[ Please strangles in his throat, combusted by the painful dawn blooming in his chest.
Often, sunrises are slow, pensive affairs. Dawn-side prayer is a soft and sacred thing, which brought watercolours to Godfrey's world; inky blue and deep, deep purples giving way for pinks and gentle violets and soft oranges, or the rich brilliance of more adventurous colours, or the soft fogginess of a gray rain-shower. Regardless of how it looked, sunrise always brought much of the same. Recollection, peace, the edge of awakening. Before the rest of the world caught up, this precipice is where Godfrey would sit and collect himself, and lay thought and deed bare for his Lord. He watched the dawn's rays stretch across the world, from that little window to the next plane. He thought it often His gaze, stretching across impossible distances, beholding the mortal plane.
Holding him in His regard.
Godfrey feels something impossible within him. He recedes from Gale, his touch, his voice, his concern - it runs farther and farther from him. Is he getting smaller, or farther away? He doesn't know. He won't ever know. The dawn is in his chest, ringing through him; it is strangling him, and it is spilling from his eyes in glowing molten brilliance, and it is burning every moisture from him. His mouth turns to sand. Blood drains from him. It is a dawn's ferocity with none of its peace.
It pushes in. The borders of him crack. Mountainous hands brace against the invisible pieces as it pushes its way in, and the dawn-light blots Godfrey's eyes to two glowing points of sunlight. ]
[Godfrey is heavy in his arms, an impossible weight against his chest as Gale struggles to hold him up, his own heart racing and beating furiously against the inside of his ribcage.]
No, no!
[He doesn't recognize his own voice, raw and desperate, and he places a hand flat against Godfrey's chest and the blossoming heat within it, clenching his jaw as the paladin's eyes give way to brilliant light. He is all instinct now, pushing back against whatever this is that has taken hold of his lover, fighting to expel it with the sheer force of the arcane powers that flows through his own veins, drawn from the very atmosphere, and yet for all the strength he has regained, he can feel the futility of it, feel that this force he rails against is nothing less than divine.]
Godfrey!
[His voice echoes as it reaches the rafters— but already, he fears it falls on deaf ears, that the man in his arms has slipped beyond his reach.]
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Often, sunrises are slow, pensive affairs. Dawn-side prayer is a soft and sacred thing, which brought watercolours to Godfrey's world; inky blue and deep, deep purples giving way for pinks and gentle violets and soft oranges, or the rich brilliance of more adventurous colours, or the soft fogginess of a gray rain-shower. Regardless of how it looked, sunrise always brought much of the same. Recollection, peace, the edge of awakening. Before the rest of the world caught up, this precipice is where Godfrey would sit and collect himself, and lay thought and deed bare for his Lord. He watched the dawn's rays stretch across the world, from that little window to the next plane. He thought it often His gaze, stretching across impossible distances, beholding the mortal plane.
Holding him in His regard.
Godfrey feels something impossible within him. He recedes from Gale, his touch, his voice, his concern - it runs farther and farther from him. Is he getting smaller, or farther away? He doesn't know. He won't ever know. The dawn is in his chest, ringing through him; it is strangling him, and it is spilling from his eyes in glowing molten brilliance, and it is burning every moisture from him. His mouth turns to sand. Blood drains from him. It is a dawn's ferocity with none of its peace.
It pushes in. The borders of him crack. Mountainous hands brace against the invisible pieces as it pushes its way in, and the dawn-light blots Godfrey's eyes to two glowing points of sunlight. ]
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No, no!
[He doesn't recognize his own voice, raw and desperate, and he places a hand flat against Godfrey's chest and the blossoming heat within it, clenching his jaw as the paladin's eyes give way to brilliant light. He is all instinct now, pushing back against whatever this is that has taken hold of his lover, fighting to expel it with the sheer force of the arcane powers that flows through his own veins, drawn from the very atmosphere, and yet for all the strength he has regained, he can feel the futility of it, feel that this force he rails against is nothing less than divine.]
Godfrey!
[His voice echoes as it reaches the rafters— but already, he fears it falls on deaf ears, that the man in his arms has slipped beyond his reach.]