#;file. a hobbyist

[beholdenning]

in the blackest night // zelkov + denning

starter for @elusivia

Noone had noticed the injury after their joint hunt. Denning, too, did not notice it immediately, too distracted by his fellows’ compliments to verify the fact he is not hale; He does not feel pain that would tip any other living being off to the damage his upper arm has sustained, gouged by a bear’s claws in its final throes, the damage proper concealed by his shoulder-cape, so not even the other knights had noticed. The stockier of their number help carry the bear’s carcass back to the monastery as the sun goes down, leaving Denning’s own hands mostly idle; His bow feels oddly heavy in his grasp, but the feeling leaves as Denning fastens it to his back.

It is only later he grasps the gravity of it, while changing out of his clothing to hand it in to wash and mend; Morphs do not know pain, but the gradual sap of strength from his limbs does not go unnoticed. Quintessence dribbles out with irregular globs of black ichor from a deep gash the creature had left behind, drenching his sleeve in thick pitch. Golden eyes stare blankly at the injury, their thoughts blurry in something equivalent to lightheaded, before slowly, mechanically, rolling the sleeve up, attempting to stem the flow. Clumsy hands open a kit with gauze, before realising that their injured arm refuses to articulate, their remaining one likewise sluggish.

“Ah...” This is not good. They would not be able to recover that quintessence easily. Their consciousness has eroded, ever so slightly, at the edges. Still, they manage, with teeth and their good arm, to tie the gauze around the leakage, the material fine enough for now to hold the thickness of their ichor at bay. Perhaps... Perhaps they should see where that bear has been stored, to see of any of its essence lingers. Perhaps they should pay the village a visit, voicebox chattering like a ravenous corvid...

Dennings feet had already carried him out the door, wandering towards the kitchens to try his luck with the bear. The hour is unholy, with little activity besides patrols and cramming students in the corridors. Few would think to look twice at a sniper in most of his uniform heading in the general direction of the infirmary... Though, once he passes the open doorway with footsteps far heavier than usual, it becomes clear that he has no intentions to visit.

In the moonlight, the candle-flicker of the monastery; The gauze has slipped, slightly. A pool of thick black has gathered under his nail, at the tip of his pointer finger, the end of a line down a pale arm. A wet drip echoes into the empty night. Denning stops and shifts to readjust the clumsy tourniquet.

[beholdenning]

Zelkov had a soft spot for Denning. He couldn’t quite describe it, or even why, far beyond the kind of care given to a creation like a doll or piece of art, yet not quite that of a romantic sort. A sort of fondness, affection, for someone who every so often, Zelkov found the simplest sorts of interactions to be profound. If it was in his hands, held against his chest in a warm embrace, that they understood life, he was happy to be there to witness it.

Ah, but he could not be jealous. They deserved many others to be with them too. Dance partners, friends, coworkers, a whole array of life.

So, Zelkov carefully measured their hips and torso, explaining as he did so. “Are you *excited*? I’ll have this *ready* by the time of the ball. Taking down accurate *measurements* ensures I have little to no future *corrections* to make.” He hadn’t asked if Denning needed an outfit, simply going ahead and making them one. He didn’t want them to miss out on anything because they didn’t know what they needed. Zelkov could already imagine the flattering cut of suit he’d make for them.

“I thought a darker *palette* would suit you, so I brought a little selection of *colors* for you to choose from.” Zelkov noted down his measurements and then held out a small arrangement of materials, dark and rich colors of every main hue available.

“Which is your *favorite*?” Had Denning ever been asked their opinions before? Zelkov made an effort to soften his tone, hoping to make them feel reassured. “There is no incorrect answer.”

The ball approaches.

Denning observes its approach with perfect neutrality. It does not lurk, nor does it loom; There is far too much talk of it among the denizens of the monastery for it to creep up unexpectedly, nor is the morph particularly perturbed by it. Fervor sweeps through lines of conversation and gossip as the knight goes about their day-to-day, occasionally even assigned to tasks to help prepare for it. Between all of this, the bustle and the overheard words and the texts they have all but devoured in their hours in the library, They believe they have a decent idea of the entire affair — Though the exact form and function continues to elude and confound them. The only aspect between the food, dance, and people that had even remotely stirred them was when they heard tell of the musicians that would be in attendance.

Even that minuscule flicker of interest apparently was enough interest for their colleagues to leap upon the unintended opening, insisting they attend for 'their own sake', citing irrelevant things such as 'hermithood' and 'isolation' as reason for them to 'get out more'. There is a palpable energy in the insistence. Even a minor inclination is more than enough, it seems.

It is certainly enough for Zelkov, based on how quickly he had leapt upon the chance to dress them 'appropriately'. This energy — Is it 'excitement', is this 'excitement' what pushes so many to gossip and chatter? Their own interest nowhere near approaches excitement. The ball remains a confusing unknown to them that they feel no compulsion to investigate, internal or external.

