#and the apathy that came along with it... made me feel untouchable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nekojitachan · 4 years ago

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Don’t Wanna Fall - Wangxian MDZS/CQL Fic

Okay, so this is what happens when I get stressed and feel the need to write; the mind latched on to this story. It’s basically canon-divergent (CQL/The Untamed for the most part), fix-it, and a/b/o (with some slight twists) and is all plotted out. I’d figure I’d post it here and throw up the beta’d parts on AO3.

Warnings for canon-typical violence, and more notes explaining things at the bottom.

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Wei Wuxian felt a precious sense of contentment as he sat near his sister and ate the soup she’d made; the emotion had been missing ever since the attack on Lotus Pier, and he knew it wouldn’t last long. Soon enough the sedative that Wen Qing had given him would render Jiang Yanli unconscious, and once Song Lan took her to the safekeeping of Lan Wangji and the Jins, then—then it was time to fix Jiang Cheng.

He pushed aside all thoughts on how they’d go about ‘fixing’ his brother while he finished the bowl of pork rib and lotus soup, unwilling to spoil his meal.

As soon as he set the empty bowl on the table, Jiang Yanli was quick to refill it. “You don’t have to—”

His sister gave him a stern look, her gaze shifting down to his abdomen before she shook her head. “You need to keep up your strength, A-Xian,” she chided, her voice pitched low so she didn’t disturb their brother, who was resting on the far side of the room. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, looking for a way to restore A-Cheng’s golden core. That’s not good… well, you need to rest.”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth to tell her not to worry about him, but closed it a moment later without any words spoken after another stern look. For all her gentle mothering and sweet nature, Jiang Yanli was a true force to reckon with when she believed that those she loved weren’t taking care of themselves, which seemed to be the case right now. Especially since she knew that Wei Wuxian was pregnant.

He’d managed to hide that fact from everyone else, even Wen Qing, thanks to some clever talismans (desperation truly did help when it came to inspiration) and loose robes, but Jiang Yanli had been there when he’d figured out the truth, a few weeks after his return from the enforced ‘indoctrination’ at Qishan. From the time he’d spent trapped in the cave at Dusk-Creek Mountain with Lan Zhan. Just the two of them, an alpha and an omega, prevented access to the medicines which helped control their heats and ruts (as well as prevent pregnancies for omegas), so of course Lan Zhan had gone into rut after they’d killed the Tortoise of Slaughter (fighting the thing for so long probably had played some part in that), which had then instigated Wei Wuxian’s heat and….

At least it had been his dear shijie who’d found out about the baby and not Madame Yu, who probably would have thrown him out on the street with barely any clothes on his back after whipping him half to death (it wasn’t speaking ill of the dead if it was the truth), or Uncle Fengmian, who would have guilted him into naming the father so a hasty marriage could be arranged. Which really, what good would that do? Lan Zhan had barely been cognizant (hell, Wei Wuxian had barely been conscious) when the whole thing had happened, so why should his life be ruined as well?

Not that Wei Wuxian felt like his life was ruined by any means. He and Jiang Yanli had been talking about ways to get him away from Lotus Pier so he could give birth in secrecy, maybe have a trusted wetnurse look after the baby for a couple months and then he’d ‘find’ the ‘poor orphan’ and ‘adopt them’. Perhaps not the greatest plan, but it had been a work in progress.

Then the Wens had attacked Lotus Pier, and all that mattered was surviving another day.

He finished the last of the soup and smiled at Jiang Yanli, whose expression gentled into affectionate approval. “Delicious, as always. Shijie makes the best soup.”

She smiled as she poured them both more tea. “Don't you feel better now?” Her gaze once more flickered to his abdomen when he nodded, but she couldn’t ask him about his little ‘lotus seed’ since they weren’t alone. He knew she worried about the baby, one more burden she bore, one more thing to sap her strength when she needed to focus on her own health, so he gave her as bright a smile as he could to ease her concerns.

