He's not alone, and he's not unaware of that fact.
For a long moment the thief stands still and quiet, ignoring the bowed figure next to him — as if simple ignorance could dismiss the loathsome presence of the Pharaoh. He's not that lucky, of course. Why would he be? If he possessed any luck at all, it should have all gone to prevent this night from ever happening.
As it is, all he can do is watch. Everything he'd tried, everything, had no effect on the scene that plays out below. And why should it? It's already happened, this is the past. To affect it now would be to change his present, no? Even Diabound, as powerful as it is, hadn't been able to do anything.
It grinds on his nerves, this helplessness, and rips open his heart. But he does not cry; his tears had been used up by his four-year-old self on this very night.
Still, there is the Pharaoh at his side; his presence makes the thief seethe with rage. Who is he, to bow his head? Who is he, to to struggle to breathe past the horror of the scene below? Who is he, to feel grief? To know remorse? To taste the soot and sand on the air, to feel the heat of the fires, to hear the screams of the dying?
Who is he, this boy playing at god-king, to have the right to witness the fate of Kul Elna?
"Leave." The word trembles at the edges with rage barely held in check and the thief's hand tightens against his own bicep, fingers tangling in linen and gripping the muscle underneath.
no subject
For a long moment the thief stands still and quiet, ignoring the bowed figure next to him — as if simple ignorance could dismiss the loathsome presence of the Pharaoh. He's not that lucky, of course. Why would he be? If he possessed any luck at all, it should have all gone to prevent this night from ever happening.
As it is, all he can do is watch. Everything he'd tried, everything, had no effect on the scene that plays out below. And why should it? It's already happened, this is the past. To affect it now would be to change his present, no? Even Diabound, as powerful as it is, hadn't been able to do anything.
It grinds on his nerves, this helplessness, and rips open his heart. But he does not cry; his tears had been used up by his four-year-old self on this very night.
Still, there is the Pharaoh at his side; his presence makes the thief seethe with rage. Who is he, to bow his head? Who is he, to to struggle to breathe past the horror of the scene below? Who is he, to feel grief? To know remorse? To taste the soot and sand on the air, to feel the heat of the fires, to hear the screams of the dying?
Who is he, this boy playing at god-king, to have the right to witness the fate of Kul Elna?
"Leave." The word trembles at the edges with rage barely held in check and the thief's hand tightens against his own bicep, fingers tangling in linen and gripping the muscle underneath.