Yasha knows that this memory is Beauregard's, and yet her eyes remain locked onto the crumpled form of Mollymauk spread eagle on the ground, arms and legs akimbo. Without Lorenzo's weapon blocking it she can see the true horror left behind. Blood stains the ground underneath of his back. His chest is a tangled ruin, skin in ribbons, the fabric of his shirt torn and wet from the wound. It feels like the glaive is at her heart now, twisting and twisting, hot and tight until she wants to scream with the pain of it.
His eyes aren't closed. They stare up into the sky unseeing. Beau is shaking, trembling like a leaf to her direct left and Yasha isn't even aware of the others, Nott and Caleb and the woman she vaguely places as Keg all standing stock still, shocked in the shadows.
She can't look at him any more. She wrenches herself away, covers her face with her hands. It's too much. She was fine with not knowing, she could handle the vibrant coat heralding the muted grave, the heaped snow, the single wooden marker. Barely, perhaps, but even so– she is not okay with this.
' This one’s for Molly and Yasha!' Beau had yelled, and set Lorenzo ablaze. Her angry screams keep echoing in Yasha's ears, mingled with the sound of Molly choking on his own blood, the horrible, sick gurgles of him losing his life. Where was she when this happened? She can't remember anything, she had been unconscious for most of the experience. They had all needed her, and she'd let herself been taken away.
She isn't aware of crouching down, her forehead to her knees. Just that it feels better to make everything smaller for a moment.)
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Yasha knows that this memory is Beauregard's, and yet her eyes remain locked onto the crumpled form of Mollymauk spread eagle on the ground, arms and legs akimbo. Without Lorenzo's weapon blocking it she can see the true horror left behind. Blood stains the ground underneath of his back. His chest is a tangled ruin, skin in ribbons, the fabric of his shirt torn and wet from the wound. It feels like the glaive is at her heart now, twisting and twisting, hot and tight until she wants to scream with the pain of it.
His eyes aren't closed. They stare up into the sky unseeing. Beau is shaking, trembling like a leaf to her direct left and Yasha isn't even aware of the others, Nott and Caleb and the woman she vaguely places as Keg all standing stock still, shocked in the shadows.
She can't look at him any more. She wrenches herself away, covers her face with her hands. It's too much. She was fine with not knowing, she could handle the vibrant coat heralding the muted grave, the heaped snow, the single wooden marker. Barely, perhaps, but even so– she is not okay with this.
' This one’s for Molly and Yasha!' Beau had yelled, and set Lorenzo ablaze. Her angry screams keep echoing in Yasha's ears, mingled with the sound of Molly choking on his own blood, the horrible, sick gurgles of him losing his life. Where was she when this happened? She can't remember anything, she had been unconscious for most of the experience. They had all needed her, and she'd let herself been taken away.
She isn't aware of crouching down, her forehead to her knees. Just that it feels better to make everything smaller for a moment.)