"My, my, my... aren't you vicious. Your kitten has claws, I see..." It's an unsettling mystery as to why Cohen's attack paused long enough for Christine to finish off Finnegan with no interruption; sure, he could have made it harder for her; he could have set that shield of crows on fire, but for whatever twisted reason he only watches; his high pitched wheezing laughter seems to come from everywhere at once, and the bastard sounds sickeningly smug.
“And look at how you get your paws so bloody for your master. Your devotion is--” a few stifled sobs that balance upon the line between sincere and mocking, “--so beautiful. Would you feel honored if I painted it, after I’ve extracted what I need…?”
Meanwhile, Erik willfully hauls his concentration together; the cold gnaws him like it’s starving, but as the seconds tick by he becomes further and further adjusted. It’s only pain, after all, and his heart threatens greater agony than the frost. Is he not more than this pathetic, helpless creature? Can he do nothing but watch Christine destroy herself? His self disgust is muffled only barely, by the visceral understanding that he can’t let this come to pass; he can’t let her kill one more person for him.
Somehow, by some madman’s paranoid delusion or a genius’ sharp perception, Erik feels it in the marrow of his bones; this could very realistically cost Christine her wings. How can he entrap her into this terrible tomb without telling her the truth? She can leave, if she chooses; she could abandon him for his infidelity and return to the luxuries of Heaven, if it soothed her. But that freedom may be fast dwindling, about to be ripped out from under her, and Erik suddenly and starkly recalls the Tarot card that had idly fell from the deck upon his pale silken pillow:
The Tower. It had been instinctive to shrug it off, to turn away-- to make it unimportant. Could something have been changed if he’d only listened to the faint whispers of the forces that be? All of this uselessness fogs his mind as he gazes upwards towards his precious Christine, aching to drive her away but knowing she would not abandon him without knowing the truth. But he can’t say it now, entrapped, when a shock such as that could mean another wash of blistering burns for his smouldering angel.
This thin bare arm stretches through the empty space of the cage as Erik twists uncomfortably, attempting to reach the offered blade whilst remaining half frozen to the ground. It’s an impossible stretch, drawing a raw growl of frustration from the harassed caged man. His eyes home a calculated corrosive burn, like careful shards of dry eyes. The effect of this blizzard magic… it can’t linger too long beyond its master’s expiration, can it? Flexing his immobilized limb, Erik can feel the cold creep away in tiny fractions, and knows his instincts must be correct. He needs but to outwait the effect so he can reach the carefully offered blade, bust the lock, and…
And take Christine far away from here, to reveal the shameful truth concealed behind his carefully constructed lies of omission. He loves another woman, and he is unworthy of this sacrifice.
“You want to bargain after calling me such unflattering things? My lady, that is absolutely no way to win a man’s heart…” a blur of blood scented fog hails Cohen’s appearance at the front of the stage, where he stands in a mockery of spotlight from the broken ceiling above. “He’s mine, you know. Mine until I get what I want. But, I tell you what? You’ve impressed me so much with your passionate bloodshed, that I’ll let you take him when I’m done with him. Now, can’t we all just get along…?” It’s unclear if the bunny obsessed lunatic is being sincere or mocking, and his red smile continues to stretch as he strides casually closer.
“A fair deal, I would say… seeing as you’re turning so crispy.”
Would that be better, Erik wonders in a feverish haze. If he gave Cohen what he wanted, and he allowed them to leave with the last unstained scrap of his angel’s innocence --her freedom!-- intact. The revelation stuns him for half a moment, and it disgusts him to know that some miniscule tell in his expression caused Cohen to break into a smug grin.
“Ah, even your Beau thinks it’s an offer worth consideration,” he gloats.
But in the next few moments, Christine and Cohen alike could clearly read the bold refultion in those eerily unmatched eyes. As if he would never, ever consider such a thing.
(When the raw truth is that he would, and he despises that Cohen has found such a crack in his unwavering will.)
His teeth scrape and the motion shows faintly through the pallid semi-translucent skin of his cheeks; the blue web of veins twitch with the erratic stomping of his pulse; he just needs a few more minutes… He can feel the subtle give as he continues his attempts to break free from the icy binding. If only he could say something-- anything! But Erik isn’t clear on if that voice-snatching trinket had been broken or not, and he’s suddenly assaulted by a ruthless dilemma.
If that devious enchanted device had not been broken… all Erik needs to do is sing.If… if he did, Christine would not longer have any reason to fight; Cohen’s disinterest would be his jailbreak. He can save her, he can...
But the ice is so near to cracking, so near to releasing him from its pinning prison. Maybe a minute more, just one, and they can both escape with themselves intact. Her freedom, his voice.
His gaze slices upwards to the space he could catch her gaze, if she sensed to look at him.
