07-24-2016, 08:21 AM
Eliot Lagueux (PPC)
Eliot sat in the infirmary clutching a note firmly in his hands. Why didn't I throw this away? He knew exactly why he'd taken the note, and why he hadn't thrown it away. Frank had been his friend - a man with whom Eliot could live vicariously through since he was unable to go into the field and hunt as every other Atharim could.
The paper crumbled underneath Eliot's weak grip - if only he had such strength to crumple something else. Eliot was used to being sickly but when the sickness hit him hard no one had noticed not even Frank.
But Frank was old blood too, just like Eliot. Born Atharim, died Atharim. There wasn't a person in Moscow at the time who knew exactly what had happened with Frank. They knew he killed himself, but they never knew the why.
Eliot carefully unfolded the crumbled note in his hand and read it one more time.
---
I am Atharim. I die Atharim. I do my duty and end the life of a worthless power-hungry god. Forgive me.
---
Eliot had found Frank lying in a pool of his own blood and his brains splattered across the wall clutching the very same note in his hands. The gun was still warm to the touch when Eliot came into see what was the matter. Frank was Atharim through and through to his very last dying breath. He would not suffer a gods existence - not even his own.
No one knew. Eliot took the note and hide it in his pocket. To admit that gods were among the Atharim was to admit to himself that he was a god. That he was too weak to off himself like Frank. Too weak - that was Eliot all around.
Eliot sat in the infirmary clutching a note firmly in his hands. Why didn't I throw this away? He knew exactly why he'd taken the note, and why he hadn't thrown it away. Frank had been his friend - a man with whom Eliot could live vicariously through since he was unable to go into the field and hunt as every other Atharim could.
The paper crumbled underneath Eliot's weak grip - if only he had such strength to crumple something else. Eliot was used to being sickly but when the sickness hit him hard no one had noticed not even Frank.
But Frank was old blood too, just like Eliot. Born Atharim, died Atharim. There wasn't a person in Moscow at the time who knew exactly what had happened with Frank. They knew he killed himself, but they never knew the why.
Eliot carefully unfolded the crumbled note in his hand and read it one more time.
---
I am Atharim. I die Atharim. I do my duty and end the life of a worthless power-hungry god. Forgive me.
---
Eliot had found Frank lying in a pool of his own blood and his brains splattered across the wall clutching the very same note in his hands. The gun was still warm to the touch when Eliot came into see what was the matter. Frank was Atharim through and through to his very last dying breath. He would not suffer a gods existence - not even his own.
No one knew. Eliot took the note and hide it in his pocket. To admit that gods were among the Atharim was to admit to himself that he was a god. That he was too weak to off himself like Frank. Too weak - that was Eliot all around.