Deathstroke (sladewilson) wrote in crownplazaic, @ 2021-05-17 20:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, rose wilson, slade wilson |
Who: Slade and Rose Wilson
Where: Room 213
When: The morning of May 18th
What: Rose’s resurrection
Status: Closed, in-progress
Warnings: Dark themes: death, violence, etc.
How many children did a man have to lose before he lost his sanity as well? It had seemed like it was only one for Slade Wilson. He hadn’t been there for Grant’s first breath but he’d been there for the last and the death rattle had been what sent him careening past the brink. He’d lost himself to the grief. The last words on Grant's lips were ‘Are they dead?’ and so he’d lied to his son for the last time. Then there’d been Joey with blood trickling down his cheeks like stigmata from wounds where his eyes had once been. He remembered the babbling insanity so loud that it echoed throughout their minds like he was speaking again. ‘Daddy says I’m all better now.’ But his vicious little Rose had only just typed something on her phone quickly like it was a run of the mill engagement. And it should have been; it would have been in any other universe. She wouldn’t have known death because that’s what the bad blood had bought her; he’d taken everything else from her one way or the other so it had seemed as if it should have bought her immortality and not just a little bit longer between the hastily texted ‘The fuck.’ and meeting death. It hadn’t taken him long to find her but it had been too late to intervene. The sight of his daughter on the ground in a pool of her own blood was the sort of thing that would have sent better men running towards revivals to repent for what they’d done to bring such a blight upon their family. Instead, it was the sort of thing that had sent Slade into a vicious rage which accumulated in yet another loss of life but somehow no revivals of any sort. He had carried Rose back with him back to the hotel and set her in the middle of the spare bed. Wordlessly, he’d rested her head on a pillow and combed the dried blood out of her long hair careful to avoid snags. Then he’d waited. Eventually, he was sure, the pink tinted halo against the pillows was going to shift and she would sit up with a crack of everything settling back into place. And if, in his fit of anticipation, he’d tried to drip his own blood into her wounds to seal them then no one was any the wiser because Dick had politely taken his leave for the duration of the process and he’d sent Joey away every time he came knocking. |