They sat together and drank tea, content in each other’s presence; Wei Wuxian fiddled with the beaded charm bracelet on his left wrist while he waited for the sedative in the incense burner to take effect. Soon enough, Jiang Yanli’s eyes, marred by dark circles from exhaustion and worry, drifted shut as she slumped down to rest her head on her arms folded on top of the table. He finished the last of the tea and waited for Jiang Cheng to rise from the bed where he’d pretended to sleep so they could gently carry their beloved sister outside, where a carriage waited to take her to Lanling.

Song Lan, sword in hand, stood beside the carriage and bowed to them once Jiang Yanli was safely tucked inside. “Young masters,” he said as he bowed.

Before Wei Wuxian could wish the man a safe journey, Jiang Cheng shoved himself forward. “We’re trusting our sister in your care. You will deliver her untouched if you value your life,” he told Song Lan with a growl in his voice.

On one hand, Wei Wuxian was happy to see the return of his brother’s spirited, alpha nature (the way he’d been before the loss of his core), but on the other… while Song Lan was an alpha and Jiang Yanli an omega, Song Lan was a respected cultivator and owed them a debt, so could be relied upon to not harm their sister. Jiang Cheng’s threat was unnecessary and a bit insulting.

Song Lan merely bowed again, his face impassive. “I swear on my life that no harm will come to Maiden Jiang while she’s entrusted in my care, from others or myself.” He paused for a moment before he asked Wei Wuxian to pass a message on to Xingchen, only to change his mind and declare the request unnecessary..

“Thank you.” Wei Wuxian bowed to the cultivator before he left, and Jiang Cheng did the same after a moment.

There was an ache in his chest as he watched Jiang Yanli leave, but Wei Wuxian knew it was for the best; she wasn’t a fighter yet would insist on the three of them remaining together despite the danger they faced. No, best that she was someplace safe, especially considering what Wei Wuxian planned to do next.

The ache was quickly replaced by anger when Jiang Cheng slighted Wen Qing as they thanked her for her care; she might be a Wen, but she had risked her life (and Wen Ning his) to provide them medical care and shelter. Wen Ning had betrayed his own clan to help them back at Lotus Pier, and so the siblings deserved their respect.

All Jiang Cheng seemed to care about was restoring his golden core.

Wei Wuxian led his brother to where Baoshan Sanren supposedly lived, a nameless mountain outside of Yiling; he took a roundabout route in order to give the Wen siblings enough time to prepare for their arrival. Jiang Cheng tried to push forward as fast as he could, but was hampered by his lack of a golden core; Wei Wuxian used his brother’s reduced stamina to rest as often as he could, his own strength impeded by his pregnancy.

Ah, lotus seed, he thought as he placed a hand on his barely swollen belly while Jiang Cheng’s attention was diverted, what a chaotic world you’ve chosen to be born into. Interesting times indeed. Despite all the bad things that had happened recently—the attack on Lotus Pier, the deaths of Uncle Jiang and Madame Yu, Jiang Cheng losing his golden core, war about to break out at any moment—Wei Wuxian couldn’t include his unexpected pregnancy in it. True, he’d always thought he’d be mated at least when he started to have a family, but he already cherished the child growing inside of him regardless of how it had come about.

His little lotus seed wasn’t an accident or mistake in his mind; Jiang Yanli accepted it, and he was certain Jiang Cheng would, too, once he found out (and yelled at him for being shameless for a week or two). That was, once Jiang Cheng had a golden core and they were somewhere safe, so Wei Wuxian could tell him the truth (and make him promise not to say anything to Lan Zhan) without adding to his brother’s burdens.

They finally reached the appropriate mountain peak almost two days laters; Wei Wuxian sent his brother on his way, blindfolded and with instructions on what to say to ‘Baoshan Sanren’. Jiang Cheng appeared apprehensive yet determined; Wei Wuxian watched him fumble his way blindly along the trail for some time before he quietly followed. When he caught up to Jiang Cheng, his brother had been rendered unconscious by a disguised Wen Qing and was being held by Wen Ning.

“Let’s get this done,” Wen Qing said as she discarded a hat draped with long, dark veils. She motioned for Wei Wuxian to follow her to where a tent had been set up; inside it were two pallets and several low tables covered with medical supplies, as well as a burning brazier.

