For all that Zelos prides himself in being an Aegis, in being powerful, it still doesn't change the fact that he is artificial, an imperfect replica of godlike power that he was never going to replace no matter how hard he tried to be adequate for. An original's ether release feels a lot like being hit right in the solar plexus, all the air escaping Zelos' lungs and leaving him on his knees again, heaving, hands reaching for his chest as if to try and dislodge the nauseous obstruction of raw power colliding with his self.
Pain, like a waterfall in a still lake, fills him to the brim and disturbs him as soon as Mithos releases his power, as soon as Sylvarant's cannon goes off. Though the cannon shot doesn't even hit anywhere close, Zelos still feels it, feels the way its trajectory curves along the skies and how it makes the earth shake, his mind calculating its destination and power in a matter of seconds. An intrusive numerical death toll estimate flashes behind his eyes. He shuts them tight to rid himself of it, curls into himself, holds his midsection as he tries to regulate his breathing and the shaking of his limbs, the fog in his mind condensing into murky waters that leave his thoughts swimming in the abyss.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually the aftershocks pass just about enough for Zelos to inhale deeply and finally not choke on the air, his eyes opening slowly and tentatively to take in the dirt below. He blinks, exhales. Blinks again, raises his head. The sky is back to proper twilight again, cascading its red lights on the massacre surrounding Kratos. Macabre, yet fitting. In his hands Zelos can see the blade is holding a dormant core crystal, no Mithos in sight--and it doesn't take a genius, or even too long, for Zelos to immediately guess what the fuck just happened while he was out here being absolutely useless.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, stop.
Zelos is abruptly hit with the weight of his role in the world, all at once, all of it dropping onto his shoulders as he shakily rises to a stand. The bodies surrounding Kratos are dressed in Tethe'allan military uniforms of varying ranks. It's a sight that Zelos has known since birth, his whole life accompanied by some stuffy general or soldier escorting him places or discussing his use while he didn't have a choice but to comply, his own selfish survival riding on his usefulness and how well he could perform. Absently, emptily, he stares at a captain's corpse. The little blood-splattered insignia on their chest mocks him, a self-loathing sensation of tick-tick-tick-tick-ticking beats crawling up his veins as he stares, mesmerized, horrified, in despair.
Sylvarant has fired at least twice now. Tethe'alla has no Aegis. Tethe'alla's absolutely defenseless. They are desperate.
What they need is a counter, something of equal or better power to turn the war on its head or at least still it once again--they need an Aegis, a weapon. It's war strategy. Mithos' death is proof of that. And Aegis restoration or not, whatever happened here, Zelos' little escapade still cost Mithos his life. It's cost Colette and Martel their freedom and their lives, too. It is all cold, hard facts.
And all the while Zelos is out here parading through the countryside as if he wasn't just as guilty of this as the humans who built and caged them in the first place.
How many people died in that blast? In the last one? This should never have happened. He should never have left Meltokio. He just went ahead and took his freedom without caring of how others would suffer for his selfishness, Aegis and civilian alike.
You're just a dirty coward, aren't you?
Snapping his attention away from Kratos as he helps his wife to stand, Zelos wordlessly turns on his heel and begins to walk to where he knows Tethe'alla to be, over where his guilt will take him.
You left on a comet to get coffee?
Pain, like a waterfall in a still lake, fills him to the brim and disturbs him as soon as Mithos releases his power, as soon as Sylvarant's cannon goes off. Though the cannon shot doesn't even hit anywhere close, Zelos still feels it, feels the way its trajectory curves along the skies and how it makes the earth shake, his mind calculating its destination and power in a matter of seconds. An intrusive numerical death toll estimate flashes behind his eyes. He shuts them tight to rid himself of it, curls into himself, holds his midsection as he tries to regulate his breathing and the shaking of his limbs, the fog in his mind condensing into murky waters that leave his thoughts swimming in the abyss.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually the aftershocks pass just about enough for Zelos to inhale deeply and finally not choke on the air, his eyes opening slowly and tentatively to take in the dirt below. He blinks, exhales. Blinks again, raises his head. The sky is back to proper twilight again, cascading its red lights on the massacre surrounding Kratos. Macabre, yet fitting. In his hands Zelos can see the blade is holding a dormant core crystal, no Mithos in sight--and it doesn't take a genius, or even too long, for Zelos to immediately guess what the fuck just happened while he was out here being absolutely useless.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, stop.
Zelos is abruptly hit with the weight of his role in the world, all at once, all of it dropping onto his shoulders as he shakily rises to a stand. The bodies surrounding Kratos are dressed in Tethe'allan military uniforms of varying ranks. It's a sight that Zelos has known since birth, his whole life accompanied by some stuffy general or soldier escorting him places or discussing his use while he didn't have a choice but to comply, his own selfish survival riding on his usefulness and how well he could perform. Absently, emptily, he stares at a captain's corpse. The little blood-splattered insignia on their chest mocks him, a self-loathing sensation of tick-tick-tick-tick-ticking beats crawling up his veins as he stares, mesmerized, horrified, in despair.
Sylvarant has fired at least twice now. Tethe'alla has no Aegis. Tethe'alla's absolutely defenseless. They are desperate.
What they need is a counter, something of equal or better power to turn the war on its head or at least still it once again--they need an Aegis, a weapon. It's war strategy. Mithos' death is proof of that. And Aegis restoration or not, whatever happened here, Zelos' little escapade still cost Mithos his life. It's cost Colette and Martel their freedom and their lives, too. It is all cold, hard facts.
And all the while Zelos is out here parading through the countryside as if he wasn't just as guilty of this as the humans who built and caged them in the first place.
How many people died in that blast? In the last one? This should never have happened. He should never have left Meltokio. He just went ahead and took his freedom without caring of how others would suffer for his selfishness, Aegis and civilian alike.
Snapping his attention away from Kratos as he helps his wife to stand, Zelos wordlessly turns on his heel and begins to walk to where he knows Tethe'alla to be, over where his guilt will take him.