Desreal: Well it's more difficult to live up to 'virgin mary'

For a long while he is silent as his eyes converge on the wounds given to her upon his resurrection. “They are the same as mine.” He says, almost incredulously as the mirror image of scars shows along his side. Unlike hers, which are wet and glossy like red nail polish in this dying light, his are thick, golden slashes along the dark black sides of his body. He wonders then, if it’s a sign of something now or in the distant future. As his mind wanders over several more thoughts he tries to remember the details of his death.

As his expression falls, it is clear he cannot remember a great deal of what happened – just that he was lost before being taken – before getting thrown into what he’d like to call Hell. “I remember the taste of snow.” He says quite suddenly, the very last moments of his life flickering like a black and white film behind his vapid expression. “The taste of…blood.” And he licks his lips, Saphira’s blood a sweeter flavor than the ashy dirt taste of his own.

He thinks of a rock, he’s not sure why, but then it’s clear when Breigna’s face flashes lightning white across his eyes. The image of her face is so sudden that he snaps out of the trancelike sensation and focuses his attention back on the mare. “She pierced my heart and my lungs…” Then, he remembers why and he only seems to sink a little farther into himself. “It was my fault.” He thinks but he doesn’t tell her why. He might not ever.

The chill of Lacunae lingers in the back of his mind and the darkened fingers of its invisible hold tighten around his neck. The memory is vivid like a bolt of lightning in the night.

“Perhaps I should have stayed dead.” And he huddles into her, his neck curled around hers as he keeps her as warm and as safe as he can.

Somewhere in the darkness of his mind, Lacunae laughs.

Perhaps you should have. Perhaps you should have.

ghostlacunaeflower
I am become death, shatterer of worlds
corrigan