Work Text:
such an imposing figure. a finely tuned powerhouse, the token of excellence. the boon – you are the card that stacked everything in their favor.
yet everything about this always felt truly wrong - this body is not yours. every tissue, organ, nerve, screams at you that you are supposed to be DEAD, the life ripped out of you and then jammed straight back in because you are a tool, something they could not afford to lose.
you really came back much different, losing your colors and picking up new ones in the re-weaving of your mortal form, the glowing runes which cross your body and permeate your existence follow you. for all that you are smart, you cannot decipher these.
a permanent marker of the deity you spent your life serving. it follows you through the twinkling nights and through the days, through every interaction out there. you tower over every demon you encounter. few can top this. some think that you are a deity yourself. you are a weapon.
and even when you grit your teeth (far too sharp) and drive your blade (your gear, altered to fit your new form) into the grass, repressing every bit of the animal inside of you, you still feel so alone. you still feel the sense of foreboding disappointment. you are a weapon, and you have no room for attachments.
you are a cursed husk, and even when you slide through the grass at high speeds, ripping up the sod as you misfire a landing, you laugh. the sound is hardly heard this loud, usual polite chuckles giving out for manic cackling.
the stars that smile for you, the paladin so much like you, the cat-like demon too shy to approach you at first, have thrown your life in a startling direction. gritting your teeth and lunging forward, you cover yourself in the blood of monsters, storming your way through the forest.
your brilliant plumes of red and orange, replaced by grays and lavender. a fucked up pheonix tearing his way through the brush, long braid falling down your back.
you have been alive for far too long, you wonder.
and, trudging through the grasses atop the mountain you call home, you wonder about what direction your life is going in next.
maybe you are a weapon, sure, but a weapon is with a purpose. the empty feeling that shatters your entire resolve, is not purpose.
you seek something to do.
something that can drive this terrible post-revival feeling away.