#[[ also sorry this got so long beryl had me in a chokehold omg ]]

[dreadbornesaint]

Perhaps if her own history had been less colored by fervent devotion and the way it distorts, she may have been taken aback by his passionate response. But it is nothing, if not familiar. She frowns a little, being reminded of which she cannot escape. Indeed, it is familiar, in a way most unwelcome. 

She can understand the desire to help others. Such is the Path she walks, yet she also has witnessed one of the bloodier ways such a venture can breed. Beryl had been the crucial instrument to orchestrate such an ending. All she wanted to do is save that which escapes salvation, only to be faced with her own damnation. 

What she cannot understand, cannot agree with, is that it is a beautiful thing. If anything, in her eyes it is...pitiable. Her own experience colors her view, but it seems that some things, despite all efforts, are a matter of inevitability and not choice.

“Is that not a tragedy in and of itself?” Beautiful or otherwise, she cannot help but think of such inevitability as tragic. She shakes her head. Everything ends, tragically, beautifully, or otherwise. At her hands, the end always concludes in blood, it seems. Then and now. 

“I cannot understand your…devotion.” Her eyes fixate on the mutilated corpse, the still flowing blood, the gore. It is her oldest friend, violence and bloodshed, a dear and vivid sight that has yet to fail her. 

Perhaps she is uncomfortable precisely because she can understand, despite her words. 

“The Path you follow, is it?” She muses, mostly to herself. Everyone has a road to follow, it seems. Admittedly, Beryl envies those that seem to be able to forge their own path or those that seem content with the one chosen for them. Bitter is the feeling, always bidden to follow roads in ways she cannot defy. It writes her into a legacy she would sooner forfeit than fortify.

A legacy coated in blood, bearing the weight of a tragedy unknown. She carries within a ledger of her sins and a small wish for absolution. Both will likely die with her when the time for her story to be unwound comes.

“Hm, I see. A pleasure making your acquaintance then, Sir Eros.” Well, that's one formality out of the way. It answers only one question amongst the dozens that clamor for an answer. Such voices quiet down this time, violent cacophony settling to a sultry susurration. 

“If I may then make an inquiry of you.” It is less a questioning remark and more of an idle statement. Now, to pick a question out of the endless mire. 

“The Path you walk, is it of your own will or the will of another?” 

No, that's not quite what she wanted to ask. Perhaps her musings weighed further on her mind than she thought. The words have already had their utterance, so she will see them through to whatever end that may be.