[ It doesn't change anything in mine, she is nearly able to say. Part of him hears it, and fishes around for it. That single mote of desperation in her that he keeps trying to find and bring to her surface, so that they can truly look upon it and find a different way for her. In the shapeless bulk of him, he cannot speak to her with his voice, calling instead with soundless image and emotion, so much emotion. He is wild with feelings, beyond which a mortal could bear — apocalyptic emotions, spilling like dark blood from a wound, water from a stone, sand giving way below her weight to become a catastrophic wave that would bury her.
It stills, when her mind collides with the phantasm that haunts him, egging him on.
Truthfully, it is but a ghost. Nothing that could harm anyone other than the mind of the one who remembers it, but the eyes of Osiris are pitiless and cold. Unfathomably divine, looking upon her as though she is an insect, looking through her as though to say he thinks naught of her soundless fury — that he only must wait, for she will die. And when she dies, the one she called to her will be alone again. ( You will go back to your world and forget me, had she not said, once? Thought, once? As if their friendship were a thing already dying from the moment they had vowed themselves to one another, warrior and god. Their friendship was viewed through eyes like those of Zenith; as a sad, pathetic little madness that had no place in reality. )
In his mind, Hayame's onslaught is something that can push back the shade. It draws him to it, pushing the shape of his mind against her, his hand reaching for hers — the same as he does in reality, folding his hand around her real wrist as he emerges from the sands. As he clutches at her, and tries to shake them free of one another. Like her, he moves his true form on instinct. He rolls, feeling ungainly and off-kilter as his body seeks familiar shape and finds only the connection with her, her hooves, her power. By the time they emerge, he is half-collapsed on the ground.
In mimicry of her body, sandy-beige with soft, red socks upon his twitching hooves. A full grown adult, with the weakness of a newborn colt — he has always been a changer of forms, but this? Comes at the price of a scattering mind, and he heaves for breath on the ground before her, holding fast to her wrist, her hand. ]
— it does not change, [ he trembles, under the memory of her lashing out at his brother. At the idea that, if Osiris were ( here / real ) tangible, she would be eradicated and he would lose her ( he does not want to lose her ). ] Your world. But, it could change you enough, so that you do not go home the same person you were. You could go back better and ready.
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It stills, when her mind collides with the phantasm that haunts him, egging him on.
Truthfully, it is but a ghost. Nothing that could harm anyone other than the mind of the one who remembers it, but the eyes of Osiris are pitiless and cold. Unfathomably divine, looking upon her as though she is an insect, looking through her as though to say he thinks naught of her soundless fury — that he only must wait, for she will die. And when she dies, the one she called to her will be alone again. ( You will go back to your world and forget me, had she not said, once? Thought, once? As if their friendship were a thing already dying from the moment they had vowed themselves to one another, warrior and god. Their friendship was viewed through eyes like those of Zenith; as a sad, pathetic little madness that had no place in reality. )
In his mind, Hayame's onslaught is something that can push back the shade. It draws him to it, pushing the shape of his mind against her, his hand reaching for hers — the same as he does in reality, folding his hand around her real wrist as he emerges from the sands. As he clutches at her, and tries to shake them free of one another. Like her, he moves his true form on instinct. He rolls, feeling ungainly and off-kilter as his body seeks familiar shape and finds only the connection with her, her hooves, her power. By the time they emerge, he is half-collapsed on the ground.
In mimicry of her body, sandy-beige with soft, red socks upon his twitching hooves. A full grown adult, with the weakness of a newborn colt — he has always been a changer of forms, but this? Comes at the price of a scattering mind, and he heaves for breath on the ground before her, holding fast to her wrist, her hand. ]
— it does not change, [ he trembles, under the memory of her lashing out at his brother. At the idea that, if Osiris were ( here / real ) tangible, she would be eradicated and he would lose her ( he does not want to lose her ). ] Your world. But, it could change you enough, so that you do not go home the same person you were. You could go back better and ready.