[ a characteristically soft voice, and yet it digs its heels into the fabric of his mind, drawing the cloak of fog back; his brain is raw and aching from the exposure to this distant world he'd once known.
roland stumbles onto his feet. he reeks of alcohol, and blood and vomit and all things vile and natural to the lowest depths of the backstreets; he is a walking wastebin of a man, with that sullied black suit and smatters of blood for embellishment. he lugs Durandal behind him and staggers towards the woman drunkenly. he is, much to his surprise, completely sober; it makes the ache deepen all the more. ]
You... I see you, sometimes... no-- everyday... [ his mask is still fixed to his face, concealing his contorted expression of pain, but the brokenness with which he speaks gives him away. ] Your body, dangling... headless, like you were in that moment... but every now and then... your face is there too -- and you're smiling, just like before... why did you smile at me...? [ he chokes back something reminiscent of a sob. ] Why did you show me that expression? I'll always loathe you for that...
[ he stands at her throne now, shoulders firmer than they have been in months. this face -- those singed feathers, the ash blue hair, the probing golds of her eyes... yes; he wishes he could forget this beloved ghost of his. but here she sits before him, as lifeless as he is. ]
Angela. [ roland raises his blade, pointing it to her and allowing its tip to graze against her shoulder. he can feel the weight of her flesh beneath its touch. ] I have to see if this is a dream... show this dog one last trick, will you...
no subject
roland stumbles onto his feet. he reeks of alcohol, and blood and vomit and all things vile and natural to the lowest depths of the backstreets; he is a walking wastebin of a man, with that sullied black suit and smatters of blood for embellishment. he lugs Durandal behind him and staggers towards the woman drunkenly. he is, much to his surprise, completely sober; it makes the ache deepen all the more. ]
You... I see you, sometimes... no-- everyday... [ his mask is still fixed to his face, concealing his contorted expression of pain, but the brokenness with which he speaks gives him away. ] Your body, dangling... headless, like you were in that moment... but every now and then... your face is there too -- and you're smiling, just like before... why did you smile at me...? [ he chokes back something reminiscent of a sob. ] Why did you show me that expression? I'll always loathe you for that...
[ he stands at her throne now, shoulders firmer than they have been in months. this face -- those singed feathers, the ash blue hair, the probing golds of her eyes... yes; he wishes he could forget this beloved ghost of his. but here she sits before him, as lifeless as he is. ]
Angela. [ roland raises his blade, pointing it to her and allowing its tip to graze against her shoulder. he can feel the weight of her flesh beneath its touch. ] I have to see if this is a dream... show this dog one last trick, will you...