Something compels him to continue hurtling toward his own destruction, and he cannot say what, even as he whispers the place, counts the tarnished coins, dies slowly with the image of wise, pained eyes burned into his mind. It is your sinful greed, a voice whispers to him with the sting of the fire and the burn of the rope. It is love, replies another, softer but stronger, as he is enveloped in warm light and kissed by the wings of angels.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2010-01-02 03:29 am (UTC)