On The First Page Of Our Story, The Future Seemed So Bright
Who: Angeal, Sephiroth and Genesis
Where: Out at some abandoned ruins in the desert
Status: Closed
Style: Third?
Warnings: Angst, violence, blood and death.
There was little else he could do. Every menial task was causing pains that were excruciating, his skin was almost ashen, his lips were starting to crack, even his usually jet black hair had shimmers of grey in it. Perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps sneaking away from everyone to create copy after copy was foolish, but fighting things within the desert had proven more and more difficult without the aid of his copies.
He'd been seeking death. It wasn't to act as some kind of martyr to the world, or to be a coward as he knew it would be assumed. In fact, Angeal wanted to rid the world of the plague he could become. If he was cautious, if he could bide his time, Angeal knew he had years left. Many, long years, in which he'd suffer only discomfort and mild pain. Yet he wasn't looking to live for years. There wasn't a cure, there was no way to stop him from causing more suffering, even with as much honour and pride he tried to hold.
This wasn't about escape, this was about ridding the world of an evil. Ridding himself of his own worst enemy.
Resting against the wall of a broken down ruin, the fog thick enough that it was stifling almost, Angeal couldn't do anything but ignore the images of his mother and father, and of Hollander, that appeared in the dense weather formation. He knew they weren't here, and he wouldn't give Somarium its satisfaction of seeing him squirm at the sight of them.
Where: Out at some abandoned ruins in the desert
Status: Closed
Style: Third?
Warnings: Angst, violence, blood and death.
There was little else he could do. Every menial task was causing pains that were excruciating, his skin was almost ashen, his lips were starting to crack, even his usually jet black hair had shimmers of grey in it. Perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps sneaking away from everyone to create copy after copy was foolish, but fighting things within the desert had proven more and more difficult without the aid of his copies.
He'd been seeking death. It wasn't to act as some kind of martyr to the world, or to be a coward as he knew it would be assumed. In fact, Angeal wanted to rid the world of the plague he could become. If he was cautious, if he could bide his time, Angeal knew he had years left. Many, long years, in which he'd suffer only discomfort and mild pain. Yet he wasn't looking to live for years. There wasn't a cure, there was no way to stop him from causing more suffering, even with as much honour and pride he tried to hold.
This wasn't about escape, this was about ridding the world of an evil. Ridding himself of his own worst enemy.
Resting against the wall of a broken down ruin, the fog thick enough that it was stifling almost, Angeal couldn't do anything but ignore the images of his mother and father, and of Hollander, that appeared in the dense weather formation. He knew they weren't here, and he wouldn't give Somarium its satisfaction of seeing him squirm at the sight of them.