[ Bondrewd looks beyond Jonathan Sims, who sits before him and holds his gloved hand and echoes grief and cowardice into their Communion, into the awaiting mind of a man who no longer begins and ends. He is an untethered thing, calm as a dark pool into which even a cast stone cannot ripple upon; in Communion, he has even less to him, signs of life do not exist within the armor. There is no warmth that leeches from him, as salve to the ends of Jonathan Sims's fingers, no companionable comfort that exists for him to lean upon. There is only will, only undominated will, and sacrifice.
So, he looks at a point over Jonathan Sim's shoulder and points to it with his free hand. The one that does not hold fast to him to bind them into Communion, the one that draws attention to the thing he sees — always lingering, always looming behind him. The shadow of a frightening thing that likely cannot find purchase in Bondrewd's armor, for he no longer fears. He no longer feels. If Jonathan Sims thinks he is a man of fact, he pales in comparison to the man who directs his own gaze upon the Eye and flinches not an inch. Jonathan Sims feels guilt, and that drives him.
Bondrewd feels nothing, for the world he lost. A beautiful, bountiful world of horrors — and not a moment of grief echoes within him, not a fragment of regret, nor sorrow. ]
The thing you seek to starve — is it not there, following you? You say you cannot allow it to happen again, but you, yourself, are the vector through which it will occur.
[ That, in and of itself, is something he cannot allow. The Sovereign of Dawn sings light and dark in equal portions, the horrifying and distinct embodiment of true, relentless drive. Somewhere in his mind, his hands are slick with blood. A child gazes at him with dying eyes full of love. Delvers gasp their final words — mom, mom i'm sorry — before their bodies die and their minds persist, feeding life to parasitic organisms that will multiple, that will feed. Insects, insects, eggs laid within throats that weakly wheeze as larva hatch and feed and breed. They keep the host alive, they devour it from the inside out, where it cannot see.
That, Bondrewd presses upon Jonathan Sims. That, is how he views this man and his Eye. A nest, waiting to hatch. Waiting to infest the next world. ]
No matter what horrors you will bring, Jonathan Sims, you may rest assured that I will stand to protect all people from them. The thing that will seek the vulnerable of the world, I will stand against. Against you, yourself. Aah, you remind me of myself — before I was this.
[ And there, between them, the white-lit figure of a girl. Barely into her teens, with a guileless face that has known agony and love in maddening amounts; she wraps her hands around their joined ones, she lowers her cheek to Bondrewd's own and whispers: Papa is the strongest, my hero. The Dawn. ]
cw parasitic insects and yuck
[ Bondrewd looks beyond Jonathan Sims, who sits before him and holds his gloved hand and echoes grief and cowardice into their Communion, into the awaiting mind of a man who no longer begins and ends. He is an untethered thing, calm as a dark pool into which even a cast stone cannot ripple upon; in Communion, he has even less to him, signs of life do not exist within the armor. There is no warmth that leeches from him, as salve to the ends of Jonathan Sims's fingers, no companionable comfort that exists for him to lean upon. There is only will, only undominated will, and sacrifice.
So, he looks at a point over Jonathan Sim's shoulder and points to it with his free hand. The one that does not hold fast to him to bind them into Communion, the one that draws attention to the thing he sees — always lingering, always looming behind him. The shadow of a frightening thing that likely cannot find purchase in Bondrewd's armor, for he no longer fears. He no longer feels. If Jonathan Sims thinks he is a man of fact, he pales in comparison to the man who directs his own gaze upon the Eye and flinches not an inch. Jonathan Sims feels guilt, and that drives him.
Bondrewd feels nothing, for the world he lost. A beautiful, bountiful world of horrors — and not a moment of grief echoes within him, not a fragment of regret, nor sorrow. ]
The thing you seek to starve — is it not there, following you? You say you cannot allow it to happen again, but you, yourself, are the vector through which it will occur.
[ That, in and of itself, is something he cannot allow. The Sovereign of Dawn sings light and dark in equal portions, the horrifying and distinct embodiment of true, relentless drive. Somewhere in his mind, his hands are slick with blood. A child gazes at him with dying eyes full of love. Delvers gasp their final words — mom, mom i'm sorry — before their bodies die and their minds persist, feeding life to parasitic organisms that will multiple, that will feed. Insects, insects, eggs laid within throats that weakly wheeze as larva hatch and feed and breed. They keep the host alive, they devour it from the inside out, where it cannot see.
That, Bondrewd presses upon Jonathan Sims. That, is how he views this man and his Eye. A nest, waiting to hatch. Waiting to infest the next world. ]
No matter what horrors you will bring, Jonathan Sims, you may rest assured that I will stand to protect all people from them. The thing that will seek the vulnerable of the world, I will stand against. Against you, yourself. Aah, you remind me of myself — before I was this.
[ And there, between them, the white-lit figure of a girl. Barely into her teens, with a guileless face that has known agony and love in maddening amounts; she wraps her hands around their joined ones, she lowers her cheek to Bondrewd's own and whispers: Papa is the strongest, my hero. The Dawn. ]