30 Day Challenge
invel - move
It rose slowly, moving the barest centimeter up, and then up again, trembling but progressive.
Absurdly, of all the thoughts that could and should be running through his head as he lay prone on the ground, defeated by a mixture of his own foolish arrogance and the heavy fist of the enemy, it was that his hand rising to grasp the air with fingers crooked futilely was so cliche.
When had he become so cliche?
Was it the overly extravagant set up, doomed to failure, despite his every advantage being nestled right in his palm. The master plan of the dedicated zealot to teach the infidel a lesson in pain and torment, foiled by its own complexity and unwieldiness rather than the hero themselves? Or was it long before that, the first time he knelt at Lord Zeref’s feet, swearing over his fealty without reserve or caution.
What was he thinking?
The fog was clearing now as the situation settled in around him, a miasma of defeat and despair. It conveniently whisked away the rosy tint, leaving only gray… and Gray. The other man hadn’t spared him another glance as he limped away, proud and straight-backed, infused with victory in a way that transcended injury.
Who was there to blame other than himself?
Was he not good enough? Were all of his skills, training and prestige an empty gift from Lord Zeref? So pitiful and parsley a mere boy from a no-account guild and country crushed him so easily, without regard for odds or rational.
Why was he still here?
He didn’t know. Beyond the practical and physical element of being unable to move of course. What he meant was, why was he still here on this plane of existence? What foolish mercy did the other man think he was bestowing, withholding the finishing blow. The other Ice Mage had done Invel no kindness or mercy, leaving him this way, only a cruel certainty he would die in disgrace and pain for his failure.
Where did he go now?
To Lord Zeref? The cliche and blinded henchmen to the end. Earning his ignominious end as naturally as breathing, the world order of things. To Alvarez? His adopted home, so hot and arid, for a moment of familiarity and perhaps a chance for pardon or at the very least a clean execution. To his homeland, up North? Disappearing like a true coward, fleeing the consequences, but living another day.
Giving in, energy drained and will ground to dust, his hand fell with a soft and insignificant thump next to his bloody and raw cheek, pressed hard to the ground, glasses shattered and hair torn from its holder.