Thousand-cutting soul— shattered blade, light-scarred: this is how you love the battlefield.
The hands that hold you are gentle, but not tender.
Kill them, you whisper in your not-voice. Kill them kill them kill them, strike swift strike deadly; my edge shall be your fury and all who oppose you shall know the perfection of the cut.
There is power in these hands, and awe-ful rage, and oh! you could be everything for her and you are sure that she hears you—
“Harlowe, if you would?” Her voice is as delicately lovely as the silk a killer shoves down their victim’s throat.
The man-shaped god in the black hood nods, and takes you back in his callused hands, so of course you call to him too (it is your nature), but he is indifferent as he lays you across an anvil.
And for some reason, he has seen fit to wield—instead of you!—an axe. He did not have it a moment ago, but now it rests in his hand as naturally as if it were part of him. And in a way, you suppose it is. But what could an axe possibly do to you?
He swings down once: a scream of steel-on-steel, and you go as red hot as the forge that made you. He swings down again: your edges glow with white-blue heat. (In his hands, an axe can do this.)
He swings down a third time: you are violently cold— —and it’s sudden, much too sudden…!
It's not being thrown away, exactly, because you're still hers, in the end. Isn't that what matters? She is your wielder—and this is how she has chosen to use you.
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START
shattered blade, light-scarred:
this is how you love the battlefield.
The hands that hold you are gentle, but not tender.
Kill them, you whisper in your not-voice. Kill them kill them kill them, strike swift strike deadly; my edge shall be your fury and all who oppose you shall know the perfection of the cut.
There is power in these hands, and awe-ful rage, and oh! you could be everything for her and you are sure that she hears you—
“Harlowe, if you would?” Her voice is as delicately lovely as the silk a killer shoves down their victim’s throat.
The man-shaped god in the black hood nods, and takes you back in his callused hands, so of course you call to him too (it is your nature), but he is indifferent as he lays you across an anvil.
And for some reason, he has seen fit to wield—instead of you!—an axe. He did not have it a moment ago, but now it rests in his hand as naturally as if it were part of him. And in a way, you suppose it is. But what could an axe possibly do to you?
He swings down once: a scream of steel-on-steel, and you go as red hot as the forge that made you.
He swings down again: your edges glow with white-blue heat. (In his hands, an axe can do this.)
He swings down a third time: you are violently cold—
—and it’s sudden, much too sudden…!
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WHAT THE FUCK ]
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> SHATTER.
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What... is this feeling? ]
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> SHATTER.
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[He hisses a sharp breath in - twists, and struggles to break free]
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> SHATTER.
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this is normal.
guess we just did something wrong. ]
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Maybe it only ever could have led to this:
that this is how you die.
> SHATTER.
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not normal, happening too quickly for her to acclimate, but not so strange that she can't understand, on some level, that she is at fault here
still. what the fuck. ]
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She is your wielder, isn't she—it's just that this is how she has chosen to use you.
And so: this is how you die.
> SHATTER.
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is just too much
but not surprisingly, really, she'd be thrown away
(it was always just a question of when)]
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She is your wielder—and this is how she has chosen to use you.
And so: this is how you die.
> SHATTER.