don't have to do it alone.' Those quiet words Eustace had told him before, spiked through with residual frustration and exhaustion, echo in his thoughts. He hadn't meant to ever cash in on that tacit promise, especially not in this way. But it turns out some pathetic, cowardly, worthless corner of him is still terrified of dying, especially of dying alone like this. It's that fear that colors his message to Eustace -- just one word, accompanied by a brilliant frisson of pain and a blurry snapshot of the beautiful church garden surrounding him. ]
Help.
no subject
Despite the fear the fills the streets of Venera - or perhaps because of it - a few local restaurants stay open, the waitresses and hostesses shrinking away from him whenever he enters for a poorly timed meal. He's not particularly hungry, appetite whittled to nearly nothing, but he understands on a practical level that he needs the energy to keep going.
He's on his third slow bite when he gets that oh-so-familiar Communion niggle pressing up against his mind and it's with a sigh that he dips his head and pulls out his shard with his free hand. (They've already seen him prowling the streets for the Regent's assigned targets, there's no point hiding his identity now.) He's not at all prepared for what he hears from the other end.
The voice is a surprise and the single word itself moreso, but it's the deafening wave of pain - and behind it, the ripples of anger, exhaustion, fear - that knocks his psyche off-balance. His spoon slams against the table as he bolts upright, the ugly screech of chair scraping against floor leaving echoes in the air behind him as he runs out the door, his stew left to cool and congeal.
He runs for his life, though it isn't his life he's worried about but one far more important. Suddenly he's beyond grateful to have spent the past ten days in Venera, because it means he's that much more comfortable with the streets of the city now, with a much better mental map of where all the major landmarks are located. He remembers the church, with its stained glass windows and its lush garden in the back. Not too far from where he is currently, if his mental map stays true.
He's grateful too that the streets are deserted by this point, because it means he doesn't have to slam bodies out of his way as he presses forward.
As he runs, he fires back messages of his own, a sharp worried edge to his voice. ]
I'll be there soon. What happened?
[ Is happening?? He grits his teeth as he prepares for the worst, trying to speed up his pace. ]
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I killed him.
[ 'Him.' Does Eustace need any clarification on who that might be? Probably not.
It's forced upon him anyway.
An image flashes through, only for a moment -- Dokja's face seen from above, drenched in shadows, water and blood. A hand squeezing tight around his throat as he gasps for air. Then it fades to black, replaced by physical sensations that filter through, vivid and raw. The relentless pulse of pain radiating from the arm. A heavy chill that settles steadily into the bones. The feel of bricks and dirt gritting into the temple as Gen curls up on the ground with a breathless groan, a fresh shudder of fear and anxiety rippling through his nerves.
It's in sharp contrast to just how much of himself Gen usually tries to keep hidden over Communion, his emotions locked down tight behind iron walls. Here and now, there's no filter, nothing to lessen what Eustace is also forced to feel. Nothing to dampen the next cold wave of dread that ripples through the chest, squeezing tight around the lungs. And even worse than that, the crush of something heavy that seems to bear down ruthlessly on his chest -- a fatigue that cuts deep into his core. ]
I ... had to. [ Gen's words come at a lower murmur, accompanied by another flicker of Dokja's face. Looking at him, lips moving as he says something. But the image is terribly blurry, and any sounds are drowned out by the come and go of a low static hiss. It's growing harder to recall anything with clarity, and the connection grows thready even as Gen repeats listlessly, ] I had to do it.
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Each successive thought, each successive image, each successive feeling more muted and flickering than the last, only serves to increase the dread that wells in the pit of his stomach, an ugly sick feeling that feels like the entire weight of the Grandcypher bearing down on him.
But he keeps running, because it's all he can do right now. He has to do this right now, before it's too late. ]
I'll be there soon. Hang in there.
[ It's a repeat of what he'd said before, though he don't know if Gen hears him this time. He doesn't wait for an answer anyway, sliding his shard back in and forcing a burst of speed into his pace for the last leg of the journey.
The ugly feeling in his stomach increases tenfold when he skids into the garden behind the church. The first thing that greets him is the smell: the sharp copper scent of too much blood hangs heavy in the air and his nostrils flare in distaste. The second is the fountain, its waters turned murky as it continues to run. The third is the body on the ground, the usually tall form made small as Gen curls in on himself, skin pallid underneath the moonlight and his arm held close in front of him.
His single arm, because the other ends in a bloodied stump halfway down.
Bile rises in this throat but he forces it back down, and forces his legs forward again until he's less than a foot away. A quick check reveals Gen's pulse as still present. Faint and erratic, but still there. ]
Good job hanging in there.
[ The words are soft, almost drowned out by the fountain behind them, purposefully kept low because he doesn't think he can keep his throat from catching if he speaks any louder. He should feel some sort of joy or satisfaction, that Gen had trusted him enough to even consider reaching out to him in this desperate time. Instead, there's only grief, pure and simple, for both the man who shouldn't have had to die (but whose death he had condoned anyway) and the boy who'd felt pressured enough to kill him and had suffered grievous injury as a result.
It shouldn't have come to this.
But it had and there's no time now to dwell on the endless web of mistakes and regrets that had brought them all to this tragic result. He has to get Gen to Paul immediately. But before that....
