There's a sound or a - a light? Fingers spasm and ache to touch, to move and sing. His throat feels mangled, twisted, but there is no voice, no soundless scream that echoes from so many years past, there are only the edges of memory, the identity of self being returned to home.
Is it home? The question feels right, but the situation -
A tangle of bare limbs and body, he, self, I, is recognized, muscles unused to themselves, their limits like a child too eager. His eyes raise as he pushes from the cold metal floor, body registering cold, chill, and, last of all, sting.
The man recognizes the figure cut in glory, in holy, and the same eyes widen, lips parting before pieces come back to halt his voice falling out of his mouth - "High Seraph Ultima - "
A name, his name, cracks into his head like a gunshot, and the wide eyed expression of youth, of awe, is broken, face hardening in the dark illuminated by the filtered gold from purest wings of she whom has cast a long shadow since the time of his birth.
He smiles compulsively, taking in a stuttering breath. Faram - how cold his flesh is.
No, no indeed. Gods are to not, to never, entangle themselves in the affairs of man and yet - here they are. Two creations of Gods themselves, unwavering. He feels a pang he will later come to identify as fear.
The words come out, rounded and worn, though he expects no answer, not from the Seraph herself. "Why?" Such a broad question, but he gestures with a hand as if to suggest all things, himself included, are out of place. Even a book espied, cast so upon the floor which seems so simple, so plain, feels incorrect.
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Is it home? The question feels right, but the situation -
A tangle of bare limbs and body, he, self, I, is recognized, muscles unused to themselves, their limits like a child too eager. His eyes raise as he pushes from the cold metal floor, body registering cold, chill, and, last of all, sting.
The man recognizes the figure cut in glory, in holy, and the same eyes widen, lips parting before pieces come back to halt his voice falling out of his mouth - "High Seraph Ultima - "
A name, his name, cracks into his head like a gunshot, and the wide eyed expression of youth, of awe, is broken, face hardening in the dark illuminated by the filtered gold from purest wings of she whom has cast a long shadow since the time of his birth.
He smiles compulsively, taking in a stuttering breath. Faram - how cold his flesh is.
No, no indeed. Gods are to not, to never, entangle themselves in the affairs of man and yet - here they are. Two creations of Gods themselves, unwavering. He feels a pang he will later come to identify as fear.
The words come out, rounded and worn, though he expects no answer, not from the Seraph herself. "Why?" Such a broad question, but he gestures with a hand as if to suggest all things, himself included, are out of place. Even a book espied, cast so upon the floor which seems so simple, so plain, feels incorrect.