Isaac's head lolls. He meant to shake it, but this is the best he can manage. His body isn't responding the way it ought to, and that should scare him. Instead, he just lets it go. "It's all right. I finally know my part in all of this. To die here with you," he says in a low voice, looking up at Death's face with wide eyes, his pupils dilated, blown out, ringed with hazel. There's almost a sort of kindness in their depths. Death doesn't know what's coming for him; Isaac at least knows.
"But not before I show them how to kill you..." he continues, breathing heavily. "And stop the bomb. I finally get to be a hero." He hears Eden's voice ringing in the last, in those words. She told him to be a hero for her. And now he is. She's gone, and Simone's gone, and now he'll be gone, all gone, all fall down, ashes, ashes, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The blood is pooling under his arms and legs, hot and sticky and staining the floor like paint, and he's just staring up at Death, waiting. Death doesn't know what he's doing, he thinks. Death can't know. No-one knows the future, no-one but him, and he has this intense calm about it. He's the pascal lamb, the sacred feast. He's giving himself up to the salvation of the world, a hero at last. It's all he wanted, and in the end, it's all he has. Maybe his own blood will finally wash away his sins.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatæ Mariæ semper Virgini, his lips forming the words, but he can't get them out, he can only think them, bits and pieces of a dying confession.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-06-10 09:01 pm (UTC)"But not before I show them how to kill you..." he continues, breathing heavily. "And stop the bomb. I finally get to be a hero." He hears Eden's voice ringing in the last, in those words. She told him to be a hero for her. And now he is. She's gone, and Simone's gone, and now he'll be gone, all gone, all fall down, ashes, ashes, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The blood is pooling under his arms and legs, hot and sticky and staining the floor like paint, and he's just staring up at Death, waiting. Death doesn't know what he's doing, he thinks. Death can't know. No-one knows the future, no-one but him, and he has this intense calm about it. He's the pascal lamb, the sacred feast. He's giving himself up to the salvation of the world, a hero at last. It's all he wanted, and in the end, it's all he has. Maybe his own blood will finally wash away his sins.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatæ Mariæ semper Virgini, his lips forming the words, but he can't get them out, he can only think them, bits and pieces of a dying confession.