finalflight | PSL; [TEN MILLION WAYS TO FADE]

Gralea was nothing more than a wasteland of cold and snow these days. Shiva’s corpse, jutting out from the great expanse of white like shale reaching towards grey skies, had affected the area in ways one might expect from a dead astral — an endless blizzard, cutting cold swirling and snaking through the Imperial heartland, unending.

The lifelessness of such a place is reflected within Zegnautus keep, all inhuman metal and loud, echoing sounds through empty corridors. A cold chill, seeping through hairline cracks of the acute, military architecture. No sound of human voices, but the occasional clang of something moving a distance away; heavy footsteps, metal scraping against metal, as if dragging across the floor.

Within the Keep, there were plenty of places to keep prisoners sequestered — better yet, there were plenty of places to keep them subdued, bodies pinned up against steel, wrists kept restrained, a parodic caricature of a crucifixion. Bruised and battered, cold and unattended to; such is the state that Ardyn’s left Prompto. Alone, drifting in and out of consciousness, for hours now.

But there are footsteps that approach, ringing out with some dread tempo. An easy, almost lazy gait, drawing nearer. Ardyn Izunia enters the large cell, passing by a dirtied, flat metallic surgical table in which he removes his hat and places it upon. He moves towards the young man, this poor boy, and stops a mere foot away from where he’s been strung-up like some discarded toy.

A hand comes out, fingers grasping at Prompto’s chin. Nails bite into skin as he lifts his head up, at an angle that would allow the young man to look at his face if were to return to the waking world.

"Wake up." His voice is almost a drawl. Low, predatory intonations laced with amusement. "You’ve been resting long enough."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

An idle thought formed in his head, a quietly amused consideration. Ardyn thinking that maybe if he focused hard enough, he could see the minute vibrations of Prompto’s heart hammering in his chest, the way skin moved against the tip of the knife with each hurried breath, threatening to break skin without him even having to move. That Ardyn could make him bleed by merely being close was a morose, delightful thought. He wondered how long he could simply sit like this, on the threshold of a silent threat but never crossing that line. How much damage Prompto might do against his own body (wrists likely to blossom with color, the consequences of blood vessels bursting just under the skin against those restraints) and his mind. The terrible anxiety of not knowing what Ardyn would do to him. Worse than any sort of pain he could hope to inflict.

Almost, anyway.

He pressed down, just enough to draw blood, then slid the blade almost lackadaisically downwards. A trail of red blossomed in its wake, bright crimson against the dull hues of the room, of Prompto’s pale skin.

“If you struggle, it only cuts deeper.”

Dizzy with terror and holding his breath out of fear of cutting himself on the blade against his skin if he so much as let his chest rise, Prompto felt frozen, floating. It didn't feel real. Like a nightmare, a bad joke. So much of the last few days had felt like a bad joke.

He saw Noct's face contorted with rage and hatred, that look he'd never leveled on Prompto that would haunt his dreams even if he understood now it hadn't been meant for him. His own best friend trying to kill him.

The knifepoint was so sharp, the barest kiss against his sternum had soft skin parting beneath it, barely deep enough to bleed but enough to make Prompto hiss and clench his teeth in anticipation of more pain.

Was it okay to wish for his friends to come for him, to come rushing into danger for someone like him? How could he want that, when it put them at risk?

I wonder if it's fallacy of the cruelest sort to even hope at all.

The knife slid down his exposed chest, a tingling, unpleasant sting and sharp pain as it bit through skin. It wasn't possible to hold his breath much longer. Slowly, trying his best to focus, Prompto tried to breathe from his stomach shallowly, holding tense and very still as the tears slid down his temples and onto the cold metal beneath his head.

Ardyn was playing with him. Like a cat batting its living prey around for sport until it finally got hungry enough for the kill.

"Look how very red it is," he said after a handful of perilously silent moments, watching the slow eke of blood from the cut, languidly crawling down Prompto's pale skin. The tip of the knife still brushed against his body, the quiet threat ever-present, while Ardyn moved the forefinger of his other hand across slender wounds. Small smear marks were left in his wake, like a thin layer of paint across a canvas.

He lifted this hand to the light, fingertip wet and gleaming. A small spot of warmth against cool skin, the contact already beginning to scent of iron.

"Do you know that mine no longer looks like this? I'm almost jealous; this sort of scarlet was always one of my favorite colors."

Lightheaded with fear and the shallowness of his breaths, Prompto flinched when Ardyn swiped a hand across the cut, dragging the blood across his quivering chest. He had to struggle to focus on what Ardyn was saying, past the thundering of his own wild pulse.

"Wh-what...?"

Prompto stared at the smear of red on Ardyn's fingers. The word came out nearly soundless, mostly breath, frightened and confused. Maybe if he could keep Ardyn talking, he'd stop using the knife. But probably not.

PSL; [TEN MILLION WAYS TO FADE]

no subject

no subject

THANK YOU FOR WAITING FOR ME....cry

NO CRYING