Desreal: my personal jesus

He has seen Death; he has walked with him hand in hand together in the shadows of the Valley of Death. He has become ash and dust. He has tasted the raw and bitter cold of winter in the deepest parts of his bones. He knows now. He knows.

Arise, Lazarus,

And it’s quite sudden, one moment he is wandering in the darkness of some unknown land and listening to bodiless voices and feeling invisible hands. Another moment he is wading through them, hearing them scream and shriek and cry. Why can’t they come too? Why can’t they go home? Why must they stay here? Why must they decay like this?

Why? Why?

“Because…” He whispers, dark green eyes closing now as he walks past them slowly, Saphira’s figure now a trace of white and black and blue wavering unsteadily in front of him. In the heat and flames of his demise he can see her there, flickering like a mirage, he’s seen many like this and has known them to be images of his torment. His personal Hell. Bodies ripped apart and eaten; blood, guts, and gore spilled at his feet over and over again. He has seen it. He has seen it all over and over and over again.

Yet she is different and he can trust her – he doesn’t know why – but he follows her with all his trust piled into her the way a colt does to it’s mother.

“Saphira,” He Knows her when her warm breath can be felt against his cheek and he closes his eyes and sighs. He Knows her because this is her doing – this is her good will to him – this is her magic flooding his veins with blood and filling his lungs with air. It hurts, it hurts so much but it doesn’t matter. It never mattered in the beginning. This is how it happened so long ago in the desert, when the storm clapped it’s hands and dropped the child at the Windfallen’s feet.

“Saphira.” He hums, pressing against her as the world around them melts like a whitewashed canvas, the ink melting away and leaving in it’s place Desreal. The Glade where it all began – where it all ended.

He shivers, his skin tingles with needles and pricks and it’s difficult to remember how to see, taste, smell, touch, or even hear. Saphira smiles sleepily and sinks down, down, down, and it only takes a moment for his black and gold body to fall to his own knees.

“Saphira!” He exhales loudly, sheltering her and pressing his lips against the open and bleeding wounds. These are his, these are his and they always have been…

Yet now they are hers too and he doesn’t know how he could ever understand why she would bring a terror like himself back to life – his death was necessary.

“Don’t leave me.” He mumbles, his voice almost childlike as his wide green eyes fixate on the mare who is more familiar to him now than his own shadow. “What can I do to make you okay?” For a moment he forgets he is a monster, that he is Corrigan and no one else.

ghostlacunaeflower
I am become death, shatterer of worlds
corrigan