promptfic: o14, anger

[sword_logic]

He’s never had much interest in psychology. The study of inner – there’s no sense in it for him, not when the bounty reaped of fields encompassing outer is so much sweeter. He holds time and space in his hands and exists outside them both. Were he any more arrogant, he’d compare himself to a god. One of thousands roaming this system, but a god nonetheless.

But this – this makes him think that there might be some truth to ancient, discredited theories of stages and spirals.

The anger.

It hasn’t left.

There’s no room for depression. No time for bargaining, not when he holds the web of time in his hands. Just anger, bright and hot like the spark of Light that woke him long ago / in futures present / in present perfective. No guilt. No shock. No denial. Not anymore.

He guts a Minotaur before it can properly target him and slips away between seconds, sparks trailing hot and bright behind him in these flat, white corridors.

These Vex took from him and there is nothing he could ever do / will / have done to rip away anything analogous from them in retribution. They’re not people. They don’t lose the way people do. He realized in futures yet to come / present scattered / long ago that the only thing left is to take back what will be / was taken from him. And that the only fuel for this fire is anger.

Sagira watches him with a bright, sharp eye.

“Saint,” he murmurs, pacing ever forward through incalculable knots of raw data, and in infinite permutations of nothingness and everything, his Echoes whisper on in soft factorials, Saint.