Good heavens, haven't typed anything in forever. I do hope that this little short will do for the moment! It's a bit of angst from Lyon of Grado, consumed by the power of the Sacred Stone and his guilt from his crimes a.k.a. that he's destroying the world. The poor self-pitying SOB. Sorry if it doesn't make much sense.
I own none of Fire Emblem's characters, because they are full of too much ownage for my mind to even comprehend.
There is nothing else around him. The only comfort he has in this place is the constant
Drip
Drip
Drip
of something he cannot see. He tunes in his hearing to listen to it. Each drip echoes in his mind, as if somebody had struck a great drum. It hurts his ears to listen to; it is so loud. The pulsating lull of its forbidden power; a heinous sin. His eyes are open, but closed. He listens with the power of one man with closed ears that will not hear; the lips of a man with no mouth to speak the words he needs. And yet the voice remains. The resonance. Desolation has brought upon the cry - an elaborate strain of something unseen, something unwanted. Desperation will free the mind. He reaches a hand out before him, then slowly, ever so slowly, raises it to the heavens. He appeals to them, whispering words with no meaning, mouthing them but making no noise. The heavens have not heard. His heart is sinking slowly, cracking and crumbling. He lowers his hands and places them before him, only to recoil sharply as he is cut. He focuses. He cannot see, but knows. There are crystalline shards, scattered all around him. His crime.
Drip
Drip
Drip
His hands are cut and bleeding from the smallest of them, and yet they hurt terribly. It pains him and he feels that he should scream, should cry, should feel angry, sad, but he feels nothing. He just bleeds, silently.
And he wonders
'What have I done?'