He was shaking again.
Down to the very foundation of his bones he was shaking.
He felt the desire and the need and the want and the horrible, ugly LUST.
The Man felt these things and he shuddered at the thoughts that passed through his head, at how appealing they seemed and how ravenously he was willing to see them through and pursue them at how easily it would be to just let go, to let go of his self-control and let all these things happen and be so, so happy and content and TRUE.
But that was lies. Filthy lies fed to him by the LUST. TRUTH was not what the LUST could offer, only a vague, admittedly appealing version of it. TRUTH knew what he was, but TRUTH could not simply tell him – could not tell anyone, for the sole reason that that was the very nature of TRUTH – to not be simple, or more accurately, to be not simple. And TRUTH knew how LUST had so ruled his life.
LUST was something that existed in his life by necessity; that was so damnably important to his sanity, to his well-being, to his happiness. And yet the last thing he ever wanted was to LUST ever again.
For once in his life, he wanted PURITY. He wanted TRUTH. He wanted to look at something and not feel the sinful, wanton urge to either wrought destruction upon it or mate with it or abuse or extort or hate or rage or any number of foolish, immediate things that had no bearing on the long-term.
But the LUST was still there, regardless, and it called to him as a mother to a petulant child, urging him forward into acts of great artistry and hedonistic extremity. He was, by his nature, by his profession, by his chosen path, LUSTFUL. It was, perhaps, his fate to feel these things and do these things and know these things more intimately than any other who might shirk the responsibilities he so bore.
LUST came in all shapes and in all sizes. It came in all sins, big and small, colorful and strange. It came in all good things, too, big and small, thoughtful and kind. The LUST was there, simple desire, and it colored life in shades of happy white and horrible black and all manner of grey in between. But none were forced to be so intimate with LUST as was he and his kin. LUST was something denied by the fatecrafters, who so denied all other emotion that they might “control” their sinful urges. LUST was something worshipped by the fatedestroyers, who so foolishly fell to it that they might as well be nothing more than tools for the LUST. But for he and his kin, LUST was nothing but a fact of life. It was not what consumed two extremes of the same philosophy for him and his bloodkin. It was just something that was, older than time and history and man and the stars.
They existed in a place between the crafters and destroyers – a blessed place where the LUST was not all-encompassing, or all-deciding. And yet, with lives as short and brutish as they had, those that picked up arms – for whatever reason - were forced to understand the LUST more intimately than either crafter or destroyer. Rather than childishly indulging or virginally denying, The Ungifted slowly prod and explored, in methodical seriousness, the LUST. They saw how it could be harnessed, and used, and the Armsbearers quickly did so in whatever way they could. The Armsbearer was LUST’s greatest champion, as his life, even more brutish and simple and passionate was the epitome of what the LUST so embodied. And the LUST loved its champions as its children. It gave them many a great gift, and empowered them to feats unimaginable to the Crafters or Destroyers – things that were unimaginable for any mere Ungifted to accomplish. Yet even the LUST had its price, and it was perpetuity. An Armsbearer could never leave the LUST once it so took them, once it gave itself so wholly to them, and them to the LUST in turn, the LUST never released one from its hold.
And so the Man shook. His body screamed for action: glorious, immediate action. Something physical, something real, something that he could hold bleeding in his hands as he drained the last of its life, something that he could chase and corner and savor the ending of. Something that he could end casually with 3 muscles in the trigger finger, something that warrants only the feeling of recoil. Something that cared only for the carnal pleasures, something that forced him to rip and claw and pull and thrust and perform feats of sin and debauchery that would cow even the most depraved of souls in fear and awe.
But the promise of TRUTH and PURITY stood forever as a shining light, just out of distance, in the man’s peripheral, constantly alighting out of his vision even as he turned his head to gaze onto it. And so the man shook.
And then the voice – the sweet melodic voice rang through the doorway, and the shaking stopped. Suddenly TRUTH and PURITY were attainable, they were there, they were talking to the man, and he stood, clad in clothes he hadn’t remembered donning, in a room he didn’t remember entering. At another perfect call, he answered, and joined the woman in the other room. TRUTH. PURITY.