That cold, heavy laugh again, and again, that sense of a hilt ill-suited to his grip. "Would that it were so simple; did your allies explain to you, about your shard?"
There's a brief pause; the shard sits in his hand, and for the briefest of moments he considers whether he could simply crush it to powder now his strength is returning, and what it would feel like if he did. Would it be like dying again? Or would it be the silence of that void they'd launched themselves into?
(Himeka might well sense some of this, unguarded as his emotions usually are; a sound like splintering glass, maybe? Or she might sense none of it. Communion is an art, and he is gripping the shard much less tightly as he looks at it)
It is, of course, not that simple. If ending were the important part, and not the manner of that ending, he would have done so already. It needs to be a blinding, brilliant inferno that renders him ashes, not a sad little spark alone in a room that he's been told is his, in a city he has not yet had time to hate properly but definitely doesn't like.
He clears his throat. Wraps his fingers back around the shard.
"That you are here gives me some hope this world still has sport to offer. The one that comes next will be better, more worthy, shaped by our hands. And if it is not, we will burn that one too."
CW: even more un-aliving related ideation than usual for this trashfire
There's a brief pause; the shard sits in his hand, and for the briefest of moments he considers whether he could simply crush it to powder now his strength is returning, and what it would feel like if he did. Would it be like dying again? Or would it be the silence of that void they'd launched themselves into?
(Himeka might well sense some of this, unguarded as his emotions usually are; a sound like splintering glass, maybe? Or she might sense none of it. Communion is an art, and he is gripping the shard much less tightly as he looks at it)
It is, of course, not that simple. If ending were the important part, and not the manner of that ending, he would have done so already. It needs to be a blinding, brilliant inferno that renders him ashes, not a sad little spark alone in a room that he's been told is his, in a city he has not yet had time to hate properly but definitely doesn't like.
He clears his throat. Wraps his fingers back around the shard.
"That you are here gives me some hope this world still has sport to offer. The one that comes next will be better, more worthy, shaped by our hands. And if it is not, we will burn that one too."