Hello all! Been a long time since I wrote anything, but I bring you my latest SUPER-ANGSTY Lukalia fic! Enjoy and don't forget to review, they make my day!
Pain. It courses through your veins; wild, free and excruciating beyond imagination. You writhe in anguish and your shrieks of desperation echo faintly amongst the violent clashes of swords and that cries of fallen warriors that reign the battlefield. Your nose wrinkles in disgust as you slowly inhale the rancid odour of poison from your unsteady breath and your tongue curls in revulsion as you taste the blood of your open wounds and the salt of your own tears. The pain … it takes over your mind and body for seconds that seem to last an eternity and you attempt a futile struggle for anything … anything to free you from the unbearable agony.
And then, you see her. She looks to you, tall and elegant as ever; her stride calm yet imposing, as she walks though the ongoing conflict; oblivious to fallen corpses and forgotten cadavers that lie in her path. She feels not the murky trail of blood that stains her dark brow like a gruesome tiara; her intense gaze is fixed only on you. And her eyes … eyes of electric magnificence and of iridescent, otherworldly blue, eyes that once glittered like fragments of broken sapphire in the glint of the pale moonlight, eyes that once lit up with enthrallment at your presence … those very eyes now gaze into your soul with a deep, burning abhorrence; a look of pure, unadulterated hatred and for fleeting moment, you realize with a pang how much those eyes look like frozen ice on fire and how, the callings of some unbidden emotion within you so urgently desire to put out that fire and glimpse into blue eyes of sweet innocence once more.
And the pain comes again; this time with the alacrity and vigour of a turbulent storm that tears into your very essence, leaving your spirit bleeding, not because of the corporeal lesions, but because of the profound, terrible realization that you are the reason why her eyes sparkle with unbounded joy no more. The insight hurts more than the physical pain; the harshness of the truth overwhelms you - leaving you shattered, broken, destroyed and torn by the intensity of anguish your actions have caused her and you see that the pain you now feel is no more than you deserve.
With a feeble jerk, you turn your head to her as she kneels down beside you and you decide she looks better with her tresses - a deep shade that match the melancholy gloom of the midnight sky - look better when they curl across the nape of her neck and sweep down her shoulders like a shroud of those in bereavement. Then, the stinging comprehension dawns that perhaps she is grieving for a lover she lost long, long ago … for you …
There is so much you want to tell her in your last moments as you lay beside her kneeling form, helpless amidst the pandemonium and the gory bloodshed of what you know will be the final battle. But the clash of sword against spear, horn against shield … they mean nothing to you … for you care not who wins or who looses. For you know, that in victory, she will be punished for her allegiance with the Gods and without her, your victory is meaningless. And in defeat, you shall be sentenced to a lifetime of torture for bringing on this day of battle of brothers against brothers and kith against kin.
No, you reflect, as your breath rattles precariously and you can no longer feel the throbbing, burning ache in your chest, all you wish for is to lie in the warmth of her embrace for a few stolen minutes, her hand in yours as you tell her all that you wanted to since that fateful day so many years ago, as you watched horrified yet powerless as her stature shook in a paroxysm of pain before she had collapsed, closing her eyes to light of the world and unconsciously closing yours as well. You had held her hand then, your bitter tears falling like rain on a withered flower down her charismatic, innocent face and into her short, cropped hair.
And now, all you want is for her to hold your hand. You reach for them with a burst of determination; but she draws away in one swift movement, eyes aflame with rage at the insolence of your thoughtless act. You want to moan. You want to plead. You want so badly to tell her how beautiful she looks now and how beautiful she had looked even as she had lain cold and motionless in his arms, years ago. You long to tell her that it was you, not Annabeth who had put sugar in your soup on that sunny day of carelessness which now seemed a lifetime ago. You want to admit that it was you who always hid her muffler so she wouldn't find it because you liked the way her cheeks were tinged rose-pink in the cold. You want to confess how much your heart aches, even now, to hold her in your arms and press your bleeding lips against hers for one bright instant in an otherwise bleak world. You desire nothing more than to apologize for abandoning her, for abandoning Annabeth, for abandoning everything and bringing about war of the blameless – yet, even that you did for her. You want to explain your actions, your deeds … you long to say that you're sorry and that you had been too caught up in the bloodlust, the strategy, the sense of trapping your prey and watching him vulnerable … how you were addicted to causing pain, to the madness, the fiery rage… making everyone feel the agony that her death had caused you.
Pain. It flows through your body like a mighty wave of Poseidon's uncontrolled fury, lashing violently and inflicting torture mercilessly on you. At last, you comprehend that you will never be able to tell her all that you wanted to – that even your final fantasies will be brutally contradicted by the ruthlessness of reality. You blink for a last, clear glance at her, attempting to suppress your body's violent shudders as the ache, the throb, the twinge grows maddeningly worse and stare at where she has been kneeling, watching your internal struggle with an unmoving silence.
You wonder why she is watching. You wonder whether she simply wishes to make you suffer the pain she felt when you left her. Or whether she delights in your agony, for it had been her who had shot the arrow of poison which now heaves the life out of you, gradually yet excruciatingly. Your eyes search her signs of weakness, of mercy and of forgiveness … and then … you glimpse the tempest that reigns within her behind that mask of insensitive stillness.
Your final moments are teaching you a lot, you reflect, mocking yourself. For within her eyes, you see emotions hidden, deep behind a dark veil of heartless and coldness. It is the perfect shroud, for you have never seen past it so clearly as you see now in your ultimate minute of enlightenment. You glimpse the turbulence of sentiments that rush through her … and you watch as your lifetime and hers … your lifetimes entwined … play back in her eyes. You are aware of the anger and the self-disgust she feels for herself. But that does not concern you. No, it is with deep, inexplicable satisfaction that you see her sadness and realize with ecstasy that she still cares.
Your moment of bliss has past and the world grows darker before your eyes, her figure become hazy, unfocused … you cannot see … cannot feel … and time, the ever elusive temptress, has slipped out of your grasp once more. Your last breath allows you but one utterance; and you chose those supreme words that are an answer unto themselves and that leave not room for questions … words, that reigned, albeit unspoken, even before the dawn of time.
"I love you."
Then, you feel the pain no more, nor the cold, nor the taste of your blood. You're falling … falling … falling … and the darkness surrounds you, engulfs you, overwhelms you, drowns you …
"I forgive you."
Her words reach your ears and suddenly, from the darkness is born light, just as in the beginning of eternity.
And with those words, you know that even eternal damnation will be Elysium to you.
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