[Dion is frozen by his body. It stills him enough to overwhelm him with emotion, and Luke knows this would be the perfect opportunity to take him down. The cold agent in his true heart sees the necessary opening. The Institute researcher sees a chance to escape. The man who sought revenge for his beloved, the false prisoner, the hated child--they all see a chance to bestow upon this man the unfairness that has been poured onto him, life after life after life after life.
The rage is all-consuming.
It is, in fact, too much.
Dion is frozen by his body: Luke, by memory. All at once, he's overwhelmed. Who is he? How did they get here? The people outside--weren't they important to him, more than his father(s)? They met ten lives ago, seven weeks ago, today. Is that why he's so angry? Is it at them? For them? At himself?
...Has he always been this angry?
It's not foreign. There is bitterness there that was not implanted, the perfect foothold for this mountain of unfair lives. But didn't love drive him, once? Didn't he feel fear, and determination, and affection, for her, for him, for them?
Didn't he find happiness, even in death?
The glaive runs him through, so quickly that the pain barely even registers. It doesn't hit his heart--but it feels as though it does. It severs the binds of artificial fury, and all at once, he remembers the man in front of him. This man is important. He has suffered. He is beloved. And Luke should be fighting anyway, he has reasons to fight, better ones than this, but...
Maybe this is finally enough. Maybe it's okay to be done. He doesn't want this rage to win. Not like this. And deep down, he is so, so sick of surviving.
...But where would that leave Dion?
He falls forward, supported by the weight of the very thing that's ending his life. It's close enough, just barely, to close the gap. Luke collects himself, and with the last of his strength, he shoves the hedge clippers forward, aiming to jam them into Dion's throat.
He saw the anger in Dion's eyes. The least Luke can do for him is to help him rest, too.]
[ As a prince, Dion had always thought it especially important to keep careful control of his anger. His position and power made that a moment of irritation could cost someone their livelihood—if not their lives—and he had never wanted to make those around them feel as though they had to serve him or please him out of fear of retribution.
But he has been angry for so long, and his control has slipped too many times: the night that he'd killed his father, the night he'd killed Margaret, and now, he can feel himself taking several lifetimes of rage and frustration, and directing them at Luke.
He wishes that he could be better. Perhaps if he had been a better servant to Greagor, or a better friend to the worshippers his parents had left him, he might've found a different end to this. Perhaps if he'd been smarter, stronger, more creative, different—
The glaive runs through Luke, blood splattering on the ground in thick, heavy spurts, but Dion doesn't let go. Not even as Luke stumbles forward, face contorted with pain, he doesn't turn his gaze away.
Luke had always been gentle, kind, easily flustered and remarkably exasperated. Dion had found him charming, and probably enjoyed teasing him too much.
So when Luke digs the clippers into his throat, he sees the act for what it is: a kindness.
The air leaves him in an instant, wheezing as blood pools in his lungs and body running cold as he bleeds out. His head falls forward, uncaring of the way the clippers tear further into his throat, so that his forehead can rest lightly against Lukes, ] ... Thank you.
[ He takes all the strength he has to tear the glaive back out of Luke's body, letting him bleed freely without the weapon stoppering the blood.
It's agonizing. Isn't it always? Luke has never wanted other people to look at him too closely, constantly hiding his pain behind smiles and omissions and outright lies. I'm fine. It doesn't hurt. Forever. The moment he realized his grief could be a burden to his new family, he vowed to do anything it took to protect their peace and happiness, and that creed has guided him ever since. He does not like his truths to be seen.
Dion sees them now. He sees the exhaustion that Luke knows must show on his face, any hope of a facade shattering as the light vanished from Dahut's eyes. He sees the respite Luke wants him to have, and maybe Luke should be grateful that Dion doesn't think him spiteful and cruel--but Dion thanks him with his dying breath, and it hurts. More than Dahut dying in his arms, more than waking up to see he'd failed to protect Sheba, it hurts to be cared for in this way. Seen.
Dion grants him a swift death. But perhaps slow torture would've been kinder.
The glaive is the only thing holding them up. As it's ripped free, Luke can't break their fall. Dion deserves to be lowered gently, with the care and respect a good man deserves. But Luke can't give him that, not with one hand and a gaping wound. They hit the ground together, blood coating the floor as it pours out of them. Luke drops the clippers, gripping Dion's shoulder tightly as he rapidly grows lightheaded. He watches Dion hit the floor first, and thinks, ridiculously, that he hopes it doesn't hurt.
(It doesn't, of course. Dion is dead.
He hopes nothing hurts, anymore.)
Gravity drags Luke down too, in the next moment. And he can't do much but lie here, a lonely chill creeping through his body as his "heart" tries, and fails, to keep him alive even longer, his mind grasping at all the reasons he's kept going thus far, everything that's driven him all the way to this.
