Work Text:
Wallace didn’t like to linger in the grand hall whenever Lord Denholm set up his displays. They were always… unsettling. A potent reminder about how much could go wrong. Something about this, though, gave him pause.
The figure could be considered beautiful, perhaps, if the circumstances were right. But not now; this vision, with dark shadows coiling around golden wings and metal cuffs clinging to trembling wrists, only made this being that might once have been holy seem defiled and debased. It was almost pitiful. It was disgusting.
How could anyone, especially someone like that, someone who must have been so powerful and mighty, have let themselves be reduced to this? They must not have been so special after all.
Wallace turned away. As long as it wasn’t him. This mockery of holiness could deal with its fall from grace.