[ this is not the first time they have died nor the second. it is both different from those times and not, the result of unwavering belief that they would win a fight and the unfortunate encounter with a friend.
when the blade pierced them, they let out a small gasp and struggle against him once more, harder this time, until it continues to sink down through flesh and bone until the tip hits ground. their vision blurs until they can only see the smallest flicker of the last face they see before death overtakes them. ]
Again, in that far-off place that he struggles to access and smothers so easily, he feels it—that writhing, awful thing, like nails against a coffin lid, like worms beneath the soil. Rotten. Ghastly. He grasps it and strangles the life from it as he gazes down upon Saber's still body, beatific as a saint, bloody as a demon.
A hand rises from where he'd been pinning them, and he gently strokes the side of their face. A brush of bloody knuckles against their cheek, fond and soft. He tucks their hair, now short, behind their ear, and there's a fondness in that gesture, as well.
In the back of his mind, somewhere soft and faint, he prays for Saber's safe passage. This kind person, always giving him the bigger half of the snacks they share, always offering their company and comfort, always accepting his silly gifts. Another thought floats by, lazy and drifting, that it will be lonely to not see them tomorrow when the dawn breaks. It will be lonely for him, and for others who hold them dear, but what must be done simply must be done.
And then, he's tearing the blade back up and out of their body and rising to stand. He leaves Saber and their blade where they've fallen; peaceful at heart, still in mind.]
Edited (adds more actually its death we can be dramatic) 2025-03-20 06:54 (UTC)
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when the blade pierced them, they let out a small gasp and struggle against him once more, harder this time, until it continues to sink down through flesh and bone until the tip hits ground. their vision blurs until they can only see the smallest flicker of the last face they see before death overtakes them. ]
Lu... Lucas, you're beautiful.
[ and then, nothing.
saber is dead. ]
no subject
Again, in that far-off place that he struggles to access and smothers so easily, he feels it—that writhing, awful thing, like nails against a coffin lid, like worms beneath the soil. Rotten. Ghastly. He grasps it and strangles the life from it as he gazes down upon Saber's still body, beatific as a saint, bloody as a demon.
A hand rises from where he'd been pinning them, and he gently strokes the side of their face. A brush of bloody knuckles against their cheek, fond and soft. He tucks their hair, now short, behind their ear, and there's a fondness in that gesture, as well.
In the back of his mind, somewhere soft and faint, he prays for Saber's safe passage. This kind person, always giving him the bigger half of the snacks they share, always offering their company and comfort, always accepting his silly gifts. Another thought floats by, lazy and drifting, that it will be lonely to not see them tomorrow when the dawn breaks. It will be lonely for him, and for others who hold them dear, but what must be done simply must be done.
And then, he's tearing the blade back up and out of their body and rising to stand. He leaves Saber and their blade where they've fallen; peaceful at heart, still in mind.]