"Had the world always been this silent?"
He stepped through a world of frozen fire and silenced screams. It was not beauty he felt. It was blasphemy. Like trespassing into a god's painting.
The flames, once writhing and shuddering, now lay still. The snow which scorched to steam, halted above him. The steam that once rose stood still as rock—twisted like serpents…
The flames did not burn. They posed
The snow did not fall. It hovered.
The steam did not rise. It misted.
The birds did not soar. They stay still in suspension.
Not the air, not the skies, nor the light moved in response to Orin. Like walking through a photo, a fraction of a second, a fragment of time. Captured within a still picture. Within a still frame. That's all it was–still.
He looked around, Wrath's face a tableau of dramatism. Wrath, glee, melancholy. All written upon his face.
Then he looked at the buildings. Each destroyed, a black flame no longer burning. No longer dancing–they posed, curled mid-sway like actors caught in the climax of a play.
And before Orin there was a thin gleaming javelin, sparking out black flame. Though even that was suspended.
Laced upon the buildings between buildings and floor stretched out chains like wire, connecting to the windows. The stones. The sky. Diagonally.
All silent. All he could hear was his heart beat, his breathing, his steps toward Wrath. And a small lullaby.
Crunch.
There was an exorbitant amount of bodies he had yet to notice, each piled on top of each other—the ends of their clothes scorched. Their flesh like blended tomatoes.
"Strife causes so much blood," Orin muttered.
"I have no words." He continued rushing at Wrath as he stood stationary; even while time was halted, he knew his time was limited.
As he tread closer, his breathing shallowed, his sight dimmed, his hearing faltered.
He charged at Wrath while he stood completely stationary.
His right foot adjusted twisting clockwise, he pulled his waist closer toward the ground, his feet pointed like a ballerina, his shin hoisted diagonally. He spun with great momentum, his legs slicing through the air, before it connected with Wrath's arm. Digging into it, the sound was like bubble wrap popped in sequence.
Everything slowly began to gain motion.
The flames began to dance.
The raindrops fell and scorched into steam.
The steam rose.
The birds flew and soared.
The sixth petal fell.
But Orin did not halt. Rather he dragged his shin into Wrath's arm as he slowly began to gain movement.
Then came the crunch—loud and sickening. This time, it was Wrath's.
He roared, stopping for nothing but Wrath's death.
When time resumed, Wrath was sent flying, Blood and sweat trailing him while he spun through the air with great ferocity. His arms flailing as he was dashed from the sigil on the ground.
The sigil began to decay, peeling into the air dried up blood. Then into white phosphorus.
Wrath's entire arm was dismembered, only hanging by a single tendon, he crashed into the cobblestone, writhing and wincing. Rolling as he felt every bone in his body break. Only stopping when he hit a streetlight.
The streetlight bent, releasing with it a sonorous clang. The flame it had vanished as it sparked from a small crack.
The large smile he bore diminished in an instant.
The flames of Wrath had been quelled in an instant.
The smile which stretched from ear to ear, was forced into a gasp, his mouth in shock. Reaching from chin to nose.
There it was: the cause had outrun the effect. His sigil diminished, snuffed out like a candle. The blood peeled as if aged, and dried up to dust, flaring its exit.
Wrath lay, his back caving into the broken streetlamp, deep in thought. Contemplation.
"A sigil?" He questioned
"Did he place a sigil on me, to make him teleport to me."
"No, he's an amateur."
"I made a mistake underestimating that man. Then what was it? His legs were healed."
Then he paused to think, and he smiled, "A promethean link. If that's the case, there will be a consequence. In the form of the second law."
"If– If I am to use a name with great authority. And don't have an understanding of it, it will be more dangerous than trying to use the name of a fly and not understanding it."
"Yes. Lex Cognitio." He murmured to himself
"He's used a power too great… He should die. Will die."
Wrath began to reach out the arm Orin kicked. His eyes widened immediately.
"I can feel my hand, but it's not there."
He reached out his arm, destroyed. Bone protruding from it. He could feel it, The ghost of his own limb.
"Yes."
He swallowed, now looking towards the moon. His eyes were white, full of the reflection of the moon. A full moon. Diaphanous and lawny.
He smiled softly.
"Why do I feel so calm right now? It feels peaceful…"
The snow stopped. For the first time in years since the war ended. It was raining. Heavily.
His lips pursed to speak, "I am guilty. I deserve death,"