Wei Wuxian helped Wen Ning lay Jiang Cheng onto one of the pallets then knelt on the other and watched while the Wens did a quick examination of his unconscious brother. After a few minutes, Wen Qing nodded once, which appeared to be a signal to Wen Ning to begin to remove Jiang Cheng’s upper garments.

She turned her attention to Wei Wuxian. “Are you still certain you want to go through with this, even if there’s only a 50% chance it’ll work?”

“Yes.” Nothing had changed since the last time she’d asked him that question. “It doesn’t matter to me what happens to my golden core but Jiang Cheng can’t live without one.” He saw a flicker of pain cross her face and knew she’d been affected by his brother’s apathy before being given a hope of cultivating again. “Please, go ahead with the transfer,” he begged as he bowed low to her, his thoughts filled with how he had to make things right, had to make up for not being there to protect Jiang Cheng from Wen Zhuliu in the first place.

Wen Qing made a tsk’ing sound as she rapped her knuckles on the back of his head. “Stop that, we’ve no time for your foolishness.” She gave him a narrow look once he sat up. “You know I can’t sedate you during the surgery?” At his slight nod, she held out her hand. “It’ll affect your golden core, which will lower the success rate..”

“All right.” It wasn’t ideal, but somehow he’d manage.

“Hm.” Her lips pressed into a thin line as she continued to hold out her hand; behind her, Wen Ning finished undressing Jiang Cheng then turned his attention toward them, his hands resting on top of his thighs. “I need to check your qi,” Wen Qing said, an impatient bite to the words.

Wei Wuxian hesitated; he’d been careful to not let Wen Qing lay hands on him due to his pregnancy, but it looked as if he couldn’t avoid contact any longer. He sighed as he placed his hand in hers, and tried not to flinch when her fingers pressed against his wrist.

At first, Wen Qing’s expression remained the same (slightly annoyed, which really, such a shame to see it so often on a lovely face like that), and then her dark eyes grew wide and her lips parted with what could only be astonishment. Her strong fingers bit into Wei Wuxian’s wrist for a moment, then let go so she could smack him on top of his head.

“You fool!”

“Ow! That hurt, you hit me,” Wei Wuxian whined while Wen Ning called out his sister’s name.

“You’re pregnant!” Wen Qing glared at him while Wen Ning smiled, his face bright with joy.

“Congratulations, Master Wei, that’s such good—oh!” Wen Ning ducked his head and blinked in confusion when he was smacked by his sister as well. “A-jie?”

“It’s not good news,” Wen Qing snapped, her alpha nature flaring for a moment before she let out a slow breath and controlled herself. “He should have told me he’s pregnant, because there’s no way we can do the surgery now.”

“What?” Wei Wuxian snatched at Wen Qing’s hand while he shook his head, upset at the news; what did his condition have to do with anything? “Why can’t you? I’m perfectly fine, there’s no reason you can’t—”

“Because it’ll kill the child and possibly you if I go ahead with it!” Wen Qing shook her hand free and pressed it against his lower dantian while he stared at her in shock. “There’s the fact that your body will undergo a great strain during the surgery, and then another after you lose your golden core. Even if you both survived those things… the father was a cultivator, right?” She stared at him intently as her hand drifted to rest against his curved belly. “A powerful one?” There was a knowing glint to her eyes as she spoke, yet she didn’t mention any names.

“Yes.” Wei Wuxian refused to think about Lan Zhan right then, but he could acknowledge that much.

“Yes,” Wen Qing echoed while Wen Ning stared at the both of them as if he was an owl transformed into a human. “Which means the child will be a cultivator, too. It doesn’t have a golden core of its own yet, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t benefiting from yours.” Her expression took on a bitter edge as she rocked back on her heels, her hands clasped in her lap. “I’ve seen Wen Zhuliu wield his talent. Once, he was ordered to use it against the pregnant wife of a lord who’d angered Wen Rouhan. She survived, as did the child, but the boy couldn’t cultivate. You can make decisions for yourself all you want, but I won’t be responsible for harming a child or stripping it of its future.”

Wei Wuxian wrapped his arms around his middle as he tried to digest what he’d learned. “But… but Jiang Cheng,” he said as he glanced at his unconscious brother. “What’s going to happen when he wakes up without a core?” It would be worse than before, now that he’d been given the hope of having it restored.

