[Sorry, Hayame; one of the oldest gods in Creation where Liem is from is the Lord of the Nine Hells, so actually, the ones responsible for shaping his world also included at least one demon (or devil, more accurately). At worst, if he doesn’t manage to get rid of Sebastian before the end, he’ll just be breaking even.
He's never wanted to become a god. It wouldn't change what he is, he'd think, not at his core. And if he's not strong enough to overcome even the perverse needs of his mortal flesh, how could he be strong enough to wield the power of the divine?
Abadar could do it, if the Oracles could bring him back. He would know what to do.
But although his Lord might be pleased, Hayame would not be able to save the ones she'd left behind, and Set would still be alone, and Gen and Voryn and Gray and everyone else in Meridian would never be able to see their homes again. And neither would he.]
Hayame.
[He lifts a hand, rests his fingers gently atop the fist clutching John's shard, as if to urge it gently back into its place in her pouch.
Choosing Zenith has not afforded him new loyalty to its cause, or conviction with which to fight in its name. If anything, it is the opposite; what conviction he'd possessed has crumbled under the onslaught of Zenith's seductive promise, broken his belief in what he'd thought was right and left him with no strength upon which to rely on turn. He does not have the will to raise a fist in defence of the mission he's claimed, or even in defence of himself. Especially not against Hayame, who has never been anything but steadfast in her desire to be strong for him.]
I cannot go back with you.
[He cannot return to Meridian when he knows in his heart that he doesn't belong there. Instead, Liem reaches for the belt at his waist and retrieves the long, rust-scarred knife that he'd found in Springstar. The blade is in execrable condition, but he has honed the edge sharp again. When he takes a breath, turns the knife around so he can press it between his ribs, the point bites cruelly through the dust-soiled layers of his clothing. His eyes hold hers, intent.]
If you want to return home, then…
[His knuckles whiten on the knife's hilt, his hands trembling slightly as his grip tightens. Nerves shiver down his spine as he tries to envision the motion it would take to drive the blade home. His fear tells him that he won't be able to go through with it. Although he keeps it from his face, it radiates out into the communion space between them.]
cw suicide
He's never wanted to become a god. It wouldn't change what he is, he'd think, not at his core. And if he's not strong enough to overcome even the perverse needs of his mortal flesh, how could he be strong enough to wield the power of the divine?
Abadar could do it, if the Oracles could bring him back. He would know what to do.
But although his Lord might be pleased, Hayame would not be able to save the ones she'd left behind, and Set would still be alone, and Gen and Voryn and Gray and everyone else in Meridian would never be able to see their homes again. And neither would he.]
Hayame.
[He lifts a hand, rests his fingers gently atop the fist clutching John's shard, as if to urge it gently back into its place in her pouch.
Choosing Zenith has not afforded him new loyalty to its cause, or conviction with which to fight in its name. If anything, it is the opposite; what conviction he'd possessed has crumbled under the onslaught of Zenith's seductive promise, broken his belief in what he'd thought was right and left him with no strength upon which to rely on turn. He does not have the will to raise a fist in defence of the mission he's claimed, or even in defence of himself. Especially not against Hayame, who has never been anything but steadfast in her desire to be strong for him.]
I cannot go back with you.
[He cannot return to Meridian when he knows in his heart that he doesn't belong there. Instead, Liem reaches for the belt at his waist and retrieves the long, rust-scarred knife that he'd found in Springstar. The blade is in execrable condition, but he has honed the edge sharp again. When he takes a breath, turns the knife around so he can press it between his ribs, the point bites cruelly through the dust-soiled layers of his clothing. His eyes hold hers, intent.]
If you want to return home, then…
[His knuckles whiten on the knife's hilt, his hands trembling slightly as his grip tightens. Nerves shiver down his spine as he tries to envision the motion it would take to drive the blade home. His fear tells him that he won't be able to go through with it. Although he keeps it from his face, it radiates out into the communion space between them.]
Help me.