[Hunter, boy, if you think you're real tired of this TV business, you've got nothing on how exhausted Thancred is going to be in about two and a half seconds, because —
|| There's nothing, strictly speaking, to see in this memory; there's likewise nothing to hear. Such are the hazards of having memories from a place where light doesn't reach, where sound makes no difference. And yet something of the emotion of it comes through nevertheless — a sense of pressure, purple-black, unrelenting in the way it bears down from all sides, seeking to suppress and crush and snuff out.
He's not struggling, because to struggle necessitates limbs, and he's long since lost control of those. He's not moving, because moving requires a form, and that's been overshadowed by the malevolence that seeks to dominate him. But it would have him fall silent, be eliminated once and for all, and he —
fights
fights to keep hold of his name, his being. Fights against the ego death that the monster smothering him would prefer, because there is nothing about him that matters — only his form, his face, and the convenience it offers, and the doors it unlocks.
In the nothingness he writhes against, a blinding red pattern of lines and angles burns to life. It's so bright by comparison that it's the only color he can perceive for a moment, glowing against the nothingness, the lack of light.
Your comrades are close, Lahabrea taunts him, gleeful and half-insane. Shall we show them our face? Do they not deserve the pleasure of knowing firsthand your betrayal, your weakness?
and there is
nothing
nothing of him, nothing to do, nothing to reach for, nothing to scream, as the Ascian takes his (their) (his!) arms and uses them to lift his hood. ||
no subject
He's not struggling, because to struggle necessitates limbs, and he's long since lost control of those. He's not moving, because moving requires a form, and that's been overshadowed by the malevolence that seeks to dominate him. But it would have him fall silent, be eliminated once and for all, and he —
fights
fights to keep hold of his name, his being. Fights against the ego death that the monster smothering him would prefer, because there is nothing about him that matters — only his form, his face, and the convenience it offers, and the doors it unlocks.
In the nothingness he writhes against, a blinding red pattern of lines and angles burns to life. It's so bright by comparison that it's the only color he can perceive for a moment, glowing against the nothingness, the lack of light.
Your comrades are close, Lahabrea taunts him, gleeful and half-insane. Shall we show them our face? Do they not deserve the pleasure of knowing firsthand your betrayal, your weakness?
and there is
nothing
nothing of him, nothing to do, nothing to reach for, nothing to scream, as the Ascian takes his (their) (his!) arms and uses them to lift his hood. ||
So, Hunter. That.
That sure did just happen, huh.]