His blood thrummed. The vibration of the jolt echoed through him as it placed its mark, Rubedo's body faltering and curling in on itself. The smell of charred flesh rose, and it appealed to him (repelled him), and he found his lips grinning. The Song rose in him, harsh and fast, and he took a step forward, waveform rising around him again. Something quick and severe, and then this would be done.

The Song dropped out without warning, head pounding in pain. Albedo snarled, understanding in an instant. He was not allowed the final blow. He was not allowed to finish this. Frustration crushed him, and he cried out in anger, hopelessness.

And then the Song called out again. And it was okay. Because there were other ways to spend the night; other torments to wrack upon his dear heart's body.