Reflections on the Dįvonësë War: The Dįvįnë Will Bear Witness to Fate

Chapter 12 - Låurëntįus' Fate

48th Day of Ebibi in the Second Month of Sun's Height
2996 A.G.G. (1637 Years Ago, The Last Years of the Ten and Five Year War)

The City of Athel, Edarus
The Continent of Assami

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It should be understood that some of the following passages may not be entirely accurate as they weren't transcribed as they were spoken. They've been translated here for ease of reading. Because of this, unfortunately, some things may be lost in the translation from the original Ångëlįc or Dæmönic to common.

Translated passages will be indicated by the use of bold print.

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Låurëntįus

Had Låurëntįus been mortal, his neck would've surely been snapped and his skull would've been gruesomely split if not completely shattered by the fem-Dæmön's actions. As it stood however, the energy of the impact was dispersed throughout the concrete instead and the wall cracked from the ceiling to the floor. It failed to be a killing blow, but it was enough to daze; not that one of the Ǻngëlic family could normally be killed through such crass physical means anyway.

Låurëntįus was so mentally thrown in the minutes following the crack of his skull against the wall that he almost didn't notice the sharp pain that suddenly shot through his back and up his shoulder as the tendons and muscle that used to hold one of his glorious wings in place were sliced clean through. When the pain of the moment finally came to him for what it was, it nearly crippled him.

In any other circumstance, it would've lasted but for a moment. The intensity of his Ǻngëlic essence would've spirited the pain away. But as it lingered and eventually faded to a dull thud, a lack of understanding began to build within him. Then came a sudden realization followed by crushing incredulity.

"Trans...ubstantiation?" He whispered to himself in disbelief.

An experience which is wholly unique to the Dįvįnëly born and is difficult to describe.

Låurëntįus' body armour was becoming heavy. Too heavy to lift. Standing was hard enough before, but now it seemed a very distant idea indeed. All the world was closing in on him. He had an ache in his head that bled badly into his eyes and any act to control his faculties was a great physical strain.

The colour of everything around him seemed to be becoming darker somehow, or sad. Textures seemed to lose some of their realism. Smells became dull. He could no longer hear the sounds of life and death outside. He was regressing. It's as if someone was placing a filter over his very existence. Everything was the same, and yet it wasn't. The world was muted. Distorted. It was disorienting and confusing. And yet, on some level, it was strangely interesting. Engrossing.

The effect pulled at him; brought him down. He felt his soul sinking. He very nearly forgot his place in time. Forgot about the war. Forgot about the death in the room with him.

Then, it all came back. The pain. Overwhelming pain.

Låurëntįus' first instinct was to reach to grab at his wounds. He clutched at them to no avail. The bleeding couldn't be stopped fast enough. He wanted to squeeze the hurt out. But it seemed to encompass everything. It was everywhere. All at once. And as the bloody anguish leaked through his fingers, he suddenly realized how profusely it had been flowing; from both his back and the gaping maw of a wound on his side which had now ceased to heal altogether. The injuries had soaked his armour in slippery crimson liquid. And as if it were a long red string tugging at his very essence, he could feel his life being drug out of his suddenly weary limbs and out of his back and side; over the exposed innards and out of his wounds.