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No. 45055
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The beast stood before them, eyes surging with putrid green fire, maw set in a melting, hungry grin. It had hounded them From Tempest Canyon to the Wonder Bad Lands and through the Court of the Wasteland King in a myriad of forms and avatars, yet Arthur could not bring himself to hate it.
He thought of King Oswald, once famed and beloved, cast aside and replaced. He thought of Newt, who had never even gotten a chance to find a place in people's hearts before his exile. And he thought of that shadow, moaning and forlorn, that of Mordred, the son (or was it nephew?) he had had in another life and would perhaps never meet again.
The creature that had looked at him with the same gaze as the Blot’s through his cage-like visor. A vengeful, hateful one full of accusation and blame towards his once, might've been father. Arthur briefly wondered if the black-clad knight had felt any kinship at all with its master that stood before him now, as they were both children of accident. Perhaps the Blot possessed the same sense of self-awareness and loathing. Though if he were anything like Mordred, apologies and tokens of sympathy would deafly fall on whatever it used to hear, if it could in fact hear at all.
Even so, Arthur's life and to that extent, this recent adventure had taught the young king that even the most inhuman of creatures, be they beast or homunculus, could feel, could love, could hate, could hurt. The conclusion of the last battle with the traitorous paladin still rung loud and painful in his memory; His would-be slayer murmuring for something that pride has stopped him from asking in life as he succumbed to a wound most mortal, the sword that had dealt the killing blow falling from Hazel's hands as she shook in fear and terror at what she had done to protect him. As he embraced her, he could feel every emotion running through her body, the horror, the relief, the guilt, the shame. It had taken all his will, battered and bruised as he had been, not to weep himself and instead comfort her in that pitch-black moment.
It was a disconcerting thought that underneath the mostly happy temperaments of the people of Wasteland was this great, dark mass of rage and sorrow, like a stain on their souls that threatened to spread and overwhelm them. Yet it was true, just as the thought that there was something warm and gentle within the most frightening and intimidating of beings that could be nurtured and grown was.
Maybe it was even possible for the Blot, conniving and destructive as it was. A chance that it could resist its corrosive nature, make peace with the contradiction that was its existence, that of paint and thinner, creation and destruction. But the deluded, desperate desire on its face made it apparent that such enlightenment was not forthcoming.
He turned his gaze to his companion who had apparently decided to do the same. They had been through so much; she had been through so much. Dealing with his lost memory of her, traveling alongside this boy that had thought of her as a stranger through wrecked and wondrous lands, fighting and running against whatever dangers presented themselves, gaining the sword Clarent from the Siren of the Silent Cove to help him combat the Ghost Nautilus, slowly making him fall in love with her again all the while, even as his recollections of their past started to return.
It was funny, it had been him chasing her all this time like she had done to him many moons before. He didn't eve realize until they had to part when the border wouldn’t let her cross over with him. Now, holding her hand, he could feel a warmth he had once known return to her, her heart restored at seeing him return for her once more.
And the words flowed out, simple, strong and poignant as a prophecy. Forming a promise that beyond this looming void, the sky under which they first met was impeccably blue and waiting for them to walk under it once more:
"Don't worry Hazel. We'll make it out of here. I promise."
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