Snippets n Stuff

1.

This was my playlist while writing:
Ferryman by Shayfer James and Will Wood
Turn the Lights Off by Tally Hall
Bloody! Bloody! by Junie and TheHutFriends
Preacher by Roe Kapara
Dirty Imbecile by The Happy Fits
They're Not Happy About Me by Gabriel Tempar
Villainous Thing by Shayfer James
Built To Burn by Shayfer James
Burning Pile by Mother Mother

Trigger warnings: Blood, mentioning of wounds + pain, futility??, Death, Wishing of death? Lemme know if you find ones that may need pointing out to me.

"Give up."

Ragged breaths followed the oh-so-strong words, it almost sounded like they were begging as the blood continued pooling into the jagged mismatched rocks that told countless stories. The battles that raged here, ancient civilisations that had set foot on the ground only to be conquered and rebuilt in a new font. A new format.

Including this one.

His lungs burned for rest, heart beating so ferociously to be let out or silenced, yet he moved once more. The action was feeble, weak. From where he lay on the ground he looked as if he were nothing but blood and tattered clothing, some may say a 'skeleton' of who he once was. The ones who knew him, however, knew it was the opposite. A crackled, painful wheeze forced itself through his lungs. Then a small smile. A small, bloody-toothed smile. 

Despite the agonising pain, he was still moving. Still gathering himself up torturously to continue the fight. How long would this go on for? How long could he last? 

The person whom the rough voice belonged to had already gathered themselves, the blood having stopped pouring from the holes in their body; now only a drip. How? How were they still standing? It had been hours?! Hours! It was inhuman, but that made sense, after all. In this messed-up world, they were both fighting for something so simple yet so horrific.

Control.

"Why..why do you fight.. for them?"

Now his own words were distorted by pain, distorted by the blood coming up their throat, distorted by their damn weakness. To speak felt like dragging metal along gravel, like it was wearing down with every inch of sound that he made. The vision that had once been so clear was now blurred, yet he swore to himself that as long as he could see the other's figure then the fucker would die.

A hand to his chin, a grip so gentle it only made him wince halfway through the struggle to get up off the freezing, damp ground. His head thumped, labourously irritated by his own will. The light from the rising sun only made it harder focus. The hold felt so warm, so comforting compared to the nature the other had shown him during the night. It felt sickening how such gentle nature could come from someone so angering. So.. cruel. Thats what this was, cruelty. Letting him think he had a chance.

"Because I dont have a choice."

Black against white, thats what society thought this was. They thought that light could overcome darkness. 

Maybe they were right. Maybe they were wrong.

With the field soaked in blood and corpses- death lingering in the air- who was to say which side was right? After spilling the same wretched disease of torment upon one another, after pulling through thick and thin to rid each other of the world, was it even possible for there to be a 'light' and 'dark' in this situation?

But, this was never a normal battle. This was a massacre that would bear the answer to all of their questions; who was going to win?

Who was going to take the throne?

A flash of purple light, bright enough to light the sky for a few mere seconds, and for those moments, it was silent. Silent for the first time in centuries. And once it ended? Only one person remained, whom had seemed so weak at the time. 

The touch was cruel because the other had actually sympathised for him, in the pitiful-looking state he was in. But the touch had never given him comfort, instead it gave him the one spark of hope that he needed to get the job done. Once and for all. There was no trace of who had been standing, not even a stained shadow, nor their scent. The only thing that did, in fact, was the blood which had once been pouring from them. Now it was mixed with the mangled bodies, torn limbs and variety of weapons of which had killed them all. 

A gasp, and his lungs still continued to scream. No matter what he had sacrificed, it was never enough, his body still ached for it's release of its own hell. After winning the war, what was left? The rebellion was built to provide a safehaven for those like him, yet what was it now that everyone was gone? All but him. All but the one bastard whom had fought against it in the first place. 

Exhaustion quickly settled in, blurred with the blood-loss and grief. It sent him into a sleep that was so relaxing, so god-damn peaceful, that he did infact let his body rest. 

The war had ended, but at the cost of millions of lives, and in the end neither of the sides were left. His death proved that the war was futile, wasting. If nothing was so come as a result of it, then what was the use of it even having existed in the first place?

A torturous cycle, that sometimes, us humans call 'honourable'.