[That's not how watching someone rip the still-beating heart out of a person looks, not the true, gritty feel of it, of watching that arm just explode through a ribcage and there's more blood than you'd expect. And all it takes is the blink of an eye. Reading over the words again, Quentin frowns. Because that's not Darkness, not capitalized and underlined like it's something special, something rare or dangerous. It sounds like depression. Like everything his fucking counterpart from the Depression key sounded like.
Like all the words you tell yourself to get through the day, when they fail. When all you can do is lie in bed at night, hoping that tonight will not be the night that your courage fails. The deepest, darkest parts of yourself, the parts you keep carefully away from everyone else, so it doesn't taint them. So it doesn't start tearing in to them, because it wants to.
It's the voice whispering in your ear when you're alone, about how worthless you are, how little you actually matter despite all your protests and yours quests and your good intentions, how much better the world would be without you in it. It's the voice, shouting over the music when you finally do go out, reminding you that they only put up with it because of JuliaMargoEliotAlice and if you were on your own, they'd all let you drown.
It's the letters, thoughtfully written and hidden under your bed, never to be read by anyone, ever, because they're all lies. They are the lies you tell yourself to justify why you're still here, why you didn't jump, didn't swallow, didn't push down on the knife.
It's watching your best friend be paraded around like a meat-puppet, filled and possessed by an ancient evil without remorse and without pity, being dragged around and beaten, broken, bleeped through the world to watch murder after murder after murder.
No, it's having that thing like you a little too much. So what does that say about you, huh, Quentin.
The darkness Vanitas is talking about isn't the darkness outside the windows or even the darkness in the human heart, the selfish, craving part. And neither are the World Eaters who are waiting and gaining on them, at least with them, it's all over. Oblivion. Done. Dead.]
I've seen fucking worse, and that's still not darkness. That's-- that's fucking NORMAL. Those feelings, and having them is better than not having any at all.
And how do I know? Because having those feelings you're talking about doesn't make me a monster? It doesn't make me in to something less or something soulless.
But not having a Shade? There was a version of me who tried that, killed a Kingdom, slaughtered his friends and every magician he could find, and cut the antlers off the Winter's doe. That's Shadeless.
*standing ovation* [cw- depression, gore and suicidal ideation]
Like all the words you tell yourself to get through the day, when they fail. When all you can do is lie in bed at night, hoping that tonight will not be the night that your courage fails. The deepest, darkest parts of yourself, the parts you keep carefully away from everyone else, so it doesn't taint them. So it doesn't start tearing in to them, because it wants to.
It's the voice whispering in your ear when you're alone, about how worthless you are, how little you actually matter despite all your protests and yours quests and your good intentions, how much better the world would be without you in it. It's the voice, shouting over the music when you finally do go out, reminding you that they only put up with it because of JuliaMargoEliotAlice and if you were on your own, they'd all let you drown.
It's the letters, thoughtfully written and hidden under your bed, never to be read by anyone, ever, because they're all lies. They are the lies you tell yourself to justify why you're still here, why you didn't jump, didn't swallow, didn't push down on the knife.
It's watching your best friend be paraded around like a meat-puppet, filled and possessed by an ancient evil without remorse and without pity, being dragged around and beaten, broken, bleeped through the world to watch murder after murder after murder.
No, it's having that thing like you a little too much. So what does that say about you, huh, Quentin.
The darkness Vanitas is talking about isn't the darkness outside the windows or even the darkness in the human heart, the selfish, craving part. And neither are the World Eaters who are waiting and gaining on them, at least with them, it's all over. Oblivion. Done. Dead.]
I've seen fucking worse, and that's still not darkness. That's-- that's fucking NORMAL. Those feelings, and having them is better than not having any at all.
And how do I know? Because having those feelings you're talking about doesn't make me a monster? It doesn't make me in to something less or something soulless.
But not having a Shade? There was a version of me who tried that, killed a Kingdom, slaughtered his friends and every magician he could find, and cut the antlers off the Winter's doe. That's Shadeless.