[Fakes like these serve only to anger him. His hands clench into fists at the figure's audacity to act this way before fading away. Her touch is nothing but poison—an insipid wine with a bitter taste from start to finish. Why should he be interested in what she's thinking?
The heart, however, is treacherous. The mortal love buried deep within his chest reacts to the reminder of days long past, and his stoic mien conceals the grief that washes over him. Such is his curse as a mortal who was given immortality: At the end of the day, it's he who remains behind while everyone else has moved far ahead of him.
Wordlessly, he rises from his seat and makes for the exit. The final grains slip through the cracks, but he leaves the room without missing a step. His are the hands of a monster that destroy what good they touch; something precious has gone, leaving a gaping emptiness in its wake, and all he can think is that he must have done something to deserve the ache before he moves into the hallway.
No matter how much he forgets or how much of himself he loses, he promised that he wouldn't stop, and he intends to keep that promise.]
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The heart, however, is treacherous. The mortal love buried deep within his chest reacts to the reminder of days long past, and his stoic mien conceals the grief that washes over him. Such is his curse as a mortal who was given immortality: At the end of the day, it's he who remains behind while everyone else has moved far ahead of him.
Wordlessly, he rises from his seat and makes for the exit. The final grains slip through the cracks, but he leaves the room without missing a step. His are the hands of a monster that destroy what good they touch; something precious has gone, leaving a gaping emptiness in its wake, and all he can think is that he must have done something to deserve the ache before he moves into the hallway.
No matter how much he forgets or how much of himself he loses, he promised that he wouldn't stop, and he intends to keep that promise.]