The patience of inevitability

Woe :(

What was the point of it all?

Surely there must have been a point, a reason to excuse the inevitable, but it escaped him now. Everything seemed to escape him now, his mind felt foggy and strange. Thistle had not ever taken the time to consider what it might feel like if someone were to take a whisk to his break and swirled it about like thick cream - because of course he didn't, that was not the sort of thought that people had outside what one would have to assume was some very specific circumstances that, in their own right, would have rarely come up in the unwhisked minds of those not running the risk of experiencing them - but it seemed like the most appropriate comparison for how he was feeling at that moment. His mind was too thick and heavy to be a fog, the murk determined to prevent the elf from peering through it to recall why it was that he was to suffer so.

But for a moment there was something there. Something that sent a sharp spike to pierce his heart in a way that was all too familiar. A fleeting memory of a man, moments of affection that was never quite enough to leave him satisfied. It was not, he knew in the sort of strange instinctual way that required no actual active thought, that it the time - significantly longer apart than together, not that time really meant all that much within a dungeon that he had denied even the privilege of the luxury of death within - that left him incapable of recalling his face. A face he had been sure had been carved into his heard, seared into his memory with a perfect clarity that now refused to come to him as it ought. Everything was far too hazy to be able to focus on anything, so there was no reason for Delgal to be an outlier to this outside of the fact that the elf would have very much liked it if he could recall the king properly to make the whole, well, ordeal of being devoured by a demon a little more pleasant than being eaten by demons was typically. Not that there were many out there who could offer their experiences to create a sort of sliding scale of suffering. Which just sounds very tragic to create anyways so it was no surprise that people have not considered making one.

A wave of pain, a strange sort that he was sure he had not had the misfortune of experiencing before, shocked through him. He was far too small, a result of the generic elf stature, for all pain. Worse than the pain, which is saying something as it felt like his skull might burst as he was torn to shreds - both which frankly just sucks far too much independently, so to combine them really was just awful - was the fact that Thistle felt no need to pull away, to try and escape, or even so much as call out for help. All that self preservation business had been promptly devoured, getting them out of the way quickly so that the rest could be properly enjoyed. 

In the Winged Lion's defence, however, he was a demon and demons were typically unbiased in the sense that they existed to eat and devour, which was no different from anything or anyone else. One would not shame the farmer for feasting upon livestock - or at least one would hope that is the case, there was a very intricate relationship between a farmer and his animals, the sort that was often seen as sacred by those who were of a more... sentimental nature - so why should a demon not be offered the same pardon for their meals?  There were some very strange double standards out there! 
Now, there were very few out there that would say there was no allure to slow-cooked meals, a stew stewing happily over a fire over several days until it reached a state of perfection, the sort that were very good to share with loved ones as the cooking flames chased away the chill in the air, filling it instead with laughter and stories and left cosy memories and easy slumber. Demons we not so completely different. Of course, they were hardly known for the whole shared meals and shared stories and all that, though one could wonder if this was more because they were likewise not known for making friends so it was not the most trialed conclusion, but they could certainly appreciate a curated meal. Over a thousand years certainly made for a cultivated, refined meal and while the desires of the heart did not function in the same way that a stew would - because that would be weird - the effect was not wholly dissimilar. 

Now, all this was all well and good but this - is not a story about demons and their mealtime preferences, that would probably be a great deal longer and require the use of at least Latin, if not several other ancient languages to accommodate for the age of the species - did not mean there was not an elf jester that also happened to be the Lord of the Dungeon writhing on the ground having to deal with all the teeth, claws and tongues involved in having all that made a person themself. If it was any consolation, however, at least it was getting harder and harder for Thistle to have any proper cognitive functions by that point, that made the stripping of self a smidge less awful than it had been. It is a shame, however, that he couldn't say with any certainty if it had even been worth it anymore which was somehow more dissatisfying than any failure could have been. At least with failure there was a chance to try again and maybe eventually do better - what was life if not a chance to try and try again and learn in such a way that we can grow? - but now there was no point. Why should he try? It meant nothing to him, nothing did now, his ability to want anything or want to do anything was well and truly picked clean by that point. 

At what must have surely been the last moment, the universe offered him a kindness. Whether he was deserving of a kindness considering it would have been a near impossible feat to list all of those lives he made worse, those he hurt in his attempt to help. Or what had been an attempt to help, the passage of a thousand or so years had a way of warping and distorting things, mould of the mind creeping in to spoil what had once been the most noble of intentions. But whether or not he, or anyone, had a say in the matter, the Lunatic Magician was gifted a fleeting moment of clarity. Maybe, just maybe, he was not so very alone there beneath the claws of the Winged Lion. It would be terrible to slip away alone and frightened but maybe that was not the woeful fate that rushed up to greet him. No, of course not, Delgal wouldn't have left him there to slip away to nothingness, even after he vanished - left, fled even - he knew they'd be together again. How funny it was that in the end he finally found him! Maybe it made it worth it, for what might as well be his last moments to finally reunite them. The faintest glimmer of hope left him reaching out as best as he could being pinned down, reaching for the man with the hope that the man would swoop down and save him and make everything he had wasted countless lifetimes on actually worth it. But then, maybe not. Maybe nothing had been really worth anything and he'd just ruined everything for no reason.

Or maybe the demon had managed to lick him clean of the last few scraps with none of the manners that such a dignified beast seemed should radiate, and so left him with the all consuming nothingness. 

His senses becoming less and less reliable as each frantic heartbeat - his body and his mind were no longer in agreement, it seemed, as bodily he was terrified beyond belief, but his mind simply did not register it, or much of anything that would have had an emotional tie to it - passed him by. Vision blurred, what few sounds he had been able to register having become something more akin to bees behind a thick wall, everything had begun to slip away.  

Nobody took his hand as it dropped limp to the ground with a soft thunk. While he wasn't dead, technically, he also certainly was not anything anyone would rightly consider to be properly alive anymore. What an unfortunate thing it was when the inevitable, as was the trick of the trade, eventually came to claim its dues.