[ Their sibling-- reaches back, and then the Pale King intervenes, and they pull away.
The anger that sparks inside them isn't for themselves. No, people have been kind to them - here, and before. Even before they came here, they knew the warmth of others, even if they had to learn it, even if it was fleeting and impermanent.
They remember -- that last fight, that arduous struggle against their infection-riddled sibling. There's no point to denying them affection. No point, because
they were already sick, had been sick. They had suffered, alone, crying for help and not expecting anyone to come.
(They had cried out for their father and he had never answered.)
They draw their sword and whirl on the Pale King, but what comes next isn't violence directed towards their father. Angry slashes -- mark the ground, as words.
They'd found a 'voice', by necessity. To communicate when listening did not.
THEY BROKE THEY CALLED FOR HELP YOU DID NOT ANSWER I DID
They plant the sword in the ground and gesture at what they've written, sharp, angry motions in the way they move. Cloak swirling around them at the sudden jaggedness of their movement.
It doesn't matter. Does he understand? It doesn't matter any more whether they're given affection or not. Their fate is to rot in a prison, to be cut down, to stab themselves over and over in frantic, desperate attempts to rid themselves of a plague that was placed in them by someone else's hands.
They alone had to make that choice to fight their sibling. It burns them that he thinks he can still dictate such a small thing as holding their hand.
They didn't go through that entire ordeal for him to tell them what to do. ]
no subject
The anger that sparks inside them isn't for themselves. No, people have been kind to them - here, and before. Even before they came here, they knew the warmth of others, even if they had to learn it, even if it was fleeting and impermanent.
They remember -- that last fight, that arduous struggle against their infection-riddled sibling. There's no point to denying them affection. No point, because
they were already sick, had been sick. They had suffered, alone, crying for help and not expecting anyone to come.
(They had cried out for their father and he had never answered.)
They draw their sword and whirl on the Pale King, but what comes next isn't violence directed towards their father. Angry slashes -- mark the ground, as words.
They'd found a 'voice', by necessity. To communicate when listening did not.
THEY BROKE
THEY CALLED FOR HELP
YOU DID NOT ANSWER
I DID
They plant the sword in the ground and gesture at what they've written, sharp, angry motions in the way they move. Cloak swirling around them at the sudden jaggedness of their movement.
It doesn't matter. Does he understand? It doesn't matter any more whether they're given affection or not. Their fate is to rot in a prison, to be cut down, to stab themselves over and over in frantic, desperate attempts to rid themselves of a plague that was placed in them by someone else's hands.
They alone had to make that choice to fight their sibling. It burns them that he thinks he can still dictate such a small thing as holding their hand.
They didn't go through that entire ordeal for him to tell them what to do. ]