[ Blood spills and Diluc staggers back. The distance works in Dion's favour, taking advantage of the pause in Diluc's assault to drive his lance forward to run Diluc through, the sharp metal aiming to rip through flesh, muscle and organs.
But Diluc isn't intimidated by pain or the danger of Dion's lance. The hammer connects against his arm, it feels as though the entire limb is a rock for him to shatter.
The pain is enough to earn a small cry from him, ringing through his head as he stumbles away. If he managed to pierce through Diluc, then he'll pull his lance back with him, though his grip is so weak that Diluc could easily take it from his grasp.
He's used to pain, and it manages to claw through him anew nonetheless. Still, he laughs slightly. ]
[ dion's lance strikes true, gouging through diluc's torso with a sickening crunch of flesh, bone and viscera. blood immediately burbles from the wound, filling a punctured lung and spilling from diluc's mouth in a wretched wheeze.
and still, he is driven to fight to the bitter end. his hand clamps onto the pole of the lance despite his injuries—the effort surely exacerbating them. his grip is no stronger than dion's, but it is desperate as adrenaline floods his failing body.
both of them barely held in place, diluc will still try to use his other hand to wind the wire around dion's neck, a final attempt to sever through his windpipe. the same wire bites deep into his own palm as he tugs—
—though his strength quickly bleeds away with him. the line scratches only a shallow mark into dion's throat, and then loosens as diluc's grip goes slack and falls away. ]
...Dion.
[ it hurts to breathe. the pain is shocking, numbing. he blinks slowly, memories clambering to reach the forefront of his fading consciousness. he can barely grasp any of them. he doesn't know where he is, but he knows who he's with. ]
...I'm sorry.
[ he coughs, and more blood spills down his front.
[ The wrong memories come to the surface. The memories of someone born a curse, not a blessing. The memories of someone reviled and hated, and not someone lauded and admired. They are the memories of someone who lost the battle against impulse and violence, and went through life taking one life at a time.
(But, the memories of this person still contain far less carnage.)
And that person, thinks it's lovely when the blood gurgles out of Diluc. That person thinks the red that dribbles from his mouth and chin suits him where it turns his skin red, and soils the clothes usually so meticulously kept.
He admires Diluc's dignity, cultivated through years of wrath and tamed temper. He admires his steadfast resolve, honed into a blade after years of being a blunt hammer.
He supposes that he may as well admire him here too, in death. ]
Diluc.
[ Red lines his throat too from the shallow wound from the wire, and he staggers back once it falls away with Diluc. He watches him crumple to the ground, and sinks to his knees.
Diluc often reminded him of the Phoenix: an unwavering symbol of hope. ]
It's alright. [ He settles a hand on Diluc's shoulder to help him sit upright on the ground as best as he can. ] I'm sorry too.
[ And then he lifts the lance in his other hand, and drives it through Diluc's heart. ]
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no subject
But Diluc isn't intimidated by pain or the danger of Dion's lance. The hammer connects against his arm, it feels as though the entire limb is a rock for him to shatter.
The pain is enough to earn a small cry from him, ringing through his head as he stumbles away. If he managed to pierce through Diluc, then he'll pull his lance back with him, though his grip is so weak that Diluc could easily take it from his grasp.
He's used to pain, and it manages to claw through him anew nonetheless. Still, he laughs slightly. ]
Well done.
no subject
and still, he is driven to fight to the bitter end. his hand clamps onto the pole of the lance despite his injuries—the effort surely exacerbating them. his grip is no stronger than dion's, but it is desperate as adrenaline floods his failing body.
both of them barely held in place, diluc will still try to use his other hand to wind the wire around dion's neck, a final attempt to sever through his windpipe. the same wire bites deep into his own palm as he tugs—
—though his strength quickly bleeds away with him. the line scratches only a shallow mark into dion's throat, and then loosens as diluc's grip goes slack and falls away. ]
...Dion.
[ it hurts to breathe. the pain is shocking, numbing. he blinks slowly, memories clambering to reach the forefront of his fading consciousness. he can barely grasp any of them. he doesn't know where he is, but he knows who he's with. ]
...I'm sorry.
[ he coughs, and more blood spills down his front.
he crumples to the ground. ]
no subject
(But, the memories of this person still contain far less carnage.)
And that person, thinks it's lovely when the blood gurgles out of Diluc. That person thinks the red that dribbles from his mouth and chin suits him where it turns his skin red, and soils the clothes usually so meticulously kept.
He admires Diluc's dignity, cultivated through years of wrath and tamed temper. He admires his steadfast resolve, honed into a blade after years of being a blunt hammer.
He supposes that he may as well admire him here too, in death. ]
Diluc.
[ Red lines his throat too from the shallow wound from the wire, and he staggers back once it falls away with Diluc. He watches him crumple to the ground, and sinks to his knees.
Diluc often reminded him of the Phoenix: an unwavering symbol of hope. ]
It's alright. [ He settles a hand on Diluc's shoulder to help him sit upright on the ground as best as he can. ] I'm sorry too.
[ And then he lifts the lance in his other hand, and drives it through Diluc's heart. ]