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The Arcane deity always brought him back in a flash of gold or rays of violet. The surface of Jayce’s skin and surely the muscle underneath was threaded with gold, every stitch a testimonial of unintended consequences. A toy put back together so many times the paint had started to chip; fine wires beginning to fray.
Jayce didn't consider it death anymore. It was merely routine, and in the absence of any greater sense of purpose, he accepted his role as a plaything for the creature wearing his beloved's face.
The Herald wasn't Viktor.
By the sixth time Jayce had died at the hands of the thing that claimed it was, he welcomed the attention his resuscitation entailed.
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Bad Ending. Jayce would rather let the Arcane creature use him than focus on the lengths to which he'd failed. -
Bookmark Notes:
Came for the monster fucking, stayed for the angst.
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