{ white } nat krigel's last
Jul 16, 2015 18:29:25 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Jul 16, 2015 18:29:25 GMT -5
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In the midst of this battle, there is no one either good or bad - only those who desire survival, and who don't desire it enough. Nat Krigel lay somewhere between.
He'd woken that morning with some new sense of revival after being touched by the harbinger of death - but no, she can't take full credit for purpose, can she? Gunner La Torre alone does not bring meaning into his life. Neither can Circe Lyon, the broken warrior angel, or Orion Hammerfell, the heart on their sleeve. If Nat knew them individually they'd be nothing but mortals - and somewhere, somehow, they'll fall. Maybe to death, or to half the life they'd had before.
And he knew them individually, but more than that Nat knows them as interlocking chains tangled in and around each other - around him. Where others may writhe in discomfort at the proximity there is nothing but laughter and the gentle caress of them that alone would not fulfil the clothes something so large as purpose - yet here and now together they amounted to something that came really close... something that could have been a life on its own.
Perhaps they could have been, somewhere else, in another time. Somewhere else as some other people, reborn as family and friends to reach this point once again, where Nat lies dying and Gunner sits watching and Circe doesn't cry and Orion is their silent guardian. In some other time or place this could end differently, but Nat's unwilling to accept that this is an end at all.
This is not their end. No matter how he wishes this would spin wings from the vague words he'd breathed, the truth is lingering bitter on his tongue.
For one to live, twenty-three must die. Until now, Nat had never entertained the prospect of losing at least two of his three halves. Somehow, somehow in his dreams Nat sees them alive and walking home hand-in-hand - united. Somehow, as Circe and Orion make their way to the waiting Elya, Gunner will turn and offer her hand to Nat and say, "C'mon, Baby Krigel. We can't wait all day."
Somehow, he'll get up from where he lies to take her hand and let the future anoint him with life.
Dreams are so easily shattered by reality. At the end of all of this, only one person will stand at midnight to hear the bell toll - not three.
One life.
Not three.
If life were a fault, then Nat hopes they have plenty of it.
If hope were flowers, he lies on barren land - but they race in spring-touched fields.
If there was a way to calculate the minutes between the moment he opened his eyes that morning and death, Nat would have long-since parted with the words now trapped in the cavity of his chest where his lungs would have opened for breath. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. Thank you. I love you. Goodbye." Selfishly he'd kept them, like words could reach through shadows to linger in the ears of the living when Nat left their ranks, like not being able to see the flicker of expression across features is a good thing. Too late he wishes he'd the guts to tell the ones who mattered most the words that mattered most.
"Goodbye."
If there was a way to see into the eyes of the man who drowned them all in his blood, Nat would have dropped his weapons to make contact at jaw and temple with the curve of his hands and searched for his soul. "If it's you," on a breath, nails pressed against his skin, "If it's you, you fucked up, asshole - but I forgive you anyway." How could Nat not, when he himself was made the helpless child in the midst of a training session once again? Moment by moment, blow by blow he recalls the underlying desperation of not knowing, in between failed attempts at deflection and new cuts drawn haphazardly on his skin.
He'd taken them with no complaint.
Somewhere between the time Gunner made her mark and Orion advanced on him through the mist, Nat knew he was going to die. Divinity has nothing to do with foreknowledge; rather, it was the fact that Nat can't take the life of anyone who is not just a passing blur in his life. For all his bravado in training, Nat could not have killed Leon Krigel. Not while Michel gazed up at his brother with adoration that Nat finds himself clinging to the ghost of. Just the same, he cannot bring himself to drive a knife through Orion's heart in self-defense.
Perhaps he'd known that the minute Orion raised his sword.
nat krigel
waɪt
turn the white snow red
turn the white snow red
Burn slow, burning up the back wall
Long roads, where the city meets the sky
Long roads, where the city meets the sky
In the midst of this battle, there is no one either good or bad - only those who desire survival, and who don't desire it enough. Nat Krigel lay somewhere between.
He'd woken that morning with some new sense of revival after being touched by the harbinger of death - but no, she can't take full credit for purpose, can she? Gunner La Torre alone does not bring meaning into his life. Neither can Circe Lyon, the broken warrior angel, or Orion Hammerfell, the heart on their sleeve. If Nat knew them individually they'd be nothing but mortals - and somewhere, somehow, they'll fall. Maybe to death, or to half the life they'd had before.
And he knew them individually, but more than that Nat knows them as interlocking chains tangled in and around each other - around him. Where others may writhe in discomfort at the proximity there is nothing but laughter and the gentle caress of them that alone would not fulfil the clothes something so large as purpose - yet here and now together they amounted to something that came really close... something that could have been a life on its own.
Perhaps they could have been, somewhere else, in another time. Somewhere else as some other people, reborn as family and friends to reach this point once again, where Nat lies dying and Gunner sits watching and Circe doesn't cry and Orion is their silent guardian. In some other time or place this could end differently, but Nat's unwilling to accept that this is an end at all.
This is not their end. No matter how he wishes this would spin wings from the vague words he'd breathed, the truth is lingering bitter on his tongue.
For one to live, twenty-three must die. Until now, Nat had never entertained the prospect of losing at least two of his three halves. Somehow, somehow in his dreams Nat sees them alive and walking home hand-in-hand - united. Somehow, as Circe and Orion make their way to the waiting Elya, Gunner will turn and offer her hand to Nat and say, "C'mon, Baby Krigel. We can't wait all day."
Somehow, he'll get up from where he lies to take her hand and let the future anoint him with life.
Dreams are so easily shattered by reality. At the end of all of this, only one person will stand at midnight to hear the bell toll - not three.
One life.
Not three.
If life were a fault, then Nat hopes they have plenty of it.
If hope were flowers, he lies on barren land - but they race in spring-touched fields.
If there was a way to calculate the minutes between the moment he opened his eyes that morning and death, Nat would have long-since parted with the words now trapped in the cavity of his chest where his lungs would have opened for breath. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. Thank you. I love you. Goodbye." Selfishly he'd kept them, like words could reach through shadows to linger in the ears of the living when Nat left their ranks, like not being able to see the flicker of expression across features is a good thing. Too late he wishes he'd the guts to tell the ones who mattered most the words that mattered most.
"Goodbye."
If there was a way to see into the eyes of the man who drowned them all in his blood, Nat would have dropped his weapons to make contact at jaw and temple with the curve of his hands and searched for his soul. "If it's you," on a breath, nails pressed against his skin, "If it's you, you fucked up, asshole - but I forgive you anyway." How could Nat not, when he himself was made the helpless child in the midst of a training session once again? Moment by moment, blow by blow he recalls the underlying desperation of not knowing, in between failed attempts at deflection and new cuts drawn haphazardly on his skin.
He'd taken them with no complaint.
Somewhere between the time Gunner made her mark and Orion advanced on him through the mist, Nat knew he was going to die. Divinity has nothing to do with foreknowledge; rather, it was the fact that Nat can't take the life of anyone who is not just a passing blur in his life. For all his bravado in training, Nat could not have killed Leon Krigel. Not while Michel gazed up at his brother with adoration that Nat finds himself clinging to the ghost of. Just the same, he cannot bring himself to drive a knife through Orion's heart in self-defense.
Perhaps he'd known that the minute Orion raised his sword.
Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
