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Weren’t these things supposed to feel as though they happened in an instant?
That’s how people always describe tragedies. Instantaneous, unstoppable.
And yet, here he stands, as a body falls to the dirt, taking a millenia to do so.
And he knows it was never a determined outcome.
It might’ve been better had it been an unstoppable thing. It would mean, to some extent, the blood staining his sword wasn’t his to feel guilty about.
But he drew that blood.
His… friend? Love? No. He doesn’t deserve to call the avian anything other than his name.
Icarus is lying in the dirt, forehead bloodied, wings sprawled, eyes fogged over. His last expression was something of betrayal, fear, and worst of all, resignation.
Icars could have easily killed him. The avian had an advantage, the difference in height and strength didn’t matter when he had TNT and wings.
Yet Icarus had tried to talk, and reason, and his last words were begging, begging for mercy. Begging for his mercy, but somehow, the mercy felt like it wasn’t his to give. Icarus had been pleading to more than just him.
It didn’t matter anymore, though. Icarus is gone, dead. And he needs to be buried.
Nio doesn’t get the chance to even begin digging a grave. He blinks, and the body is gone, leaving behind only crimson, wet dirt.
That’s not normal. He couldn’t have respawned, this world has been stuck in hardcore ever since the Prophecy’s Wrath. That’s what they’d all named the day when the sky darkened. Yet they had no idea how much wrath would truly ensue, at that moment.
Antonio still stares at his comm, desperately hoping to see any message from Icarus.
The last message sent stays, unmoving, final.
“Icarus was slain by Antonio_0”
How long he stares is no one’s business. And if he sobs like a child, no one is there to see.
That’s a lie. They always See.
Icarus had always been into poetry.
Long stories, novels, he couldn’t do. Too long for him to get invested. Within the first few chapters, his attention would be spent.
Given the chance, he would surely write a poem of his own death. It was perfect material.
Watching, panicking, as his world fell apart, as thousands fell, as the sky darkened and they gave the day some silly name he scoffed at because why dignify such tragedy with a name?
So suddenly at the finish line, attempts at defiant peace shattered, as he pleaded to a face he loved. But he knew, felt, that his love was not the one who drove the sword through his skull, not the one who didn’t even catch his body as he fell.
He knew it was Them.
It was always Them. The god-like beings that supposedly took care of his world.
Take care of it, they did, he thinks with a bitter mirth.
Truly a poetic end to his story.
So, this must be the afterlife.
Floating in the Void, unfeeling, unseen, unheard, unbreathing. Dead and gone and most likely buried.(never buried. There’s no body to bury, why bury an alive man he’s alive alivealivealive- Ah. Sorry. Not quite yet, dear Reader. Read the whole thing, They spent a good while on this one.)
Un…breathing?
Except he is breathing.
Huh.
Before he can think how that’s possible, he’s torn apart. The code of his being is ripped into scattered characters, and instantly pushed back together, and when he’s existent again, he’s not alone in the Void.
He hears a scream. One that….may have been his.
The beings around him don’t seem to care.
They’re big, imposing, shapeless yet so unmistakably there and it makes his skin crawl. No matter how long he stares, he can’t make out specific features.
They’re blurs of grey and black, all making humanoid silhouettes that fade at the edges, shifting and changing every second. Each has a different number of glowing yellow eyes, without pupils and so awfully observant he can’t breathe.
A voice rattles out from one, and when it opens its mouth, he can see the inner flesh is yellow, teeth sharper than any human’s would be.
“ꖎ𝙹ꖎ ╎ℸ ̣ 'ᓭ ʖ╎∷↸||!”
He doesn’t know what that collection of sounds means.
“ᔑ∴∴, ⍑ᒷ'ᓭ ⋮⚍ᓭℸ ̣ ᔑ ꖎ╎ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ꖎᒷ ʖꖎ𝙹∷ʖ𝙹! ╎ ∷ᒷᒷᔑᔑᔑᔑꖎꖎ|| ∴ᔑリリᔑ !¡⚍ℸ ̣ ⍑╎ᒲ ╎リ ᔑ ⋮ᔑ∷ ᔑリ↸ ᓭ⍑ᔑꖌᒷ ╎ℸ ̣”
“リ𝙹!”
A second one speaks up, 2 eyes narrowing pointedly. The only thing he understands here is the tones. He’s lost, baffled, he should be dead.
All eyes snap to him, uncaring, watching him like a circus animal.
One speaks.
“Dont b scared, lil bird”
He doesn’t like how it talks. He can imagine the words it speaks written out, but when he does, some words are abbreviated. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like Them. Because he knows this is Them, he can feel it in his hollow bones, a chill that is oh so persistent and sends him wanting to flee.
“We r here 2 help”
They would never bother helping.
“We like you, so u wont die yet”
That should be a relief, but something in his gut twists and he knows. He knows it isn’t a gift.
“Just b entertaining, yeah?”
He isn’t given any other instruction, any other context. Nothing. He is simply given a burst of pain as his code is torn open, something vile is planted inside, and he is stitched back up. He faints. And when he soon wakes, the story will finally begin.