Chapter Text
Atop the corpse of a fallen giant that became a God, a Witch makes a nest of stolen bones and faded memories.
She pretends to be satisfied with the trinkets and baubles that others have long discarded.
She pretends the nights are not cold and empty, save for the nightmares that refuse to abandon her like the rest of the world did so many years ago.
The Witch wanders and watches, always chasing the horizon in search of love she no longer believes she deserves.
She silently bandages wounds on a body that no longer feels like her own.
She silently cries for what she lost, the things she foolishly threw away, the ones she hurt by loving.
The Witch wakes every morning with an ache in her chest and salt upon her cheeks.
She always wears a smile when facing the rising sun, for she cannot bear the thought of giving in to her weakness.
She always laughs in the face of her misery, so long as the ones who wish her to suffer can hear it.
And it’s this same Witch that, within the darkness of a moonlit night, finally found salvation in the warmth of a taken hand.
Outside a tomb shaped like a home, a Boy adds another scar to his awful collection.
He bleeds in abandoned back-streets, his muffled cries too soft for even the rats to hear.
He bleeds in the city square, his face all the reason people need to ignore him and mindlessly continue on with their lives.
The Boy wonders why he has no choice but to steal what he does not have, why others are simply blessed to be born with everything he lacks.
He fights tooth and nail to survive in a world that does not love him, that has never shown him mercy.
He fights to wake up tomorrow despite knowing that nothing will change, despite knowing that only pain awaits.
The Boy hurts in a way that no bandage or potion can mend, eternally carrying a hollow agony stemming from the missing piece in his heart that the Titan forgot to give.
He aches for the touch of a father, for the songs of a mother, for the laughter of a sister, for the trust of a brother.
He aches for nights without dreams, for days without pain and for warmth that won’t leave when the sun crests the horizon.
And it’s this same Boy that, on the cusp of a moonlit dusk, finally seized happiness with his own two hands.
Within the frozen womb of a mother forced to bear the weight of the world, a Girl is born into a world that prays for death.
She has no name, for a Savior has no need for such a thing.
She has no family, for a Harbinger of destruction and salvation has no need for such a thing.
The Girl grows and learns of her role, always unaware that her prison’s walls extend far beyond the room she calls home.
She dreams of things she cannot name, of warm things with hands that do not hurt.
She dreams of things she cannot forget, of cold blood and steel that remains sharp even after a thousand cuts.
The Girl sees sunlight for the first time, her eyes so unused to the sight that she cries without understanding why.
She lives with jailers at her back, feet carrying her nowhere and hands holding nothing but ashes.
She lives with a dead woman’s echoes in her head, each and every whisper a promise of something beyond the horizon.
And it’s this same Girl that, under a moonlit sky, finally dared to chase the warmth she’s spent her entire life waiting for.
Below the scorching gaze of a false God’s empty eyes, an Emperor stands among the ghosts of the past and feels nothing.
He holds no regret for the path he has taken, for the choices he alone had to make.
He holds no affection for those that serve him, for the poor souls doomed to die in the name of his ambition.
The Emperor carefully plucks each and every troublesome weed that sprouts in the garden that is his kingdom, no annoyance too small to be left alone for long.
He destroys without a second thought, each act of violence more calculated and cruel than the last.
He destroys without considering if this is the only way, for the way he has chosen cannot possibly be wrong.
The Emperor cloaks himself in shadow and dons death as a mask, his own face now a faded memory that he let vanish like so much dust in the wind.
He hates the thought of the weakling he once was, of the mistakes he once believed in down to his very bones.
He hates the rebellious few that refuse to bend to his will, not a single one aware that their defiance will cost them everything they seek to protect.
And it’s this same Emperor that, above the shadows cast by a vengeful sun, finally remembered what it is to fear the unknown.