Lloyd’s body shakes with the way that he tries to stop himself from breaking down, violent tremors making his way down his spine as he bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. His eyes are clenched shut, his hands over his face, fingers placing tight pressure on his temples, trying so hard to stop being a baby.
He gasps for air, his chest burning with a lack of breath, his heart beating with the suggestion of giving out. The words race through his mind, burning their way on his think track and making him hear them over, and over, and over again. They never wanted him. They never wanted him. They never wanted him.
A sob escapes his lips. He claps his hand back to his mouth, tries to soften the sound of it, but it seems so fucking loud in this quiet forest. With one sob, the dam breaks, and tears leak out of his eyes and down his face, a desperate breath being taken in an attempt to get himself back together, but it doesn’t work. Kratos’ voice haunts him, the way he had gently instructed Lloyd to count to ten seems wrong, now. It seems vicious, taunting, a subtle way to say let me help you, because you can’t help yourself.
Has he read into every interaction wrong? Maybe this is on him. Maybe Kratos was never interested in staying with him, never thought he was a son worth sticking around for. He was detached enough, but Lloyd had thought - he had thought that, maybe -
Doesn’t matter. Anna didn’t want him either, apparently. Neither of his parents ever wanted him. A slightly deranged laugh leaves his mouth, followed by more sobs, by a painful hiccup that uproots the sickness lingering in his bottom stomach. Acid rises to his throat once again, and he stumbles a few feet over, emptying out his stomach.
So this is what he is. Pathetic, really, breaking down by himself in a forest clearing, crying like a fucking child, unable to deal with the truth that he doesn’t really offer any reason to be cared for. He’s Lloyd Irving, the wielder of the Eternal Sword -
he gave it up-
He helped save Sylvarant and Tethe’alla -
the temporary deaths of his friends and family linger in his mind, haunting him, haunting him, the way his sword came up through his uncle’s torso -
He -
He -
What’s the point?
Lloyd scrambles back, falls to his knees, tugging at the grass beneath him, desperate to have some control as he breaks, so fucking disgusted with being in his own body that the violent anger from this morning is back, running itself through his veins and into his head, a pulsing cycle of leave before you fuck this up. It’s no wonder why his parents never wanted him, look at how much fucking good he’s done!
A branch snaps not that far from where he is. Lloyd can barely bring himself to attention, but he stands, swaying. He doesn’t have his swords on him, had left those back at the campsite, and he doubts he’d be able to fight like this anyways, not with the way the landscape blurs, not with the way he can’t think straight. Maybe he should just embrace the angel powers, but if he dies, he’d rather die a pathetic shell of his former self than one who had lost its humanity.
And then Anna steps out of the shadows, and Lloyd thinks that he’d rather be dead.
no subject
He gasps for air, his chest burning with a lack of breath, his heart beating with the suggestion of giving out. The words race through his mind, burning their way on his think track and making him hear them over, and over, and over again. They never wanted him. They never wanted him. They never wanted him.
A sob escapes his lips. He claps his hand back to his mouth, tries to soften the sound of it, but it seems so fucking loud in this quiet forest. With one sob, the dam breaks, and tears leak out of his eyes and down his face, a desperate breath being taken in an attempt to get himself back together, but it doesn’t work. Kratos’ voice haunts him, the way he had gently instructed Lloyd to count to ten seems wrong, now. It seems vicious, taunting, a subtle way to say let me help you, because you can’t help yourself.
Has he read into every interaction wrong? Maybe this is on him. Maybe Kratos was never interested in staying with him, never thought he was a son worth sticking around for. He was detached enough, but Lloyd had thought - he had thought that, maybe -
Doesn’t matter. Anna didn’t want him either, apparently. Neither of his parents ever wanted him. A slightly deranged laugh leaves his mouth, followed by more sobs, by a painful hiccup that uproots the sickness lingering in his bottom stomach. Acid rises to his throat once again, and he stumbles a few feet over, emptying out his stomach.
So this is what he is. Pathetic, really, breaking down by himself in a forest clearing, crying like a fucking child, unable to deal with the truth that he doesn’t really offer any reason to be cared for. He’s Lloyd Irving, the wielder of the Eternal Sword -
he gave it up-
He helped save Sylvarant and Tethe’alla -
the temporary deaths of his friends and family linger in his mind, haunting him, haunting him, the way his sword came up through his uncle’s torso -
He -
He -
What’s the point?
Lloyd scrambles back, falls to his knees, tugging at the grass beneath him, desperate to have some control as he breaks, so fucking disgusted with being in his own body that the violent anger from this morning is back, running itself through his veins and into his head, a pulsing cycle of leave before you fuck this up. It’s no wonder why his parents never wanted him, look at how much fucking good he’s done!
A branch snaps not that far from where he is. Lloyd can barely bring himself to attention, but he stands, swaying. He doesn’t have his swords on him, had left those back at the campsite, and he doubts he’d be able to fight like this anyways, not with the way the landscape blurs, not with the way he can’t think straight. Maybe he should just embrace the angel powers, but if he dies, he’d rather die a pathetic shell of his former self than one who had lost its humanity.
And then Anna steps out of the shadows, and Lloyd thinks that he’d rather be dead.