and the blood gave life.

[Bonifacio Russovo [RIP]]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 497px; height: 706px; background-image:url(http://i75.photobucket.com/albums/i319/sketchedesigns/bonoocopytablecopycopy_zps61d90144.png)] Even without opening his eyes he could see the gorge yawning before him; his boot toyed with the edge, loose gravel clattering down the sheer drop off just a half an inch away. The sound echoed through the gorge, reverberating through the crisp morning air. The clatter seemed to echo for ages until silence settled again, and Bonifacio was content to open his eyes. He saw his fate laid out before him, so simple and finite. It was comforting, this solace that soon the continuum of suffering and unbearable loss would be halted. The faintest trace of a smile creased his face; he reached up a hand to feel it. He ran his calloused hands along his cheek, feeling the shallow groove that his father had left there ten years ago. Bonifacio didn’t blame his father anymore—now he only regretted the fact that his father hadn’t been a steadier cut with the blade. Bonifacio knew deserved that mark, the mark of a traitor. He’d broken the silence, the trust, and had seen his mother and father killed because of it. His brother followed soon after. Bonifacio closed his eyes, and he could still see her—his Mama. Adelina. He wanted to remember her the way he used to. Hair pulled back in a neat little bun, apron tied around her ample waist, fingers dusted with flour of some type or another. But now all he could remember was the way she looked when she died. Crumpled and broken on the ground, lit only by the flickering flames as their house burnt to the ground. Her neat bun had been torn loose; and all he could think was how beautiful she looked, her gray hair fanned around her head in a makeshift halo against a backdrop of blood. His eyes snapped open and he felt himself wavering so that he had to stick his arms out to keep his balance. Just a few minutes more, he thought. He thought of Adelina, his daughter. She had always been on his mind, and always was. He thought for a moment what this news would do to her, after all she had lost in Reagan. But he knew that he couldn’t do anything more for her. The Fallen was her home, her family, her life. He was just on the outskirts now, haunting her. He was a spirit in bodily form, a ghost simply caught in the wrong place. He wanted to be free, to shake loose the burdens. He wanted to be free of the ache that left him hollow, empty. His body was in ruins, beaten and broken. He could hardly walk, hardly lift himself out of bed without howling in pain. The burns had only gotten worse. Infection had set in, and he knew that short of the Keeper’s aid, he didn’t have much time left. But he didn’t want to wait for the end. He inched his toe a bit further over the edge, bringing his other foot to match it and looked up at the sun, a smile etching its way onto his face. He raised his arms up a bit higher, as if to take flight—and then he took a step. A single step, straight off the edge of the world.