’Stall this aberrant cretin,’ seems to be the attached telepathic message, sent above the smothered pulse pounding force of his guilt. Dear god-- at any moment, one of them could destroy the other-- but he just needs to squeeze out a few more vital moments…
Three tags in less than a month WHOO not sure if proud or crying xD;;
“And look at how you get your paws so bloody for your master. Your devotion is--” a few stifled sobs that balance upon the line between sincere and mocking, “--so beautiful. Would you feel honored if I painted it, after I’ve extracted what I need…?”
Meanwhile, Erik willfully hauls his concentration together; the cold gnaws him like it’s starving, but as the seconds tick by he becomes further and further adjusted. It’s only pain, after all, and his heart threatens greater agony than the frost. Is he not more than this pathetic, helpless creature? Can he do nothing but watch Christine destroy herself? His self disgust is muffled only barely, by the visceral understanding that he can’t let this come to pass; he can’t let her kill one more person for him.
Somehow, by some madman’s paranoid delusion or a genius’ sharp perception, Erik feels it in the marrow of his bones; this could very realistically cost Christine her wings. How can he entrap her into this terrible tomb without telling her the truth? She can leave, if she chooses; she could abandon him for his infidelity and return to the luxuries of Heaven, if it soothed her. But that freedom may be fast dwindling, about to be ripped out from under her, and Erik suddenly and starkly recalls the Tarot card that had idly fell from the deck upon his pale silken pillow:
The Tower. It had been instinctive to shrug it off, to turn away-- to make it unimportant. Could something have been changed if he’d only listened to the faint whispers of the forces that be? All of this uselessness fogs his mind as he gazes upwards towards his precious Christine, aching to drive her away but knowing she would not abandon him without knowing the truth. But he can’t say it now, entrapped, when a shock such as that could mean another wash of blistering burns for his smouldering angel.
This thin bare arm stretches through the empty space of the cage as Erik twists uncomfortably, attempting to reach the offered blade whilst remaining half frozen to the ground. It’s an impossible stretch, drawing a raw growl of frustration from the harassed caged man. His eyes home a calculated corrosive burn, like careful shards of dry eyes. The effect of this blizzard magic… it can’t linger too long beyond its master’s expiration, can it? Flexing his immobilized limb, Erik can feel the cold creep away in tiny fractions, and knows his instincts must be correct. He needs but to outwait the effect so he can reach the carefully offered blade, bust the lock, and…
And take Christine far away from here, to reveal the shameful truth concealed behind his carefully constructed lies of omission.
He loves another woman, and he is unworthy of this sacrifice.
“You want to bargain after calling me such unflattering things? My lady, that is absolutely no way to win a man’s heart…” a blur of blood scented fog hails Cohen’s appearance at the front of the stage, where he stands in a mockery of spotlight from the broken ceiling above. “He’s mine, you know. Mine until I get what I want. But, I tell you what? You’ve impressed me so much with your passionate bloodshed, that I’ll let you take him when I’m done with him. Now, can’t we all just get along…?” It’s unclear if the bunny obsessed lunatic is being sincere or mocking, and his red smile continues to stretch as he strides casually closer.
“A fair deal, I would say… seeing as you’re turning so crispy.”
Would that be better, Erik wonders in a feverish haze. If he gave Cohen what he wanted, and he allowed them to leave with the last unstained scrap of his angel’s innocence --her freedom!-- intact. The revelation stuns him for half a moment, and it disgusts him to know that some miniscule tell in his expression caused Cohen to break into a smug grin.
“Ah, even your Beau thinks it’s an offer worth consideration,” he gloats.
But in the next few moments, Christine and Cohen alike could clearly read the bold refultion in those eerily unmatched eyes. As if he would never, ever consider such a thing.
(When the raw truth is that he would, and he despises that Cohen has found such a crack in his unwavering will.)
His teeth scrape and the motion shows faintly through the pallid semi-translucent skin of his cheeks; the blue web of veins twitch with the erratic stomping of his pulse; he just needs a few more minutes… He can feel the subtle give as he continues his attempts to break free from the icy binding. If only he could say something-- anything! But Erik isn’t clear on if that voice-snatching trinket had been broken or not, and he’s suddenly assaulted by a ruthless dilemma.
If that devious enchanted device had not been broken… all Erik needs to do is sing.If… if he did, Christine would not longer have any reason to fight; Cohen’s disinterest would be his jailbreak. He can save her, he can...
But the ice is so near to cracking, so near to releasing him from its pinning prison. Maybe a minute more, just one, and they can both escape with themselves intact. Her freedom, his voice.
His gaze slices upwards to the space he could catch her gaze, if she sensed to look at him.
’Stall this aberrant cretin,’ seems to be the attached telepathic message, sent above the smothered pulse pounding force of his guilt. Dear god-- at any moment, one of them could destroy the other-- but he just needs to squeeze out a few more vital moments…