[It is the scraps of Liem's honour, intact despite everything else he's lost ahold of in this desolate place, that prevent him from being able to return to Meridian. No matter how foolish it may seem to Hayame, no matter how insane, the truth is clear to him: Creation is coming apart at the seams, and they have an opportunity to make sure the next one is better. For all that he mourns the loss of his country, his colleagues, his princess, his struggling little village… he owes his entire life to the Master of the First Vault. He cannot cling to the memories of his home when his honour demands he think of his Lord first.
But his fingers are cold as ice as they grip the handle of his blade, and he is pathetically grateful for Hayame's hand overtop his, even if it is only for a moment.
If he was stronger, if he had more courage, he wouldn't need Hayame's promise in order to do just this one thing for her. He might be able to save her from needing to raise a hand against him, to kill someone she had wanted to consider an ally. But he cannot. All he can do is to lessen the sting for her — so that if she must take his shard (and he knows he cannot prevent her from doing this), then at least he can relinquish it willingly, so she won't carry the memory of him struggling against her for his life.
Liem's country has no concept of honour in suicide. He has no notion of there being a right way to die, and he seeks no penance when he firms his grip on the knife. For him, there is only bitter remorse and a fear he cannot banish, despite having succumbed to dissipation once already.]
I'm sorry, Hayame.
[He is sorry — sorry that he would not choose to stay with her, and fight beside her still. Sorry that he would rely on her even now, to use her strength to shore up his weakness. Strength that he knows comes at cost, as he stares into her eyes, and her fingers spasm against his scalp.
His trembling muscles clench, and shove the rudely-sharpened blade into his chest; not far enough, not nearly far enough. A strangled breath chokes out of him — and for all that his hands jerk against the knife's hilt, there is only the jagged pain and suffocating feeling of a torn lung, followed by the warm, slick feeling of his own blood-sap coating his fingers.]
plasters the rest of this thread with cws
But his fingers are cold as ice as they grip the handle of his blade, and he is pathetically grateful for Hayame's hand overtop his, even if it is only for a moment.
If he was stronger, if he had more courage, he wouldn't need Hayame's promise in order to do just this one thing for her. He might be able to save her from needing to raise a hand against him, to kill someone she had wanted to consider an ally. But he cannot. All he can do is to lessen the sting for her — so that if she must take his shard (and he knows he cannot prevent her from doing this), then at least he can relinquish it willingly, so she won't carry the memory of him struggling against her for his life.
Liem's country has no concept of honour in suicide. He has no notion of there being a right way to die, and he seeks no penance when he firms his grip on the knife. For him, there is only bitter remorse and a fear he cannot banish, despite having succumbed to dissipation once already.]
I'm sorry, Hayame.
[He is sorry — sorry that he would not choose to stay with her, and fight beside her still. Sorry that he would rely on her even now, to use her strength to shore up his weakness. Strength that he knows comes at cost, as he stares into her eyes, and her fingers spasm against his scalp.
His trembling muscles clench, and shove the rudely-sharpened blade into his chest; not far enough, not nearly far enough. A strangled breath chokes out of him — and for all that his hands jerk against the knife's hilt, there is only the jagged pain and suffocating feeling of a torn lung, followed by the warm, slick feeling of his own blood-sap coating his fingers.]