... No, that is untrue. There is external compulsion aplenty, from fellows-in-arms, from meddlesome clergy. They had ever been driven by external compulsions, by orders and the vision of another, from the moment they had come into being from the ashes of another.

(Speak for me. Kill for me. Die for me.)

... There is external compulsion from Zelkov, too, who measures them with the same care their master must have before they were more than a diagram, perhaps, to fit them according to his vision — But this time, they are alive, cognisant, lifting their arms when told, staying perfectly still otherwise, pliant and obedient; A model mannequin, all of their limbs his to manipulate. Bright gold follows him as he goes about his work. It is methodical, precise. Gold eyes not their own shines with a glimmer they cannot place. They cannot help but wonder: Had Lord Nergal let the same light into his eye, looking upon them? Is excitement what is meant to be felt, here? What does Zelkov intend for them?

Color cascades into their vision as if in reply to the latter: Blue, red, black, purple and spectrums beyond and between. They have given freely to him, yet he still gives them a choice.

There is no incorrect answer.Then there is no correct answer, either. Still, Denning finds themself reaching for one out of habit — Because they do not know how else to live, because there had always been a correct answer of some kind, because there had always been expectations of them, expectations they yet eternally strive to fulfill. It was hardly a gift, then; Just the natural course of things, what they owed in return for their creation, their existence, their voice and limbs and name. But now — Now it is a gift. Denning owes noone aught, owes none but their master — and yet owing and giving is all they know.

So they will give. But what, what are they supposed to do with someone who will not take and will just give again in turn?

ask me to speak. ask me to kill. ask me to die, and i will.

but i do not know how to do this.

Still, they try. Swaddled in purple and green for most of their life, in white and red for but a number of months, they pause for a long moment, before their hands gravitate towards first towards the familiar — Then towards a rich mixture of black, red, white. A pause, a deliberation. The purple reflects the man who made them their garb, the green draws their eye inexplicably. But once again, they stray towards chiaroscuro, highlighted with vermillion. It is only right they continue to display their allegiance, is it not?

Golden eyes flicker up for confirmation, even despite Zelkov's reassurance. Fingertips gingerly trail over the proffered palette of choice. They tap the sample twice, still watching his response, still uncertain; But, ah, they are certain of one thing.

"... make it easy to move in."

[beholdenning]

At the risk of sounding *conceited*, Denning looked good. Zelkov observed them, pleased with his handiwork, the outfit as stylish and flattering as he'd hoped it would be. He approached them with a slight bow in greeting, offering his hand, both for a handshake for their necklaces to bloom, and to ask for a dance.

"May I have this *dance*?" he asked. Zelkov took the lead postion, watching Denning for their reaction to their hands held together, and Zelkov's palm on their back. The surge of both protectiveness and fondness that sparked from holding Denning's hand made Zelkov's chest light, a slight smile appearing on his face.

As parties went, this one was exquisite, as what he guessed Denning's first dance should be.

"I believe your *attire* is comfortable to move in, yes? I must say... I am *proud* to have gotten to design it for you."

Familiar quintessence enters their periphery; The range of this particular sense may be short, but for a presence so known to them, cognition and recognition comes more easily. Denning's head turns along with their eyes, then with the rest of their body, and they easily allow Zelkov's presence to settle before theirs, take the proffered hand and watch as two flowers bloom — Vibrant red on one, cool blue upon the other. The blue looks rather in-place upon the backdrop of purple and black.

Zelkov, they mouth in way of greeting, the name almost familiar in shape enough to put voice to. The music is strange, but it catches in parts of their mind and sticks. The morph's head tilts, as if that would let them digest it bettter. Dissect the rhythm and melody that they might accept the invitation properly. They did not expect to partake of the dancing, when they came here. Their deities tell them to dance. Zelkov asks them to dance.

They do not know how to dance at all.

Still, Denning nods and lets Zelkov move them, move with them. He is smiling — At them, they realise, even though they don't know the first thing of what lies before them, even though it surely shows. There is a shine they recognise in his gaze, like a creator looking upon creation. His hand stays, remains warm upon their back, a warmth less felt and more known. It rests upon the back of the skirts he made.

In the midst of all these confusing unknowns, the cautious follow of their step, the new and curious music of the crickets, the strange situation and their own ignorance, they know quite for certain... The one thing they had asked for had been well fulfilled.

Another nod. Their hands are occupied, but there is a light in their eyes that is less piercing and more shifting, diffuse. It is perfectly, perfectly easy to move the way they ought to, to move without thought or sound.

Pride, he says. He made this for them, and he sees that it is good. Gold flits downwards, shuttered by dark lashes, to observe the movement of fabric, of feet. They see that it is good. Music begins to make sense between the movements, following a count of three, an imperfect yet complete number to ever spiral on. They dance passably, and Zelkov does not pull away. The clothes are just the way they'd asked them to be. People laugh and dance and sing and twirl, creating a constant soundscape to sink into like a human would a bed after a long, long day.

Hmm, yes. This is perfect.