How awful the irony will be, as he comes to it, as he grasps it, as yet again, Gaelio struggles with comprehension and ignorance of reality. As the stability of his mind is so tenuous, and the discongruence between space and forest so severe, with the first manifestation something he could feel, but not see -- his own disappearance to a boar's confused eyes -- and with a memory he has relived constantly these last two years, again striking when confronted with the phantom or impossible figure of this man, how could he understand? How could it be anything but a dream?
In this dream, the scent of his own blood fades as that of another intensifies. Gaelio stares with widening, confounded eyes as the flesh of McGillis's face begins to rip and ooze. McGillis's grasps at the garish tearing as Gaelio had been unable to until clawing out of the med tank, voice raw with sobs. McGillis's voice howls out as raw, more shocking, preventing the next step he may have taken with a moment's paralysis. This warped mirroring of his death by this man's hands flares low in him, then higher, but it
but
it doesn't feel like it should. What has etched on his face, slotting open his mouth for protest, exposing more of the white of his eyes, furrowing deep in his brow: not satisfaction, not a thrill, but horror. His ugly slaughter he would not give back to McGillis.
That was not his purpose. This is not how.
Not like this.
When his own name reaches him, wretched and so distorted as to no longer sound like the voice he knew better than any other, Gaelio shakes his head, beginning to deny it. ]
It's not --
[ me. Only, before he can finish it, he understands the lie of it, and the truth beneath. He can feel it. Just as it began to waver, his confused concentration on his own pain then projected, as his rejection surged. As impossible as a massive wolf becoming the most wicked of men, Gaelio had actualized and weaponized his dying. ]
1/2 s..orry
How awful the irony will be, as he comes to it, as he grasps it, as yet again, Gaelio struggles with comprehension and ignorance of reality. As the stability of his mind is so tenuous, and the discongruence between space and forest so severe, with the first manifestation something he could feel, but not see -- his own disappearance to a boar's confused eyes -- and with a memory he has relived constantly these last two years, again striking when confronted with the phantom or impossible figure of this man, how could he understand? How could it be anything but a dream?
In this dream, the scent of his own blood fades as that of another intensifies. Gaelio stares with widening, confounded eyes as the flesh of McGillis's face begins to rip and ooze. McGillis's grasps at the garish tearing as Gaelio had been unable to until clawing out of the med tank, voice raw with sobs. McGillis's voice howls out as raw, more shocking, preventing the next step he may have taken with a moment's paralysis. This warped mirroring of his death by this man's hands flares low in him, then higher, but it
but
it doesn't feel like it should. What has etched on his face, slotting open his mouth for protest, exposing more of the white of his eyes, furrowing deep in his brow: not satisfaction, not a thrill, but horror. His ugly slaughter he would not give back to McGillis.
That was not his purpose. This is not how.
Not like this.
When his own name reaches him, wretched and so distorted as to no longer sound like the voice he knew better than any other, Gaelio shakes his head, beginning to deny it. ]
It's not --
[ me. Only, before he can finish it, he understands the lie of it, and the truth beneath. He can feel it. Just as it began to waver, his confused concentration on his own pain then projected, as his rejection surged. As impossible as a massive wolf becoming the most wicked of men, Gaelio had actualized and weaponized his dying. ]