Sobering thought, that. No loss could be afforded, if his gamble -- betrayal mingled with mad hope -- were to succeed. Worse, if one of theirs be lost at his own hands ... better to have fallen honourably, fighting back Chaos' underlings and the crystalline onslaught.
Carefully, slowly, with a gentleness that would have perhaps surprised some of his current companions, Kain lay Firion to rest on the cold stone of the plinth, adjusted his panoply of weaponry to cause the least discomfort.
It indeed felt as if he were arranging the limbs of a corpse for funeral rites.
But Firion still breathed; beneath the slack pallor of his flesh, his heart still beat. And yet ...
And yet that was not at all what gnawed at Kain. Not at all.
Despair fluttered around him, an unseen darkness that threatened to devour him as he stood as if in vigil next to the plinth, gazed down at Firion's unmoving features, reached out once to brush a pale stray lock away from that still face.
There was -- there is -- no time.
When you wake again, we will be nothing ...
... and so many things would be left unspoken.
Should the mad plan succeed, in the end Cosmos would, no doubt, blank all memory of his existence, and that of the others, from the minds of the sleepers. It was the way of the cycle, after all -- Kain's mouth twisted in bitter bile at the thought -- to wash away anything that was inconvenient. How long had it taken him to win back his own mind?
Silent, watching, he rested a hand on the Blood Sword's sheath where it lay alongside Firion. Watched the shuttered eyes, the still face.
Nothing.
Good.
Resolved, he drew the sword; brought the hungry, heart-keen blade up in one measured stroke, felt the hot, wet burn, tasted steel and the coppery tang ...
... then leaned, swift as the wind, to press lips that ran wet with crimson to Firion's mouth, to leave a blood red rose of his own self behind.
Dissidia Duodecim: Drops Like Petals -- Kain Highwind, Firion, PG (blood)
Sobering thought, that. No loss could be afforded, if his gamble -- betrayal mingled with mad hope -- were to succeed. Worse, if one of theirs be lost at his own hands ... better to have fallen honourably, fighting back Chaos' underlings and the crystalline onslaught.
Carefully, slowly, with a gentleness that would have perhaps surprised some of his current companions, Kain lay Firion to rest on the cold stone of the plinth, adjusted his panoply of weaponry to cause the least discomfort.
It indeed felt as if he were arranging the limbs of a corpse for funeral rites.
But Firion still breathed; beneath the slack pallor of his flesh, his heart still beat. And yet ...
And yet that was not at all what gnawed at Kain. Not at all.
Despair fluttered around him, an unseen darkness that threatened to devour him as he stood as if in vigil next to the plinth, gazed down at Firion's unmoving features, reached out once to brush a pale stray lock away from that still face.
There was -- there is -- no time.
When you wake again, we will be nothing ...
... and so many things would be left unspoken.
Should the mad plan succeed, in the end Cosmos would, no doubt, blank all memory of his existence, and that of the others, from the minds of the sleepers. It was the way of the cycle, after all -- Kain's mouth twisted in bitter bile at the thought -- to wash away anything that was inconvenient. How long had it taken him to win back his own mind?
Silent, watching, he rested a hand on the Blood Sword's sheath where it lay alongside Firion. Watched the shuttered eyes, the still face.
Nothing.
Good.
Resolved, he drew the sword; brought the hungry, heart-keen blade up in one measured stroke, felt the hot, wet burn, tasted steel and the coppery tang ...
... then leaned, swift as the wind, to press lips that ran wet with crimson to Firion's mouth, to leave a blood red rose of his own self behind.
It was all he could offer.
He hoped it could be enough.