Anger boils inside of
him, bubbling deep within the contours of his mind like the magma that lies in
wait in the depths of a volcano. The tips of his ears appear burned, bright red
in color, streaking down either side of his face, tinting his nose and cheeks.
His upper lip curls upward in a snarl, eyes burning holes in the wooden box he
holds in his grasp.
The pad of his thumb glides across the wood finish, the smooth sensation
against his skin sending chills down his spine. His fingers grasp the edges of the
lid. He’s struggling – struggling with the temptation clawing at his lips,
craving the warmth that coats his throat as the liquid seeps down past his
tongue. He’s so close – so close to
ending the terrors that haunt his mind, the endless pain that courses
throughout his body, the voices of the fallen that speak to him at night. The
temptation is too much, driving him to lift the lid away from the carefully
crafted hollowed out wood. Within, thin layers of velvet line the flooring of
the box; indentations carefully carved into the wood allow the fabric to dip in
various shapes, shapes that hold several different items within.
The various tools and instruments fail to capture his interest, his golden
brown gaze instead being enthralled by the small glass bottle housing an all too
familiar liquid. His fingers enclose around the slim neck of the bottle,
pulling the object free from its housing. The blue liquid swishes against the
glass at the movement. The liquid begins to settle in its housing, the waves brought
on by sudden movement slowly coming to a calm. He removes the cork and sets it
aside upon his desk. He brings it just inches away from his face. The familiar
aroma that wafts out of the bottle trickles past his nose, and he inhales the
scent long and slow.
Every inch of his body is set ablaze, the cravings becoming too much to handle
now that the aroma has entered one of his senses. The scent – somewhat foul
with a hint of sweetness similar to that of a rather weak smelling fruit – sets
off his taste buds, and he is certain he can taste what he craves for so much.
An herbal taste, bitter and tangy, sweet, yet impossible to allow linger, like
that of strong liquor. It isn’t the tastiest thing in the world, but it helps
the Templars – helps him rid of the unbearable symptoms that plague his body.
His arm lowers just enough to place the rim of the bottle at level with his
lips. The smell has become intoxicating, and he cannot bare the temptation much
longer. The glass is against his lips. He hesitates.
Soon the bottle begins to rise toward the sky, and the liquid lyrium drains
from within and glides with ease down his throat.
His throat warms and his stomach is soon to follow. It is unlike the warmth of
wine – not pleasant in any aspect, but rather long, lingering, and much, much
warmer. His mouth tingles, the awful taste of the lyrium having made its home
upon his tongue, a reminder of his failure to resist temptation.
The fix of lyrium has supplied him with a sort of ease. The cravings have been
rid of, the pains slowly fading away from his limbs. Mentally, he is ready to
conquer anything that comes his way, and yet it isn’t enough to push out the
guilt creeping upon him.
In just a few seconds time, he has managed to throw nearly four months of
sobriety down the drain.
It is then that he realizes that, not only has he failed himself, he has failed
His grasp upon the glass bottle tightens to an extreme, the force cracking the
object and soon shattering it within his hand. The shards that have no lodged
themselves within his hand have fallen to the ground, blood trickling from his
palm, dripping on the cool floor beneath him. Shards of glass are soon stained
The pain registers and a grunt escapes from his throat. He examines the damage
he has caused to himself; thankfully, the few cuts he has received are shallow.
He quickly takes to extracting the glass pieces lodged into his skin, placing
them delicately upon his desk. Those beneath his feet crunch audibly as he
moves in search of bandages.