Dad was laughing, that deep rolling laugh of good-natured mirth which had nothing censuring about it. "Well now," He said with a grin, "Cheers, li'l lady, and as a matter of fact, I do. 'Course, bein' My own Boss means I can schedule My own vacation times. The trouble is keepin' 'em uninterrupted."
The last was added on obliquely, though what, precisely, He was referring to wasn't immediately apparent. His tone was contented, though. "This one was a good 'un, though. No interruptions at all. Ain't nothin' better than bein' with people."
He smiled fondly at Ghastly, and at Tanith, and at Valkyrie, and ruffled the girl's hair. It was an eminently casual thing, something for which there couldn't possibly be any hidden motives, and yet there was something infinitely gentle and reassuring about it too. "Take care. I'll be seein' y'all around sometime."
Then Dad clapped Tanith's shoulder, shook Ghastly's hand, and turned to amble out through the hospital doors with that easy, unhurried and unworried pace of someone enjoying their life to the fullest.
~~~
Every muscle in Anton's body ached and his every breath was laboured. He felt his heartbeat pound throughout his body; more than felt it, lived it. It was all that existed. His body, and the feeling of his magic in his chest, boiling like a pot of water--slowing, but still hot and painful to touch.
When Anton had first chosen his Gist as magical specialisation, it had been shortly after a man with a Gist of his own had ... expired. To put it lightly. The art of having a Gist was long known--one of the oldest arts. Gist. Geis. Today they were known as different things. Back then, there had been less of a difference, two related actions. The Gist involved a Geis, different to how Necromancy or being a Sensitive did. Having a Gist meant being under a Geis, meant not violating the taboo under which that Gist was summoned. Violating it meant, of course, being consumed by one's own Gist.
Anton had come terrifyingly close to doing so during the war, and more than once. Treading that line was difficult.
But there was more than one way to lose to one's Gist. The sorcerer in question had simply not been strong enough. Having a Gist meant control, not just of circumstance, but of mind and soul. Even that wasn't enough. Most Gist-users died young. Even ones who lived as long as Anton already had didn't tend to see out the end of their years naturally.
Anton had known all that. He had chosen the path regardless; like so many, confident in his own strength. Like very few, accurate in that assessment.
The use of it was pain, because it was violence and fury made incarnate. A part of him he released and then had to leash. Every time, it took him longer. Eventually, he knew, would come a time he would fail.
Which was why he remained kneeling on the floor of his Hotel, drawing in sucking breaths, his eyes closed and hair damp with sweat. Slowly he came aware of that peculiar kind of silence of an aftermath; the stillness of abject violence. He was very familiar with this sort. The sort of his own making. His Gist beat in his chest, but it was subsiding. Controlled. Anton shook with the exertion of it, struggling to gather himself. The Hotel was safe. No more sounds of battle could be heard from any room.
Safe.
For now.
Anton laid his trembling hands on his thighs and leaned his weight on them, and simply breathed.
no subject
The last was added on obliquely, though what, precisely, He was referring to wasn't immediately apparent. His tone was contented, though. "This one was a good 'un, though. No interruptions at all. Ain't nothin' better than bein' with people."
He smiled fondly at Ghastly, and at Tanith, and at Valkyrie, and ruffled the girl's hair. It was an eminently casual thing, something for which there couldn't possibly be any hidden motives, and yet there was something infinitely gentle and reassuring about it too. "Take care. I'll be seein' y'all around sometime."
Then Dad clapped Tanith's shoulder, shook Ghastly's hand, and turned to amble out through the hospital doors with that easy, unhurried and unworried pace of someone enjoying their life to the fullest.
~~~
Every muscle in Anton's body ached and his every breath was laboured. He felt his heartbeat pound throughout his body; more than felt it, lived it. It was all that existed. His body, and the feeling of his magic in his chest, boiling like a pot of water--slowing, but still hot and painful to touch.
When Anton had first chosen his Gist as magical specialisation, it had been shortly after a man with a Gist of his own had ... expired. To put it lightly. The art of having a Gist was long known--one of the oldest arts. Gist. Geis. Today they were known as different things. Back then, there had been less of a difference, two related actions. The Gist involved a Geis, different to how Necromancy or being a Sensitive did. Having a Gist meant being under a Geis, meant not violating the taboo under which that Gist was summoned. Violating it meant, of course, being consumed by one's own Gist.
Anton had come terrifyingly close to doing so during the war, and more than once. Treading that line was difficult.
But there was more than one way to lose to one's Gist. The sorcerer in question had simply not been strong enough. Having a Gist meant control, not just of circumstance, but of mind and soul. Even that wasn't enough. Most Gist-users died young. Even ones who lived as long as Anton already had didn't tend to see out the end of their years naturally.
Anton had known all that. He had chosen the path regardless; like so many, confident in his own strength. Like very few, accurate in that assessment.
The use of it was pain, because it was violence and fury made incarnate. A part of him he released and then had to leash. Every time, it took him longer. Eventually, he knew, would come a time he would fail.
Which was why he remained kneeling on the floor of his Hotel, drawing in sucking breaths, his eyes closed and hair damp with sweat. Slowly he came aware of that peculiar kind of silence of an aftermath; the stillness of abject violence. He was very familiar with this sort. The sort of his own making. His Gist beat in his chest, but it was subsiding. Controlled. Anton shook with the exertion of it, struggling to gather himself. The Hotel was safe. No more sounds of battle could be heard from any room.
Safe.
For now.
Anton laid his trembling hands on his thighs and leaned his weight on them, and simply breathed.