Work Text:
Your kindness is not a weakness. It's a weapon that you harness, bullets of warmth and truth susceptible to a lie, or worse— a truth to freeze all who dare look it in the eye. A modern day Medusa wielding simple facts over snakes, words a hissing hymn to Truth and Justice, a swan song on behalf of those you condemn.
Unlock the truth, tear the veil of lies aside, and inside that dark abyss, what will you find? Should you speak it into existence, this truth you're certain you've found— will you willingly face their eyes glaring daggers, burning hatred mixed with tears of sadness enough to scald you before you drown?
Toss aside your sense of 'self', submit to harsh reality— your only salvation coming in the form of friendly faces you barely recognise, their hands pulling you up and out, never letting you reach your demise?
Relying on others is not a weakness, whether it be once, twice, or numerous instances. And yet as those faces are lost to reality's storm all too soon, you cannot help but strengthen your resolve, holding ever tighter— the truth.
A weight you attempt to carry alone, no matter how sluggish your movements become, ever moving forward— it's the least you can do for them, after all.
Little too late do you realise this duty of truth is naught but a noose tightening around your neck, every step you take on your current path one step closer to being your last. You're a person before your duty, yet heart and mind can't seem to make any compromise. The detective, the truth seeker— or the friend, the person they love?
Their hands move to help you once more, to free you from Truth's chains as they drag you further down their path. Your hands stained with blood, sometimes of which whose seems blurred. Is it yours; is it theirs? What are you truly sacrificing in relentless pursuit?
As you wallow in darkness, your only intent is to bring light, hope nor despair as your drive. Words of comfort and understanding ring as true as your declarations of hate. A bitterness you can never quite swallow towards the thought of another fictional tomorrow. Under the surface, there's fire— flames spitting at the puppeteer, at those who laugh and clap and cry, your lives a play they all hold dear. And yet seated by the fire are the very same loved ones you wish to inspire. Not too close to get burnt, just close enough to warm and nurture.
Your kindness is not a weakness but it may very well be the death of you. On this day, with loved ones to hold you close, you look into your heart...
What will you choose?