◆ Ｅｖｅｎ ＫＩＮＧＳ ｆａｌｌ | ｄｘｒａｎｂｏｌｔ

dxranbolt:

      _{What a wreck he was, seemingly. Shaking and hissing, voice dripping with venom and anger. The Councillor had dealt with worse in the past, but he knew this wizard, knew his position and that it exhausted him and the fact that he usually wore that damned stupid grin instead of tears spilling down his face did not ease the situation on him. There was more blood being spilled, but Doranbolt did not yet attempt more than ask the other to stand properly again.}

      _{What was curious about the entire situation, however, was that Sting seemed to have buried himself into whatever it was he was feeling deeply enough to actually swing his fist at the other. Seeing as he hardly expected that, the swing came to suddenly for him to react and dodge it.}

      _{Already bloodied knuckles met his jaw, forcing his head to snap sideways, a dull pain spreading from the spot of impact through his features, leaving his jaws clenched as the other’s hand reclined once more. A moment of silence lingered, a moment in which he simply savoured the anger that was welling up within him and briefly contemplated keeping it locked up.}

_{But that was not like him.}

      _{His head turned, fingers digging into the fabric of the other’s clothes, forcefully pushing him backwards until he had him shoved against a wall, face scrunched up into a grimace as he snarled. “You’re not getting any damn pity from me!” he growled, perhaps a little too loudly. “It’s called worry, you idiot! Now stop behaving like the world is resting on your damn shoulders and pull yourself together!”}

Thoughts raced through his mind and anger and confusion coursed through his body, driving him to utter madness. His fist swung at the other as if he were a marionette and crashed into the other’s jaw and sent a jolt of pain through his right arm. His teeth gritted tightly and he ignored the pain as his deep gold eyes flared and narrowed at the Councillor not caring of what his actions might cost him striking a higher up. Short, quick breaths passed the Dragon Slayer’s mouth and he chuckled bitterly to himself. “Leave…me the fuck alone. I don’t need your damn pity ass wipe."  He muttered and turned his eyes away from the other.

                          This was not like him.
                          Why had he fallen like this?
                          He was a shining and bright light–A beacon of hope
                          Had the pressure engulfed him that much?
                          Could he carry on?

Before he could react, he was picked up and slammed hard  against the stone wall and he grunted upon impact thus no words reached his lips. His eyes widened as the mage spat him, scolding–no, disciplining him as a a father would. This discipline, these words….were different from Weisslogia’s. They were harsh and sharp like a blade’s, like his was, but beneath it all, there was a warmth, a kindness—A feeling he always sought for. 
                                  
                            A feeling from words that I yearned to feel

His hands remained clenched for several moments as the words stung and slowly, his hands unclenched as they sunk in, leaving him confused, annoyed, angry….Numb—yet, warm. His head hung and a few sharp gasps came from him as he struggled to find his words. "Then…"  he started, his voice cracking. Words reached his third eye, yet he trembled at the thought. Trembled at the mere thought of speaking them. Trembled at the thought of showing how weak he truly was. "Then…"  He started, his whole body started to trembled and felt as if he was shaking the world.

                      ”…What the fuck am I supposed to do!?
                        Where do I go!?
                        What can I do!?
                                     I….“ 

Once more his voice cracked and gasped as if all air was sucked from him and silence, dead silence fell between them as he dropped his head on the other’s shoulder’s. ”…Help me.“  His voice was barely audible at all. It was as if he were gasping for his last breath. Some time from when Sting first spoke to now, his blooded hand had gripped upon the pure white of the Doranbolt’s clothes and shook and trembled, resonating his feelings to the other, even if he had not heard him.