arielshepard asked ;   { ; ♡ }

; send a ♡ to hear how my character would tell your character that they loved them without actually using the word ❛ love❜

     A cosmos worthy of the one SAVIOR stirs behind them – the perfect backdrop to accompany how low he has stooped. The galaxy is brought, a menagerie of color stretching on for INFINITY. Whirring of Old Machines howls with as much fury as the wind. O! How low he has stooped. ‘ For humanity, for humanity! ’ had once been his war cry. Now, on his bended knee, the WOLF hangs his head for the victorious LION. A change sullies him, corrodes his tar black soul. Like a bless’d creator, she has shaped him anew. Still, the grinding of gears saturates his mind. Hammers against his skull. The persistent buzz ne’er fades away into obscurity. This reverberant hum is always there, always haunting him, always reminding him who he belongs to. Who he is now. Identity is a lost martyr cause. Age erodes his face, time a deadly foe. The odds were NOT in his favor.

     Once, every intention of dominating the Reapers belonged to him. She adopts his doctrine: ’ Why kill when you can control? ’ Yet, her method is hers & hers alone. Stricken by prophecy, he stares up as the Shepard. He is this crippled, twisted thing. Power, power, power is his siren’s song, luring him further down the winding River Charon. Her stare is not hellish, but something profoundly divine. Rubies glistening, sparkling & he thinks to himself: ‘ That is POWER! ‘ & he loves her for it – that raw ferocity that lead humanity to glory { glory, hallelujah ! }.

     Frigid to the touch, talons caress his scarred jawline { only so much can be healed }. A brow furrows from the gesture: slight, but coiled with strength, enough to knock him down another peg if need be. An ELDRITCH beauty ruins him, conquers him by removing all pawns from the board. There is no warmth in her eyes, but a sternness that ignites his soul. The glacial of his cybernetics contrasts the savage red in her eyes. Her hair frames her razorsharp cheekbones, jet black as vivid as the memory of space. Each lock whispers a hymn for the promised land. Her mere presence seems to hiss: ’ You struggle against PROPHECY like a stone loosed from a sling. ’ O! Weak & selfish is he, desperate for a taste of something MORE.

     Is this not his redemption? She changes her mind to keep him here, tethered by the invisible noose ‘round his neck. He could have been the pinnacle of their species, but Icarus fell far & hard. He belongs to the Prophet: Confidant. Adviser. Chess piece. Trophy. & he casts aside any ideas of holiness for his next move. One by one, he kisses her rings with his teeth bared. Each leaves an indentation, a fiendish brand that further stains his image. To the people, he is a ghost. An enigma whose name was forgotten over time. Loyally, faithfully, he kisses her precious stones on his knee as marriage customs often demand. He is wed to her PROPHECY. Wed to the salvation she gives him in this crooked, warped thing. A puppet he is, a puppet he will be.

                              Ne’er did the Illusive Man consider himself a man of faith.

                                                    SHE has made him a believer.