Elias exhales, in a long breath. Breathes in again. Counts the breath, each time it passes.
There would come a day when this would no longer be necessary. When his form would achieve perfection, beyond sentience, beyond frailty or mortality, serene and undisturbed in eternity. Where he would pass into the shadow of that which has shaped what he walks in, and it would raise his hands in his stead, and wear his face. Elias knows this, bone-deep.
But this is not that day.
He reaches out, with those big, broad arms, and gathers both women under one. His weight is firm and reassuring, even if he has to be careful that his grip does not crush flesh or bone. In his hands, their fragility is precious - these mortal shells he is so careful not to see, cradling the souls he adores above all else. Shining lights, beyond physicality. Free.
Elias swallows, and inhales again. His breath steadies. His eyes firm.
"Well," he says, "We've got a lot to do, it seems. It's going to suck. I'll ask now, because it needs to be said: are you two willing to help me find these people? Put together a League to save whoever's left? Also, beat the fuck out of Paul, whenever he pops back up for a midnight snack?"
His smile is a little wobby, but there is viciousness in the baring of his teeth, and his body warms with adrenaline as he conceptualizes the task ahead, breaks it down into parts that he can attack. The Tower is one; Paul, the other, most difficult to pursue. The eight last heroes, each in their unassailable realms. Caliban, master of shadows, hidden where none can see.
Start at the base. Build from the foundation. Secure what is yours.
These two, first.
Elias swallows.
"Please. Will you help me?"
There would come a day when this would no longer be necessary. When his form would achieve perfection, beyond sentience, beyond frailty or mortality, serene and undisturbed in eternity. Where he would pass into the shadow of that which has shaped what he walks in, and it would raise his hands in his stead, and wear his face. Elias knows this, bone-deep.
But this is not that day.
He reaches out, with those big, broad arms, and gathers both women under one. His weight is firm and reassuring, even if he has to be careful that his grip does not crush flesh or bone. In his hands, their fragility is precious - these mortal shells he is so careful not to see, cradling the souls he adores above all else. Shining lights, beyond physicality. Free.
Elias swallows, and inhales again. His breath steadies. His eyes firm.
"Well," he says, "We've got a lot to do, it seems. It's going to suck. I'll ask now, because it needs to be said: are you two willing to help me find these people? Put together a League to save whoever's left? Also, beat the fuck out of Paul, whenever he pops back up for a midnight snack?"
His smile is a little wobby, but there is viciousness in the baring of his teeth, and his body warms with adrenaline as he conceptualizes the task ahead, breaks it down into parts that he can attack. The Tower is one; Paul, the other, most difficult to pursue. The eight last heroes, each in their unassailable realms. Caliban, master of shadows, hidden where none can see.
Start at the base. Build from the foundation. Secure what is yours.
These two, first.
Elias swallows.
"Please. Will you help me?"