Water splashes in the fountain as he moves to search through blood-stained basin, fingers finally closing in on something smooth and hard. Without True Sight, it's hard to confirm that what's in his hand is actually an Aion shard, but the size and sheen look about right. The fallen sword by the fountain, blade too pale and smooth to be any regular sword, gets picked up with his other hand. Both get stashed under a nearby bush, items to be regained later.
He pulls out his shard again, sending a quick message to Paul to meet him at an inn nearby. And then it's back to Gen, who gets picked up as carefully as Eustace can manage, though he's sure the jostling does nothing but send more pain through that already battered body. Though Gen is heavier and bulkier, the sensation of another body held close to his chest reminds him too much of how he'd had to carry Kaeya's body out of the storehouse just the day before.
How many more of his comrades' maimed bodies is he going to have to drag back? (When he is going to be the one in their place?)
He says none of this aloud. Instead he moves as fast as he can, uncaring of the blood that stains his clothes and turns his fingers slick and red. ]
Come on. Let's go.
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Gen next blinks awake to the feel of Eustace's fingers at his throat, measuring his pulse. ]
... Eustace.
[ His tongue feels heavy in his mouth; each sound emerges slurred and indistinct between shallow breaths. But still he expends what precious little energy he has left saying that name because it's a tiny flicker of warmth that cuts through the chill that had been settling into his lungs. It's relief, he'll realize in retrospect. It's relief that helps him hang on for just a little longer. Relief that he might not die, certainly, but even more than that, relief that Eustace really had come to help him. That promise hadn't been a lie.
He passes out again, and his next awakening isn't quite so peaceful.
As expected, getting jostled as Eustace picks him up is more than enough to send a jolt of burning pain through what's left of his arm. Gen ends up inadvertently flinching in Eustace's grip as he gives a keening noise of distress; for Eustace, the way he weakly tries to curl in smaller, as if attempting to shy away from what's hurting him, must be a discomfortingly far cry from the bluster and swagger of his usual posture. The only thing that makes Eustace's job easier is that he simply doesn't have the strength to put up any more of a struggle than that very cursory attempt.
His forehead comes to rest against Eustace's shoulder as he body slowly grows lax once more. But if Eustace assumes that means his charge has lost consciousness -- for better or for worse -- that isn't quite correct. Yet. ]
-- Eustace. [ The low murmur of Gen's voice is almost lost beneath the sound of Eustace's boots thumping off the pavement and the thud of his own pulse. But if he listens closely, maybe he can make out those low words rasped out between shallow breaths. ] If I die ... it's not your fault.
[ 'Murder comes with its own set of repercussions,' Eustace had said to him so many weeks ago. He knows that. He's known it for years. He knows the way that having a death on your hands makes a leaden weight sink into the pit of your stomach, an acrid presence that doesn't ever go away, sitting there and slowly burning your insides to soot. And he knows what it's like, to have that burden foisted upon you -- and what it's like to have that go unacknowledged. (Reiji's words echo in the back of his mind. 'Even if you tell me that, I can't shoulder it.' He remembers hollow eyes looking at him, utterly empty. Fundamentally apathetic towards the truth. A sight that still makes his blood run cold.)
That ... that is an injury he doesn't want to inflict on Eustace, not by his hands. Not like this. Especially not when a small part of him welcomes the crackles of darkness encroaching upon the edges of his vision. If Eustace doesn't get him help quickly enough to save his life then, well. It is what it is. Everything feels cold. Just blinking takes so much effort now. Gen isn't sure if he's saying the words out loud any more when he mumbles, ]
The blame ... isn't on you.
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Hard to tell if the increasing press of Gen's head against his shoulders is due to drowsiness or something worse, but either way it's enough motivation for him to speed up his steps despite the ache that's starting to settle into his arms. He's given one small shred of hope when Gen stirs, though the barely audible words that struggle towards his ears turn that hope into immediate ash in his mouth. Despite his best efforts, his fingers spasm reflexively around Gen, a shiver of fear passing through his body. No. That won't happen. He won't let it happen. Can't let it happen because if it does, it really will be his fault.
Fear, anger, guilt all turn his voice rough, a sharp knife cutting through the air as he knocks away Gen's feeble attempt at reassurance. ]
You're not going to die. Don't be an idiot.
[ Though who's the real idiot here, him or Gen? At least Gen seems to have come to terms with any possible fate that awaits him, while Eustace remains stubbornly fighting an outcome that looms bigger and broader with each passing moment.
At least he he can see the outline of their appointed meeting spot forming in the distance, a few lights still on in the window. They'll make it there in time. They have to. ]
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Vaguely, he wonders if Eustace is trying to comfort him. ]
's okay.
[ That's unnecessary. ]
It's fine.
[ Eustace is free to interpret those low words however he likes. Whether Gen is saying he'll be fine, or if he's fine without reassurance, or if he's fine whatever the outcome may be. Whether that's really what he means, or if they're simply the bleary words of someone fighting off the effects of hypovolemic shock. In either case, Eustace won't get the chance to ask for clarification.
Gen passes out cold the next moment, his weight straining at Eustace's overtaxed muscles just that much more in the form of complete deadweight. And though his blood's painted a nauseating, speckled trail all the way from the gardens straight to the inn, at least Eustace will be relieved to see the glow of the inn's light just up ahead, bathing its signs in warm hues that stand out from Venera's dark evening. His mission is just about done. It's simply a matter of waiting to see what happens going forth. ]