The demons loved the taste of that. All that hope, and those promises, dragged down. They gobbled it greedily. They loved the broken promises and shattered futures more than they loved even those memories of the past. The dreams Oliver had of improving his swordsmanship, even though he hadn't had as much time to focus solely on that as of late. He'd hoped to walk in Dominus' footsteps further, so that he might bear the Patrick title more strongly.
Now he only found a sour taste in thinking of that. Patrick title? He was no Patrick. The very heart of his being was a long held lie.
To run further in the darkness, to push his physical limits, not even truly in search of breaking through the Boundaries, but for that old progress that he'd once chased so simply in the Black Mountains. To push himself by the mountain streams. To chase that sacred simplicity of those heights.
That too shattered.
