8 ) A Perfect Circle - Passive
He lay in a
pool of blood, a sleeping angel dyed crimson. Not the way any one of
them had imagined. There was no movement, almost as if there were no
glimmer of life in the fallen angel sprawled lifelessly on the
ground.
Then there was soft, silent click.
Over him hovered a black-robed figure, flowing darkness in the form of a dark-haired mage. Ebony eyes narrowed, fingers extricating themselves from the encasing white glove as he knelt in the sea of crimson, gently caressing a bloodstained cheek, leaving crimson streaks against pale ivory skin.
"Wake up."
What was soft echoed almost obscenely loudly in the almost empty hall. Amidst broken glass and shattered consoles, they were the only two, the one who was truly alive lying lifeless, his counterpart whose longeveity was not truly organic taking breaths he did not need to survive.
There was no response.
Fingers grasped the puppetmaster's chin gently, forcing that lifeless body to look at him. All the blood had drained out of his face, the boy was horribly pale. There was a limpness to his sprawled frame that Isaak did not like.
It was no secret, the mage knew what had transpired. His fingers let go of Dietrich's chin, letting the boy's head thud against the floor none too gently. Gentleness was not something Isaak indulged in, especially not to those who were gone.
"You disappointed him, Dietrich."
His tone was almost callous, but that which was not said in his cruel, hardhearted words were in his actions, as the mage picked up his deathly pale protege and vanished.