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Nov 13, 2019 8:48 PM
sky is a bad dm
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"If you asked each of the three gods to make a world, whose do you think would look like this one?"

He looks up to the dazzling clouds, catching the morning sun.

"The garden, or the library, or the torture chamber?"

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“I—”

 

 

“...after I asked Velan to accept my pledge... there was no answer. For me, or for anyone.”

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“...exactly then?”

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“It’s hard to know. It’s not as though anyone at the College had pledged just before. But — the reports I’ve found don’t prove it wrong.

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“...if you were truly important to him — if your agonies will be perfect enough...”

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"Please don't tell Cato."

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He nods.

 

"If this is true, and he finds out, I will protect you as well as I can."

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“—you don’t need to do that. But thank you.”

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"I serve my god."

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“If he’s capable of all this, and he wants me protected, surely he can do that too.”

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"Yes. Perhaps this is how he's decided to do it."

They're approaching the tent, now.

"I'll pray on it."

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“...thank you.”

He’s so impossibly holy. 

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He taps the annulus and then pulls his shirt back on before ducking back into the tent.

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He touches his own jewelry, lingering outside. 

You spoke to me. Why? How can I serve you?

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It feels like nothing, at first.

But nothing is itself a feeling, the terrible ache of absent joys he's never felt, the withholding of touch itself a caress.

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He loves him so much. 

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There's the ghost of laughter in his ear before his piercings go red-hot.

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It’s easily the single most painful thing that’s ever happened to him. 

He falls to his knees, fingers digging into the turf, fighting to swallow screams escaping from behind clenched teeth.

He should pray — he knows he should pray — but he can’t remember any words. 

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The next thing he sees is Z trying to help him up – stopping, staring, when he sees the receding glow of hot metal.

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He — tries to say something clever; finds he can’t speak, not with metal still burning in his tongue. 

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His eyes are locked on the little point of light in Yvan's mouth, even after it fades entirely.

He can't look away.

His hands are still on Yvan's shoulders.

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He slumps against Z, shuddering slightly. 

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He strokes his back, a little, for lack of a better idea.

(The nerves are still screaming – the annulus sliding on the chains is a new needle in his flesh every time it slides over a link.)

"...Did it just – by itself...?"

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He can’t speak, whimpering and trying to remember how to breathe. 

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"–is he–"

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