when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
How, then, was he supposed to fix this? Making messy death was his speciality; cleaning it up? Not so much. The sharp tang of winter air hits Wyrm hardest of all when Epithet tears away from him but he won’t resist the action. There’s a set look about him now; Stygian guide that he is the dappled grey-and-hickory stallion finds that hardened resolve comes easier than gut-wrenching emotion. He can hear the plaintive quiver in her voice, it steels him from looking back at her to see the pain driving through her heart like a knife.
“The fucking sword beneath the cloak.” He chastises himself mentally, shuffling away only to turn and face her once more. “Reap what you sow, you hardened killer.”
There has always been pleasure in inflicting pain. Always. But when his viridian eyes rise to meet the stony flint of Epithet’s, for the first time he feels guilt at what he’s done. He knew, this whole time he knew and still he kept reaching for her with grasping fingers. The sooty mare’s questions strike quickly, pricking heart and mind alike with smarting anger until she nearly rouses a bitter response from her male counterpart. Did he want his children? Without question! Longclaw and Rapture had been his heart’s desire made in the flesh. And Heartfire herself … far from being saddled with a title like “lover”, yet still she gripped his loyalty in an iron fist.
“I don’t care, Wyrm. I don’t care…” Epithet is saying and Wyrm, moved by such a display of tender feeling all over someone like him, pushes forward through the snow to wrap her once more in his embrace. He suffers from seeing her like this - so wretchedly pissed and still fighting for them - while the source of it stems from his inability to be his own man. “I care.” He tells her heavily, pressing his mouth against her warm face, her nose, her cheek, “I care about the truth, I care about you, damnit.” He pushes.
“You came along and suddenly there were things I never expected to understand or feel.” The masked devil explains, “Things I never knew I’d been searching for.” He ends. “Now it’s like I can’t stop them from coming - these emotions - and I don’t want them to stop. Ever.” Wyrm demands, emphasizing the passionate response with the click of his teeth. For so long now he’s been repressed into darkness, thrust upon a shelf to gather dust and make friends with the cobwebs and he decides that stale, meager existence is over.
“I know that I want you, but I also know that ending one chapter and beginning another deserves resolution. @[Heartfire] is watching - she is always watching, and with that knowledge I won’t use it to desecrate our dynamic. Whether she cares or not, I do, and I know you do too, Epithet.” Wyrm exhales, rattled by this new revelation.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