He can't do much. But he finds that he can do just a little more. So he reaches out with cold, shaking fingers, and closes Dion's eyes as he closes his own.
His breath leaves him, a jumbled mess of memories flashing through his mind. Every life he's ever lived culminates in this: Luke Pearce is dead.]
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no subject
The rage is all-consuming.
It is, in fact, too much.
Dion is frozen by his body: Luke, by memory. All at once, he's overwhelmed. Who is he? How did they get here? The people outside--weren't they important to him, more than his father(s)? They met ten lives ago, seven weeks ago, today. Is that why he's so angry? Is it at them? For them? At himself?
...Has he always been this angry?
It's not foreign. There is bitterness there that was not implanted, the perfect foothold for this mountain of unfair lives. But didn't love drive him, once? Didn't he feel fear, and determination, and affection, for her, for him, for them?
Didn't he find happiness, even in death?
The glaive runs him through, so quickly that the pain barely even registers. It doesn't hit his heart--but it feels as though it does. It severs the binds of artificial fury, and all at once, he remembers the man in front of him. This man is important. He has suffered. He is beloved. And Luke should be fighting anyway, he has reasons to fight, better ones than this, but...
Maybe this is finally enough. Maybe it's okay to be done. He doesn't want this rage to win. Not like this. And deep down, he is so, so sick of surviving.
...But where would that leave Dion?
He falls forward, supported by the weight of the very thing that's ending his life. It's close enough, just barely, to close the gap. Luke collects himself, and with the last of his strength, he shoves the hedge clippers forward, aiming to jam them into Dion's throat.
He saw the anger in Dion's eyes. The least Luke can do for him is to help him rest, too.]
no subject
But he has been angry for so long, and his control has slipped too many times: the night that he'd killed his father, the night he'd killed Margaret, and now, he can feel himself taking several lifetimes of rage and frustration, and directing them at Luke.
He wishes that he could be better. Perhaps if he had been a better servant to Greagor, or a better friend to the worshippers his parents had left him, he might've found a different end to this. Perhaps if he'd been smarter, stronger, more creative, different—
The glaive runs through Luke, blood splattering on the ground in thick, heavy spurts, but Dion doesn't let go. Not even as Luke stumbles forward, face contorted with pain, he doesn't turn his gaze away.
Luke had always been gentle, kind, easily flustered and remarkably exasperated. Dion had found him charming, and probably enjoyed teasing him too much.
So when Luke digs the clippers into his throat, he sees the act for what it is: a kindness.
The air leaves him in an instant, wheezing as blood pools in his lungs and body running cold as he bleeds out. His head falls forward, uncaring of the way the clippers tear further into his throat, so that his forehead can rest lightly against Lukes, ] ... Thank you.
[ He takes all the strength he has to tear the glaive back out of Luke's body, letting him bleed freely without the weapon stoppering the blood.
And he falls, one last time.
Dion is finally dead. ]
no subject
It's agonizing. Isn't it always? Luke has never wanted other people to look at him too closely, constantly hiding his pain behind smiles and omissions and outright lies. I'm fine. It doesn't hurt. Forever. The moment he realized his grief could be a burden to his new family, he vowed to do anything it took to protect their peace and happiness, and that creed has guided him ever since. He does not like his truths to be seen.
Dion sees them now. He sees the exhaustion that Luke knows must show on his face, any hope of a facade shattering as the light vanished from Dahut's eyes. He sees the respite Luke wants him to have, and maybe Luke should be grateful that Dion doesn't think him spiteful and cruel--but Dion thanks him with his dying breath, and it hurts. More than Dahut dying in his arms, more than waking up to see he'd failed to protect Sheba, it hurts to be cared for in this way. Seen.
Dion grants him a swift death. But perhaps slow torture would've been kinder.
The glaive is the only thing holding them up. As it's ripped free, Luke can't break their fall. Dion deserves to be lowered gently, with the care and respect a good man deserves. But Luke can't give him that, not with one hand and a gaping wound. They hit the ground together, blood coating the floor as it pours out of them. Luke drops the clippers, gripping Dion's shoulder tightly as he rapidly grows lightheaded. He watches Dion hit the floor first, and thinks, ridiculously, that he hopes it doesn't hurt.
(It doesn't, of course. Dion is dead.
He hopes nothing hurts, anymore.)
Gravity drags Luke down too, in the next moment. And he can't do much but lie here, a lonely chill creeping through his body as his "heart" tries, and fails, to keep him alive even longer, his mind grasping at all the reasons he's kept going thus far, everything that's driven him all the way to this.
He can't do much. But he finds that he can do just a little more. So he reaches out with cold, shaking fingers, and closes Dion's eyes as he closes his own.
His breath leaves him, a jumbled mess of memories flashing through his mind. Every life he's ever lived culminates in this: Luke Pearce is dead.]