Oh, that hits him harder than he could ever expect it to. Than any defense could negate. There's something about not just the idea of mercy, but its actuality that relieves the spirit from all the burden and tension built up over a lifetime. His head is absolutely swimming, and he's left shaken from it all. From Angeal's kindness, from how he was certain that he was trying to argue with him about Greagor, that he might use this to attack what little comfort he still could take with the faith which had structured his life, which had given him meaning, which he had inherited from his father.
He clings to it, desperately, trying to make sense of his suffering, trying to make sense of it all. He wants to believe in a merciful world, one that is just, one that is righteous, even in the face of unfathomable cruelty.
Dion's eyes screw shut as he chokes back a sob. What can he do? What can he say to this? Angeal has a point. One he cannot deny, one he cannot contest. This had to have happened for a reason, it appeals to his faith in Greagor, but does it appeal to the mercy he feels for himself? What of the anguish that still burns so deeply in his heart? Of the guilt that suffocates him? Of every earthly wrong he's doneβdid he deserve this respite?
Did Greagor truly think he did?
"But what of...what of my sins?"
The question is more a whimper than words, barely able to break past the tightness in his throat as he tries to keep back another sorrowful sob. His fists ball at his sides as he opens his eyes and looks to Angeal, eyes red from the tears, his expression strained from the agony of tears that long since needed to fallβboth for himself and Angeal's body, honestly.
"Of all the lives I have taken...of the lives I have ruined...? What of them? Of their loved ones? How could She see fit to show me mercy, when they deserve it far more than I ever could?"
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Oh, that hits him harder than he could ever expect it to. Than any defense could negate. There's something about not just the idea of mercy, but its actuality that relieves the spirit from all the burden and tension built up over a lifetime. His head is absolutely swimming, and he's left shaken from it all. From Angeal's kindness, from how he was certain that he was trying to argue with him about Greagor, that he might use this to attack what little comfort he still could take with the faith which had structured his life, which had given him meaning, which he had inherited from his father.
He clings to it, desperately, trying to make sense of his suffering, trying to make sense of it all. He wants to believe in a merciful world, one that is just, one that is righteous, even in the face of unfathomable cruelty.
Dion's eyes screw shut as he chokes back a sob. What can he do? What can he say to this? Angeal has a point. One he cannot deny, one he cannot contest. This had to have happened for a reason, it appeals to his faith in Greagor, but does it appeal to the mercy he feels for himself? What of the anguish that still burns so deeply in his heart? Of the guilt that suffocates him? Of every earthly wrong he's doneβdid he deserve this respite?
Did Greagor truly think he did?
"But what of...what of my sins?"
The question is more a whimper than words, barely able to break past the tightness in his throat as he tries to keep back another sorrowful sob. His fists ball at his sides as he opens his eyes and looks to Angeal, eyes red from the tears, his expression strained from the agony of tears that long since needed to fallβboth for himself and Angeal's body, honestly.
"Of all the lives I have taken...of the lives I have ruined...? What of them? Of their loved ones? How could She see fit to show me mercy, when they deserve it far more than I ever could?"