Disclaimer: Ne.
A/N: Just another snippet.
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Anger. The one thing that sets us apart from the rest of them. The screaming that we do in our lives is never heard. The sobs are never seen. And so what becomes of anger? Hidden. Festering in the darkness, wildest of pits, boiling over until it finally finds release. When battle comes, and the night and blood hide the sight from all innocent eyes, fury is at last released. It wars in a megalomaniac sense of pride and foolish petulance, demanding attention and rapture in the most violent of ways.
A feral grin, we soon realized, is all that we would ever need. Was all that we would. They would fear us and cower; run into their hovels and tremble as the earth sang its lament about them. But we will not. Because we would not. The feeling was dormant, but it never woke, save in battle and fear.
Anger.
Would you fear us?
I firstly think we fear ourselves.
The song of the sword sings with alarming clarity, doubtlessly it calls
to us. Drawing us into the pit that we always fall into. Falling forever.
You never realize how deep it really goes until you hit the bottom. That
is when we scream. We shriek, thrashing in final rapture and hate and utter
fury. Destroyed by what we were, writhing in eternal agony. Pain. Anger.
Murder. The darkness takes over our senses - sense honed to kill - and
the screaming only grows louder. The bare rock floor is covered with blood,
crimson in our defeat, but we do not die. We are not allowed to die. We
never die. We are living and undead, but we never fade. Not when the screaming
always sounds in the darkness. Not when the darkness still exists.