PSL; [ we could fight a war for peace ]

[genomage]

[He remembers when he had been on the verge of death, staring up at the gnarled canopy of the Iifa tree as it swayed, crumbling on all sides. Weighed with regret, his body battered with pain and wrung dry with exertion, the sense of clarity he possessed was strange and freeing. He will never forget it, even before his preemptive acceptance of his passing was proven false via his arrival to another world.

A part of him wonders if Primrose experiences that same feeling, if revelations has been imparted to her as she bleeds out and into the rug. There is the corpse of an unknown man elsewhere in the room—and maybe he’s long passed death’s threshold—but Kuja does little more than give him a passing glance as he moves to Primrose’s side instead. Though there is little alarm in his expression, very little rush to his step, his brows crimp in a way that is rare beyond more extreme bouts of emotion.]

What trouble have you gotten yourself into today? Dear flower, you’ve made a mess.

[He crouches down, silver hair framing his face as a fingertip presses gently against her skin that’s wetted itself with blood. Still warm — and she’s still breathing. Is she conscious? Kuja manages a proper frown.]

Can you hear me? At least breathe into my ear who’s done this to you — the audience can only be left hanging for so long.

Comments

[femmefinale]

[ Primrose doesn't move, for all that her pulse flutters weakly, her chest rising and falling even more imperceptibly. She can hear him dimly, just beneath the still-mocking laughter of the very first man she had ever loved.

She can't let it end like this. She can't allow him to escape, to sneer at her misery and her death, to mockingly remark that she ought to be pitied. She sees him then, her father firmly facing his death, but she knows already-- she can't join him. Not yet. Not while that arrogant man still smugly draws breath.

She can hardly speak now, can't even lift herself off the floor, for all of her pride and her independence. Her fingers curl, just barely, as though this is all the struggle she has left.

Audience, plays... she's sick of it. She's no one's puppet. ]

... Simeon...

[ There's a lot in that quietly gasped word. Pain. Betrayal. Fury. Bitterness.

But it's all she can say. ]