[The momentary shock of Diarmuid's outburst is nothing to the sight of his Master, white and swaying where he kneels on the floor, vomiting blood, surrounded by the bodies of his cruel familiars.
So much blood already, and he can feel his Master's pain and wrath rising in the bond they share. Whatever else, Kariya Matou may or may not be, he is Lancelot's Master-- and Lancelot will act on his behalf.
He lets Waver Velvet's body fall from his arms to the floor, bending to lift his Master to his feet, supporting his slight weight easily. He feels a kind of cold fury at the state of his Master, at the state of himself-- at Diarmuid's words, and at the man himself, sat weeping in a pool of his Master's rapidly cooling blood.
He lifts Kariya easily to his chest, supporting the man at his shoulders and beneath his knees. Yes, it is a cold fury, not the hot wrath that consumes him betimes. His words are always mastered by that anger, taken from him. Now they come all too easily.]
Your wish those who never cease to Suffer to remember your agony, as well as their own?
I will grant that it is your pain speaks for you now, Diarmuid ua Duibhne, for if I did not, I would find your words hard bear honorably.
[There is pain of his own as he says these words-- for lately he has felt so drawn to the man, so well-disposed and fondly loving. But it is his Master he thinks of now.]
Curse me if you like, if it eases you. But leave my Master in Peace. Your Master will return from Death tomorrow. Mine dies every day, with every minute that passes. But perhaps his suffering lacks Beauty that would give it Meaning, in your eyes.
[Lancelot smiles, and it is a grim and joyless thing.]
Lay any curse you like upon us. There is no black name you may give either of us that we do not already bear, nor nothing you might wish stripped from either of us that has not already been taken-- or that we have not already squandered.
Know that when you curse us, you curse the damned.
[He holds his Master close, pressing the man's wounds tightly with his arms, his hands, his chest. He is aware of the his Master's slowing heartbeat. Soon now, he knows he must seek a healer. He will not allow his Master to die.]
no subject
[The momentary shock of Diarmuid's outburst is nothing to the sight of his Master, white and swaying where he kneels on the floor, vomiting blood, surrounded by the bodies of his cruel familiars.
So much blood already, and he can feel his Master's pain and wrath rising in the bond they share. Whatever else, Kariya Matou may or may not be, he is Lancelot's Master-- and Lancelot will act on his behalf.
He lets Waver Velvet's body fall from his arms to the floor, bending to lift his Master to his feet, supporting his slight weight easily. He feels a kind of cold fury at the state of his Master, at the state of himself-- at Diarmuid's words, and at the man himself, sat weeping in a pool of his Master's rapidly cooling blood.
He lifts Kariya easily to his chest, supporting the man at his shoulders and beneath his knees.
Yes, it is a cold fury, not the hot wrath that consumes him betimes. His words are always mastered by that anger, taken from him. Now they come all too easily.]
Your wish those who never cease to Suffer to remember your agony, as well as their own?
I will grant that it is your pain speaks for you now, Diarmuid ua Duibhne, for if I did not, I would find your words hard bear honorably.
[There is pain of his own as he says these words-- for lately he has felt so drawn to the man, so well-disposed and fondly loving. But it is his Master he thinks of now.]
Curse me if you like, if it eases you. But leave my Master in Peace.
Your Master will return from Death tomorrow. Mine dies every day, with every minute that passes. But perhaps his suffering lacks Beauty that would give it Meaning, in your eyes.
[Lancelot smiles, and it is a grim and joyless thing.]
Lay any curse you like upon us. There is no black name you may give either of us that we do not already bear, nor nothing you might wish stripped from either of us that has not already been taken-- or that we have not already squandered.
Know that when you curse us, you curse the damned.
[He holds his Master close, pressing the man's wounds tightly with his arms, his hands, his chest. He is aware of the his Master's slowing heartbeat. Soon now, he knows he must seek a healer. He will not allow his Master to die.]