His fingers never were so cold. They reached the sword, trembling, filling his palm with the sheath, and thus with blood. No one had cleaned it yet- well, it was exactly what he wanted: untouchable, pure, despite the lives it had taken- and it was still possible to see the heavy aura around him, like that smell…
Smell of death.
It penetrated lungs and feet, upset balance and weighed in his arms, and only the fact that his mind was so empty that kept him standing. The silence bothered him, killed him, and echoed in his whole being, stirring and mixing memories and dreams, crushing the innocence and youth that remained in the boy. Silence filled him much, but his voice- weak and small, as well as self- emptied everything. Everything ached, his eyes- now only shadows reflected in their orbits- burned.
But what hurt the most were not his moist and red eyes; were not hands soaked in scarlet and sin; were not his ears or throat, head or tendons. Something opened up and bleed in his chest, cut with a blade so sharp as the sword in front of him, with that texture that made his spine shiver, cervix shudder, cheeks hurt from smiling of so much disgrace that passed in his thoughts.
He was not worthy of it. Never would be, not even in a million years, worthy of that. Even if it had sliced so many heads, its principle was to protect, and was exactly with that sword that his master tried to protect him, and failed.
{Although it was Leo who erred. Was Leo's fault. It was caused by Leo, Leo, Leo.}
He did not deserve to pour drops on it, did not deserve to clean the red with the salty. His teeth chattered to himself and his hoarse whisper judged; but begged for the pain, anger and guilt that gnawed his veins, leave. His speech only expelled morbid phrases, everything seemed wrong and dirty, rotting his tongue with the truth.
God, he would be so angry if he saw that scene now.
Both ankles and forehead leaning on the same floor, chest surrounded by tissue that held the object, tears fading of the amethyst, falling on his black wires, joints, the emptiness of his column, mind, eyes, heart.
The sword smelled like Elliot.
Shone like Elliot.
Sounded like Elliot.
But it was not Elliot.
