[Drakengard] At the End of the World
Title: At the End of the World
Fandom: Drakengard
Pairing: implied Caim/Angelus
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Implied character death.
At the End of the World
Around them, the world is in its death throes. The foundations of heaven are shaking as the cocoons descend, foul pearls of the gods that offer no solace, no rebirth - only despair for the tattered remnants of life. The Day of Judgment is upon them, despite how hard they fought to stave it off. The Day of Judgment is upon them, and they have no choice but to face it, as they have faced everything that came before it.
How cumbersome, to think that they went through so much, yet achieved nothing. How fitting.
She turns to regard the human beside her, his sword lowered, his posture slouched. He looks exhausted, too drained by their fruitless struggle to hold himself upright, and she can feel his soul resonating alongside hers, both trembling weakly at the realization that they are about to be obliterated by their creators. His eyes, though, still burn with the same fierceness, bestowing contempt upon the shrieking god-child and the wailing priest before them, who are wallowing in their own misery.
Weak fools, the both of them. Regret and prayer won't change the gods' mind. They have no hearts to feel, no mercy to spare. Only humans could so adamantly refuse to believe that.
The cocoons impact on the ruined soil, and her body echoes her soul as it shudders at the world's cry. She feels tired. The cold is creeping into her limbs, her ever-burning fire quails before the knowledge that this is the end.
There is shame in admitting that she, too, feels fear like any mortal being.
There is no shame in admitting that she wants him to ease that fear.
Before she can utter her request, though, his hand finds her muzzle. He moves it awkwardly in an attempt to... comfort her? Draw comfort from her? She does not know. It doesn't matter. Her old self would never have endured the indignity of being touched by a human, but then again, her old self had never known that one human could be so devastatingly, deliciously hot.
Faintly, very faintly, she feels the calluses of his hand, smaller than her smallest claw, softer than even the thinnest of her scales, stronger than anything, and within, hotter than the fires of hell.
To think the gods would want to eradicate this flame... Perhaps, out of all of them, they are the true fools.
The warmth of his hand helps her to make the decision. She does not want his fire to die. She wants it to live, grow and rage the way she has come to know it. If the price of that is herself, so be it.
She lifts her head to snarl the priest into submission, but the sudden pressure on her muzzle stops her dead. He has placed himself in her path, glaring at her with accusing eyes. Has he become strong enough to hear her thoughts? Does he know what she intends to do?
His eyes narrow, twin daggers piercing her with their intensity, and she has no doubt that he has, indeed, heard. Her own resolve is joined by another, different one, and she realizes she will have to maim him if she wants to voice her request in peace.
"Foolish human!" she hisses lowly. "Are you willing to condemn the world with your own selfishness?"
His gaze does not waver. But this is not about the world, is it?
His thought? Her own? Maybe theirs? She is not sure, but the truth behind it is irrefutable. It is not the world she wants to save.
With a noise that is more a resigned sigh than a derisive snort, she lets her head sink, chin nearly touching the ground. She would give herself to save him, but he does not want to be saved. Briefly, she contemplates the situation from the vantage point of an outsider, an observer - a god? - and wonders which one of them seems the bigger fool; her, for her willingness to choose an eternity of suffering for the sake of a human too mad to care about the world, or him, for his willingness to choose death over separation.
Probably her, if she is filled by such a perverse sense of relief, of happiness, at the utter insanity of his decision.
Definitely her, if she contemplates forcing her will with barely any seriousness at all.
What now, then? she thinks, and sees the question reflected back at her from his eyes, softer, more uncertain now that he knows she has conceded defeat. What now, indeed.
The priest is still howling for divine mercy that does not exist. The god-child is still screaming for an absolution nobody will offer. To even think of awaiting the end like they do - with or without the denial - cowering on the sullied earth like ants about to be crushed by an unmindful giant, seems like an insult after all they have gone through, after all the horrible miracles they have faced.
She lifts herself from the ground, stretching bloody wings. He cocks his head questioningly, surprise written all over his face. Catching his fleeting, disjointed thought - What? Her, rest? Never. - she shakes her neck and turns her gaze towards the crumbling heavens.
"Come, Caim. Let us soar again, and burn the world even as we burn with it. Let us die fighting, in the divine hellfires, together."
A swift grin from which the madness is startlingly absent. He wants to fly, too.
The priest jerks from his elegies as he hears her spread her wings. She would smirk at him if she could, but Caim's thighs clench tightly around her neck and the old man would not see it anyway, so she just takes off with a single flap and a mighty roar, drowning out the remaining humans' misery as it redoubles in volume.
A strand of amusement brushes her mind and she allows herself the dragon version of a chuckle. Of course, he would think this exit splendidly appropriate. Of course.
Ahead and beneath, she can see a cloud of black dragons gathering like vultures - remnants of the fallen empire whose blood thirst cannot be cured even by the end of the world. "Hold tight," she admonishes, and he lets her know with a rap to the scales behind her horns that this was quite unnecessary.
She tilts down into a dive even as the wyrms stop tearing at each other and form up to meet their assault.
A thought crosses her mind, and she tilts her head backwards a little to speak against the rushing wind. "Angelus. My name is Angelus. You are the first and the last of your kind who will know my name."
As they plunge into the onslaught of wings and claws, she is sure that she can feel him smile.
------------------
A/N:
- Yeah, they still die. But at least they did not have to suffer through Nowe's idiocy, right?
