empyreumx

[empyreumx]

like father, like son

When Pierce saw this particular offering pinned to the board, there wasn't so much as a moment of hesitation. He immediately took the parchment in hand, signed whatever needed to be signed, and planned his excursion. He knew that as of late, he hadn't quite been himself — not that anyone else had noticed. It was a fortunate thing, that. He never had much interest in talking about himself, nor did he want to spill the secrets of his mind and the life he once lead. None of them would know what to say, anyway. However, *he* knew, and that gnawed at him.

There was a weight on his shoulders, and a constant, dull ache in his chest that never eased. If anything, it'd get worse, constantly pressing down on him to a point where it felt like he was having some sort of heart attack. For once, Pierce's typical attitude of constant working wasn't working. Those routines and distractions never caused the anxiety to fade.

Pierce thought, even if foolishly, that if he could step away for a few days and occupy himself with something beyond the tower, beyond his own spiraling mind, that maybe it could ease, if only slightly. Now, Gaston's head rests on his thigh, one paw draped lazily over his other knee, sound asleep. The templar sits there as still as can be, fingers slowly moving through Gaston's fur, gaze fixed on the rise and fall of Gaston's breath in a dark room.

It should have been comforting. It should have offered him something of a reprieve. He loved dogs, he always had. Outside of his pupil, K, who now visited every other day with some new treat in hand for Gaston, Pierce had to be the one who held the deepest fondness for animals.

Yet, sitting here with Gaston pressed so lovingly against him, he felt nothing at all.

The truth is vile and cruel, and has a way of emerging when one is forced to live in stillness, and when the mind is quiet enough to truly hear it. And for Pierce, the truth was always there, he simply didn't want to hear it. Despite all he had done across thirty-two years of life, sacrifices made, discipline, vows taken and kept, none of it mattered. Every effort during the Crusade, an organization he was forced into at such a tender age, dissolved into nothing.

Often, he found himself wondering how he ended up here, in a life that never quite seemed to fit him. There was no real point in asking why, as the answer was always there, etched into every single memory. All it took was for him to look back at his childhood and he'd see why and how within moments.

Who he was, that hollow, personality-lacking thing he became is traced back to a simple goal from a father scorned. He wanted his children, his two sons, to be nothing more than instruments of chaos, born from his ruthless nature and bitterness. Anything less than a Templar was unacceptable. Anything lower in rank than a Grand Crusader was beneath them and their bloodline, an absolute disgrace.

For years, Pierce, and by extension, Milo and their cousin Sawyer, clawed their way upward, driven by an all-consuming hunger for greatness and approval that they'd never truly gain. And in the end, they all lost more than they ever gained.

Loss was his constant companion, the only thing that was certain. No matter how often he tried to escape it, to not think about it, it clung to him like an unending rot. Every action he took was nothing but a reaction, a ripple from the stone his father Brandt had thrown the day he joined the Crusade.

His cousin and closest friend, gone, thanks to his father's stupidity.

His wife, gone. She left him due to his father's desire to see him killed.

His children, forced to be kept from him, once again, due to his father.

Each memory seemed to twist deeper and deeper into his chest. The more he thought, the more the air thinned around him, his chest tightening sharply. That constriction was familiar now. It was different from the first time he had this so-called panic attack. He was less concerned with 'am I dying?' so much has he is concerned with how weak it made him feel. The pain shot up his left arm, his fingers curling against Gaston's fur as his heart beats loudly in his ears.

He draws in a ragged, useless breath as another spasm of pain shot through his arm. Even though he knew better, there was still a part of him that thought that this was it. This, is how he'd die. Not exactly triumphant, but a heart attack. Alone, and a failure.

Gaston stirs when Pierce's grip tightens, shifting. He sits up, then begins to lick at Pierce's face. Pierce's hand trembles violently, though he forces it to move, sliding into Gaston's fur yet again. He takes in a shaky breath, his head shaking subtly before his face falls forward, resting on Gaston's back.

The pain in his arm begins to fade, leaving behind the bitter tightness that has all but attached itself to him like a parasite. Pierce doesn't move, nor does he lift his head. Instead, he stays there, bent forward, his face pressed into Gaston, as if somehow he'd be able to vanish.

Nothing in him feels worth saving — he's known it for some time, but acceptance is a different sort of beast to tackle. He knows he is every harsh word ever spoken about him, every unkind judgment that is made of him, and in some twisted way, he clings to that identity. It absolves him of the need to try to be decent, or be anything but what he was trained to do.

He understands what he's always suspected: some men are not meant to be saved, and he is one of them.

[empyreumx]

Encounter XVII. Ink on paper. 33x48 cm.

[empyreumx]

[empyreumx]

By Alberto Martini