Accelerate. Rapid fire.
And so Maiser ran Rivayle cold with fear— not two days after he took the life of a mother of two was his visage over another body made into swiss cheese. His face wore nothing more than his frozen lips, fused together by the saliva dried out on arid winds. Rapid fire. Rapid fire. Rapid fire. Two.
Finding his work satisfactory, he makes a curt bow to the approaching patrollers before slipping comfortably into the security of being faster than sound.
Istar's blessing, he says in his heart with the whollest piety, that he be home for dinner with Selena, and will see her holiness unblemished by the burden of murder as the kind matron of the church. An apostle and his goddess, only second to the being that forged Rivayle and the Three Titans. But ah, he thinks, blankly looking towards the sky, he was due for another job.
And then he laughs, in the middle of a dustbowl with no-one in sight.
How funny, that he even pretended to be a knight in shining armor. Pretended to be the ray of sunshine that Selena could look up to. Pretended that he was anything more than what he was— cold, calculating, and heartless. If anything, how Selena's ignition burns within him on every chilly night is about as much warmth as he could ever dream of. Blood and bodies, and the abbess' letter. Yes, he was simply destined to play this part. From the abandoned cradle to the unmarked grave, his path was thus: "kiss the hand that feeds you, marry the bride that needs you, sweeter words bind us, careful they don't bite you."
Of course he kissed the abbess' hand for raising him, accepting the duty of the holy assassin, purger of sin. Of course he kissed Selena's hand, burnt by pots and pans and the revolver at her side. He wishes desperately for a world where she doesn't need it.
Marry the bride that needs you— ah, the tricky bit. Selena is very much independent. Though perhaps in the future he could grow to be better (he doubts this so, so incredibly much. A murderer has no place having the hand of such a pure being.)
Sweeter words bind us. Sweeter are the wanton sighs Maiser still tastes on his lips sometimes. Was that so horrible? That he went ahead and fell for and made fell Selena? And to lay by her feet in profound guilt and admission to his mistake, two children at his side to burden her with. Is that not a family raising children? But an absent father makes for bitterness; so kindly he asked to keep a distance altogether so they're better as friendly strangers than wasplike family.
Careful they don't bite you.
Maiser chooses to ignore that. He's grown much too accustomed to these two days to turn back. It hurts. He hurts. He wishes for it to last forever.
Now that he thinks of it, where did he even hear that poem in the first place?