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Fandom: Drakengard
Pairing: implied Caim/Angelus
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Implied character death.
At the End of the World
Around them, the world is in its death throes. The foundations of heaven are shaking as the cocoons descend, foul pearls of the gods that offer no solace, no rebirth - only despair for the tattered remnants of life. The Day of Judgment is upon them, despite how hard they fought to stave it off. The Day of Judgment is upon them, and they have no choice but to face it, as they have faced everything that came before it.
How cumbersome, to think that they went through so much, yet achieved nothing. How fitting.
She turns to regard the human beside her, his sword lowered, his posture slouched. He looks exhausted, too drained by their fruitless struggle to hold himself upright, and she can feel his soul resonating alongside hers, both trembling weakly at the realization that they are about to be obliterated by their creators. His eyes, though, still burn with the same fierceness, bestowing contempt upon the shrieking god-child and the wailing priest before them, who are wallowing in their own misery.
Weak fools, the both of them. Regret and prayer won't change the gods' mind. They have no hearts to feel, no mercy to spare. Only humans could so adamantly refuse to believe that.
The cocoons impact on the ruined soil, and her body echoes her soul as it shudders at the world's cry. She feels tired. The cold is creeping into her limbs, her ever-burning fire quails before the knowledge that this is the end.
There is shame in admitting that she, too, feels fear like any mortal being.
There is no shame in admitting that she wants him to ease that fear.
Before she can utter her request, though, his hand finds her muzzle. He moves it awkwardly in an attempt to... comfort her? Draw comfort from her? She does not know. It doesn't matter. Her old self would never have endured the indignity of being touched by a human, but then again, her old self had never known that one human could be so devastatingly, deliciously hot.
Faintly, very faintly, she feels the calluses of his hand, smaller than her smallest claw, softer than even the thinnest of her scales, stronger than anything, and within, hotter than the fires of hell.
To think the gods would want to eradicate this flame... Perhaps, out of all of them, they are the true fools.
The warmth of his hand helps her to make the decision. She does not want his fire to die. She wants it to live, grow and rage the way she has come to know it. If the price of that is herself, so be it.
She lifts her head to snarl the priest into submission, but the sudden pressure on her muzzle stops her dead. He has placed himself in her path, glaring at her with accusing eyes. Has he become strong enough to hear her thoughts? Does he know what she intends to do?
His eyes narrow, twin daggers piercing her with their intensity, and she has no doubt that he has, indeed, heard. Her own resolve is joined by another, different one, and she realizes she will have to maim him if she wants to voice her request in peace.
"Foolish human!" she hisses lowly. "Are you willing to condemn the world with your own selfishness?"
His gaze does not waver. But this is not about the world, is it?
His thought? Her own? Maybe theirs? She is not sure, but the truth behind it is irrefutable. It is not the world she wants to save.
With a noise that is more a resigned sigh than a derisive snort, she lets her head sink, chin nearly touching the ground. She would give herself to save him, but he does not want to be saved. Briefly, she contemplates the situation from the vantage point of an outsider, an observer - a god? - and wonders which one of them seems the bigger fool; her, for her willingness to choose an eternity of suffering for the sake of a human too mad to care about the world, or him, for his willingness to choose death over separation.
Probably her, if she is filled by such a perverse sense of relief, of happiness, at the utter insanity of his decision.
Definitely her, if she contemplates forcing her will with barely any seriousness at all.
What now, then? she thinks, and sees the question reflected back at her from his eyes, softer, more uncertain now that he knows she has conceded defeat. What now, indeed.
The priest is still howling for divine mercy that does not exist. The god-child is still screaming for an absolution nobody will offer. To even think of awaiting the end like they do - with or without the denial - cowering on the sullied earth like ants about to be crushed by an unmindful giant, seems like an insult after all they have gone through, after all the horrible miracles they have faced.
She lifts herself from the ground, stretching bloody wings. He cocks his head questioningly, surprise written all over his face. Catching his fleeting, disjointed thought - What? Her, rest? Never. - she shakes her neck and turns her gaze towards the crumbling heavens.
"Come, Caim. Let us soar again, and burn the world even as we burn with it. Let us die fighting, in the divine hellfires, together."
A swift grin from which the madness is startlingly absent. He wants to fly, too.
The priest jerks from his elegies as he hears her spread her wings. She would smirk at him if she could, but Caim's thighs clench tightly around her neck and the old man would not see it anyway, so she just takes off with a single flap and a mighty roar, drowning out the remaining humans' misery as it redoubles in volume.
A strand of amusement brushes her mind and she allows herself the dragon version of a chuckle. Of course, he would think this exit splendidly appropriate. Of course.
Ahead and beneath, she can see a cloud of black dragons gathering like vultures - remnants of the fallen empire whose blood thirst cannot be cured even by the end of the world. "Hold tight," she admonishes, and he lets her know with a rap to the scales behind her horns that this was quite unnecessary.
She tilts down into a dive even as the wyrms stop tearing at each other and form up to meet their assault.
A thought crosses her mind, and she tilts her head backwards a little to speak against the rushing wind. "Angelus. My name is Angelus. You are the first and the last of your kind who will know my name."
As they plunge into the onslaught of wings and claws, she is sure that she can feel him smile.
------------------
A/N:
- Yeah, they still die. But at least they did not have to suffer through Nowe's idiocy, right?
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