Thus commences my fall into Ardyn hell… though not in the expected way, I suppose. Ardyn is a huge angst ball, no wonder I was drawn to him. It’s an endless fountain of angst to draw from. It’s perfect.
Also, before I forget, “Mercy” is just a working title right now… I may change it later on, so be on the lookout for that. I don’t think there’s anything else I can say that’s not already at least touched upon in the story, so let’s mosey!
Time passes differently for the daemons, he writes, lips pressed together in concentration as he tries to keep the quiver out of his hands, and time passes differently for me. Three years are inconsequential at this point. And three years, to an immortal being…
Ardyn hesitates, his pen resting against the paper. Ink spreads, and he lifts it. He ponders.
For them, three years is a long time. So much changes in three years, yet it all remains the same to me. Until I return… Three years is nothing to me, but three years is so much to them.
the world rests on your shoulders, and what a glorious burden it is, what wonderful purpose does it bring to you! do not cry, atlas, for their tears are your own and they weep for you, they cry out to you and you will carry them in your arms still with the world weighed upon your back. you love them, atlas, you love them. you were born to be their might, their paragon; they crafted you with love and stone and you love them so, for they wept over you like crying angels when your own heart broke. so your heart became for them, your body their armor, and how sad it is to love so much you do not know who you may have been before you were born of stone and armor. but you were meant for this, this is your purpose—