[Despair opens up like a yawning hole, and at the bottom of that deep well a voice drifts up -- some mingling of Kratos and Mithos, full of seductive bitterness. Not even Yuan is willing to end your suffering. Good. You've earned it.]
Damn it, Botta, let me in! Let me help him!
[Like a gift from a goddess which doesn't exist, Lloyd's angry voice rises sharp from through the barely-open door. Botta's objection is softer, his words meaningless. Lloyd's voice is the one which interrupts the internal whisper of guilt, rips through that well of hopeless gravity. Kratos manages to inhale shakily, and feel the solid weight of Yuan holding him, and the yawning despair feels a little more distant.
[His back tingles where Yuan's hand grazes over the scar where the Sword had been, but the touch is gentle, contrary to what Kratos has known of late. That touch unravels the last knot of tension in him; Kratos closes his eyes and buries his face in Yuan's shoulder, his breathing still hitched by tears.
[I don't -- I can't --
[He barely has the strength to survive this second by second, even in Yuan's embrace. He's never so intensely wished the seal didn't prevent him from taking action himself.
[Please help me.
[It's the same plea he'd made to Mithos, over and over. The plea of a man too broken to choose, too damaged to act. If Kratos had known how to put them back together, he would have done it centuries ago; what hope does he have to fix himself? But Yuan always knows what to do. Yuan always, always has plans.
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Damn it, Botta, let me in! Let me help him!
[Like a gift from a goddess which doesn't exist, Lloyd's angry voice rises sharp from through the barely-open door. Botta's objection is softer, his words meaningless. Lloyd's voice is the one which interrupts the internal whisper of guilt, rips through that well of hopeless gravity. Kratos manages to inhale shakily, and feel the solid weight of Yuan holding him, and the yawning despair feels a little more distant.
[His back tingles where Yuan's hand grazes over the scar where the Sword had been, but the touch is gentle, contrary to what Kratos has known of late. That touch unravels the last knot of tension in him; Kratos closes his eyes and buries his face in Yuan's shoulder, his breathing still hitched by tears.
[I don't -- I can't --
[He barely has the strength to survive this second by second, even in Yuan's embrace. He's never so intensely wished the seal didn't prevent him from taking action himself.
[Please help me.
[It's the same plea he'd made to Mithos, over and over. The plea of a man too broken to choose, too damaged to act. If Kratos had known how to put them back together, he would have done it centuries ago; what hope does he have to fix himself? But Yuan always knows what to do. Yuan always, always has plans.
[I need help. Please help me.]