A/N: Geez, these LJ-Drabbles must be inspiration. -Headshake.- And the person who knows where the very last line is from gets a cookie.
Disclaim: Again, lowly fangirl.
He's the only one who knows … Falling From Grace and Imminence go hand-in-hand.
But he doesn't tell anyone. Oh, no. He would never dare spit acidic lexis or lick the etymology of betrayal, if only for his own self-preservation and that of silver strings. He supposes they not only bind his weapon, but his mouth, too.
Maybe that was why he had never tried his hand at singing. He was so afraid of the poison that might just find a way to trickle out.
And for all his endeavors, it seemed he still couldn't give himself the right antidote to keep himself out of tribulation. His words left fingerprints, handprints if he had a particularly bad spell of karma.
That was the anorexic, beautiful thing about words. They got around, spread like wild digits grabbing and seizing and needing to hold and crave and … and corrode, like some post-mortem disease still ripping away at rubberized flesh.
When his mortician finally came for him, there was the scent of death looming over him, clawing at the back of his neck and filling his lungs up to the brim in a skeleton's inoculation. Which, all in all, the musician had to admit was better than fetid breath. Senses were not disconnected, only the catalysts.
His flesh rotted beneath the touch, and he tried comprehend the only reason he had been given for violation.
"They are dead to you. But you still corrupted them."
"Dead … to me?"
"You fill even carcasses with hope. And that is unforgivable in My Order."
It was then--while he was being desecrated--did the true nature of the unorganized Organization level itself for his conception: between all the whitewash walls and vacant soliloquies of pain, hope was a burden, an inhibitor, and one that was not allowed to weigh on the conscious of any member.
The man was too hard on him … or so he would have liked to think. He was too harsh, too strong, too much. But somewhere within he might have thought he deserved it. He deserved his punishment: for dirtying the members the members with his sickly litanies.
"Beautus qui vir suffert tentationem."