Robespierre nodded, and stared coolly at Oliver. He began to speak another Psalm, but this one had power in it, showing quickly as a light purple aura surrounded Robespierre as he spoke evenly. It was a long passage. But despite the violence of the death itself, it was less cruel, really.
"Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked, or sit in the seat of scoffers; but their delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law they meditate day and night. They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither. In all that they do, they prosper. The wicked are like chaff that the wind drives away. Therefore the wicked will not stand in judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous; for the Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish."
It was a Psalm that was deadly to another Poet, for it silenced them. Their magic did not work without the power of speech, after all. So if Oliver tried to speak as Robespierre started to send out his spells, no sound would come out. But as he continued, it would get increasingly more difficult to feel much of anything, for a numbness would spread quickly through his whole body. He did not turn his eyes as he spoke the last word, perish, absorbing the detail of the grotesque scene that followed.
Oliver's head exploded into a fine, red mist. Robespierre's expression stayed tight, but as the body fell, he took off his fine coat, laying it over the body. When the red mist had faded (and he could feel them on his skin), so did the field that obscured the view. He stayed kneeling by the body for a moment, murmuring a quiet prayer before the jacket fell straight to the ground. He was surprised by that, and picked up the coat, seeing the dust underneath.
At least there was that mercy to not see the body.
He set the coat over his arm, standing straight again. He glanced once more to the man in the emperor's box, but said nothing before he left the arena.
no subject
It was a Psalm that was deadly to another Poet, for it silenced them. Their magic did not work without the power of speech, after all. So if Oliver tried to speak as Robespierre started to send out his spells, no sound would come out. But as he continued, it would get increasingly more difficult to feel much of anything, for a numbness would spread quickly through his whole body. He did not turn his eyes as he spoke the last word, perish, absorbing the detail of the grotesque scene that followed.
Oliver's head exploded into a fine, red mist. Robespierre's expression stayed tight, but as the body fell, he took off his fine coat, laying it over the body. When the red mist had faded (and he could feel them on his skin), so did the field that obscured the view. He stayed kneeling by the body for a moment, murmuring a quiet prayer before the jacket fell straight to the ground. He was surprised by that, and picked up the coat, seeing the dust underneath.
At least there was that mercy to not see the body.
He set the coat over his arm, standing straight again. He glanced once more to the man in the emperor's box, but said nothing before he left the arena.
There really wasn't much to say.