Grays #30 - Sliver and Spear

A strike of steel, a rush of blood, a song of death, and caw of surprise.  A song is Silenced.

She reaches out to me, soft hands spiraling - one red, one scorched - soothing me back to the silk and satin; yet our eyes dance along the curtain.  I do not know how long we can visit this time.  "He is dead."  She tilts her hair to flow over our faces, a calming gesture.  Our lips move on our own.  "The one who binds us and breaks us in Her name.  It is He who took my fingers, and now another has taken his throat."
  "Shh." Tender energy curls over my mind, her soft care a promise broken a dozen times over, but a heartbreak I willingly return to.  Our body relaxes, folding and sprawling inches above the stone floor.  
Yes.  Rest, we will.  
We will.  For He is gone, and we are Safe.

And then, with the sharp spike of cold breath slicing into my lungs, the Gray clears.  I see them - I see them all.  We will never UNSEE.
The man on the bridge, his desperate hubris driving the stick to his mouth and the raw arcana through his veins.  It was the drug that bound him, entwined in the fates of the disparate Verdance and the Cold One's Prince.  The spiral that took us, the Vermillion, the last of our brothers, to send the Four, then Three, then Two, then One, to send the towers crashing down amongst them.  Amongst the bodies, the masses, the temples, and masks.  Motion, such a tempest, to churn the blood and summon the harvest.
A Grim One, I know, and without Eyes to see a brotherhood torn, a resonance translated, and a Genocide chilled.  Wings for a wingless devil, seeds for a dying tree.  Fingers for pens and blood for its ink; he smokes the poison in and knows his death knocks, yet meets it anyway. Soulless, skinless forms marching to the beat of a slowing Clock.  It swings, slowing...growing...to a stop.  

Our back is driven to the floor, our body convulsing.
GLASS.  SHATTERS.  Frozen, and heaving, warped by white blood - a milk of vengeance, still wet, still young.  A taunting song cut short.  Knives and feathers.  A sun rises, and falls, its clockwork soul sending ripples through the Ethos.  As its flares scar our skin, we are plunged into drowning memory.
  A boy - pale of skin and porcelain - claws at his mind while Genesis takes hold, blind to the dread purpose of his Shell; while another pulls free from glass, leaving his memories dripping behind it; a girl makes a choice, a simple alteration, and it spells her death in mere days, if not for the virus growing inside her; a man makes a choice, complex and righteous, and stands to wage war with the Infinitum itself; a woman stands on the precipice of worlds unknown, pitched and leaning, aware at length of the symphony she writes, yet uncaring of its form, and the bodies that tumble beneath her.  We dare not look away, dear Savras, not to thine throne that we now witness, weeping at your feet.  
We will not look away, even as our muscles spasm and our bones crack and whine.
  It is this our Sight craves, and this we Cry for.  We cry out every night our Sovereign summons the storm.  We cry to see what the Gray clouds cover.
The name, shrill and striking, screaming with the thunder - she crumples, my muse, her ashen horns and split-tone skin mingling with the red now flowing from her chest...I cannot escape her eyes, even as more Thunder smashes through the walls, the wood, the bed, the floor.  She locks me there, salty streams dripping down our faces.  She locks me in, the gaze the key of our reverie, and the cage of our Reliquary.  And it is in the beautiful Starlight of her eyes that my goddess leaves me - frozen and trembling.
I am there for the Eons and the Epoch.
Until blessed Thunder takes me too.










Our mouth turns sour with foam, our stomach rejecting this vision.
We gasp for breath, heaving and twisting in pain.  Some minor dislocation, and fresh blood at our nose.  We stare disapprovingly at the ankle, now broken in the seizure.  Our eyes look around and wonder if our Muse is coming, and sigh in the rush of our Futures, clutching the tiny hummingbird wing around our necks.  

A Sliver of hope, and a Spear of truth.

​He is dead, and She is going to Kill Them All for it.