He steels himself for what might come, as the Grace stirs to Ayatan's touch. Ever since receiving his Lord's blessing, he has remained untouched by Grace. A further blessing, he thinks, for he remembers how it felt.
Golden light would press against him and through him, a blinding flash, and flesh restored. If he was exhausted and slept, then he would be renewed and awoken. If he was wounded and could not hold a knife, all would be repaired.
And if death found him, Grace seemed to be there also, in that same moment. His pain and blood mixed suddenly with gold, and he would be returned to the camp, appearing amongst the living yet again.
He grew to hate it so. For on the days when Grace was given, there would be no rest. Their bodies were restored, what else mattered to their scheming lords?
Luminary Mohg did him such kindness, to free him from Grace's awful clutches. For so long now, the golden light has simply parted around him, like water against unfeeling stone. It has been blessed relief, a gift he accepted so gratefully.
And so in the name of his Lord, he has willingly returned to Grace. Not to be its plaything, but to take from it.
The light rises from the little mote, and the light washes over him, blinding him. Not with gold, but red. The pain flares again, every vein aflame for the briefest moment that almost brings him to his knees. Instead he stands, transfixed, slowly realizing what's been done to him.
He can feel it. Every movement of his fingers reverberates with the tiniest motes of light, a connection as delicate and ensnaring as spidersilk. Every flex and twitch pulling at it. At the runes that cling to Ayatan.
"Oh dear one, it worked."
He sinks down to kneel there beside her, eyes wide and gleaming with the light that still flickers there, like red motes of Grace. They leave him half-blind. Perhaps they'll fade, once they're no longer needed. Perhaps they'll stay. In this moment, he doesn't care.
"Runes will be your strength. The Greater Will cannot keep that from you."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-03-20 04:23 am (UTC)Golden light would press against him and through him, a blinding flash, and flesh restored. If he was exhausted and slept, then he would be renewed and awoken. If he was wounded and could not hold a knife, all would be repaired.
And if death found him, Grace seemed to be there also, in that same moment. His pain and blood mixed suddenly with gold, and he would be returned to the camp, appearing amongst the living yet again.
He grew to hate it so. For on the days when Grace was given, there would be no rest. Their bodies were restored, what else mattered to their scheming lords?
Luminary Mohg did him such kindness, to free him from Grace's awful clutches. For so long now, the golden light has simply parted around him, like water against unfeeling stone. It has been blessed relief, a gift he accepted so gratefully.
And so in the name of his Lord, he has willingly returned to Grace. Not to be its plaything, but to take from it.
The light rises from the little mote, and the light washes over him, blinding him. Not with gold, but red. The pain flares again, every vein aflame for the briefest moment that almost brings him to his knees. Instead he stands, transfixed, slowly realizing what's been done to him.
He can feel it. Every movement of his fingers reverberates with the tiniest motes of light, a connection as delicate and ensnaring as spidersilk. Every flex and twitch pulling at it. At the runes that cling to Ayatan.
"Oh dear one, it worked."
He sinks down to kneel there beside her, eyes wide and gleaming with the light that still flickers there, like red motes of Grace. They leave him half-blind. Perhaps they'll fade, once they're no longer needed. Perhaps they'll stay. In this moment, he doesn't care.
"Runes will be your strength. The Greater Will cannot keep that from you."