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ｃｏｒｖｏ "FUBAR" ａｔｔａｎｏ (
2016-01-10 11:37 am (UTC)
He comes to her with a knife.
He comes to her with an offering of blood on his hands. He comes to her with rich men screams embedded under his nails. There is seawater rinsed in the back of his tongue, salt-dry where he had washed his mouth out of the copper tang.
He comes to her on his knees because he knows he was always better on them. With promises of fealty that come only because in his saner moments knows it is because she is no fool and knows that he will not stop and whatever stands in his way will not be spared. He doesn't know subtle anymore.
What he knows is limited to this. Pendleton had slighted her, and he was going to kill the man anyway, for poisoning them both. But he takes a care, to keep the blade that he had done it with. Slick still with blood, dried now, save for the coating that was over him. He is death and rot, and he wears it well. They are his sincerest gifts, as makes his way up the steps to her. Emily is back now, wrapped up safe with Callista. But he had promised he would come back to her. He is nothing, nothing but a man of his word. Fools, when they burned him, made him beg and scream - that he was nothing but his word. Nothing but his devotion and his promises.
So of course he comes back to her, he said he would, of course he comes back to her awash in the muck of this city he has gutted his way through - because he said he would, and that is, if he was ever to be feared, it is not for his magic, his ruthlessness, it is because he is a man absolute to his word.
Finds where she is sitting high in the tower, and he drops the blade at her feet. Listening to it clatter on the ground, watching it from behind his mask. It too, is worn better than his skin. Ragged like he had dragged himself up out of the riverbed itself to be here now. Sodden with the storm. Aching in every limb. As he stands there swaying on his feet, he is more himself than he has been in months.
Waiting, waiting for her benediction, her blessing, he has know faith - how can any man when he has stared into the face of his God and knows that he does not care.
He doesn't need any of that.
What he has is better than black eyed princes and empty pitiless void. That whisper of rats and screams echoed back from under the depths.
He has her, and in her, he is complete.
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