Wen Qing cast a worried glance at Jiang Cheng then shook her head. “Maybe we can—”

“Wha—what about me?”

Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing gaped at Wen Ning; as usual, the quiet beta had faded into the background until he’d spoken. “What about you?” Wei Wuxian asked as he toyed with the beaded bracelet on his wrist. “Do you have an idea?”

“What about giving Young Master Jiang my core?”

Wen Qing was quick to shake her head. “No, that’s out of the question, we’ll figure something else out.”

For once, Wen Ning didn’t allow himself to be cowed by his older sister. “What, A-jie? This was the only solution you and Master Wei could find, and now he can’t go through with it. You can use my core instead,” he offered as he lightly thumped himself on the chest.

“No,” Wei Wuxian said, even as a part of him wanted to accept Wen Ning’s offer, to go along with anything that would save his little brother. “I can’t let you do this.” It was too much of a sacrifice.

“Neither can I.” Wen Qing grabbed hold of Wen Ning’s shoulders and gave him a quick shake as if to make him think properly. “I know you want to help, but this… this is too much! It’s your golden core!”

“I know that,” Wen Ning said as he placed his right hand on her shoulder, his expression earnest as always. “What good has mine ever done for me?” When she made as if to argue, he shook his head. “I’m not as strong as you and the young masters, and I know I’ll never be because of… of my illness.” He pressed his left hand against his chest while Wen Qing appeared guilt-stricken by his words. “You’ve done everything you could for me, but I’ll always be like this. I’m sure young Master Jiang will take my golden core and make something useful out of it.”

“There has to be something else we can do, you can’t just give up your golden core like this!” Wen Qing sounded near tears as she argued with her brother, yet Wen Ning held firm.

“You’re the best doctor I know, probably the best there is, A-jie, and if you don’t know about it then it doesn’t exist. And you know I’m never going to achieve much with mine, so give it to Master Jiang so he can make a difference in the world. It’s what I want.”

As Wen Qing began to cry, Wei Wuxian finally found his voice. “Wen Ning… you don’t have to do this. Any debt you believe you may owe me for saving your life has been repaid.” He wanted to accept what his friend was offering, but it was too much—especially after everything the siblings had done for them in the past couple weeks.

Wen Ning shook his head, his lips curled in a gentle smile. “I want to do it, Master Wei. This way… this way a part of me will be out there fighting, will be setting right the wrongs my clan are committing.”

The fact that he spoke so clearly and fervently, without any stuttering or self-consciousness, convinced Wei Wuxian that Wen Ning meant every word. Wen Qing must have realized the same, since she sat up straight and wiped away her tears, her expression solemn as she gazed at her brother.

“Do you truly want to do this?”

“Mm!” Wen Ning nodded once.

Wen Qing closed her eyes and took a deep breath as if centering herself. “Very well, you’ll assist me while I repair Jiang Wanyin’s meridians.” She then turned to Wei Wuxian. “I’ll need your help with the second part of the surgery.”

“Yes, anything you require,” he promised, unable to believe that they were still going through with the transfer after all. When Wen Qing stood and went over to the brazier, Wei Wuxian grabbed Wen Ning by the arm. “Thank you,” he told his friend, his voice thick with emotion.

Wen Ning smiled once more. “You’re welcome, Master—”

“No, no more of that,” Wei Wuxian said as he patted Wen Ning’s arm. “We’re brother’s now, so you have to call me Wei Ying or A-Xian or gege.” He grinned when Wen Ning attempted to stutter out a denial. “How about Ying-ge?”

“Bu—but—”

“No buts!” Wei Wuxian frowned at his new little brother. “I mean it, we’re family now. Accept it.”

Wen Ning, his face mottled with red, gawked at him for several seconds before he ducked his head. “Even A-jie?”

Wei Wuxian hummed as he rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, I already have the best big sister in the world, but I suppose Shijie won’t mind if I take on another one.” He grinned when he heard Wen Qing mutter something about how she should have kept her mouth shut about his condition.

“Mm, A-jie is amazing.” Wen Ning paused for a moment before he gave Wei Wuxian a quick pat on the left shoulder. “Ying-ge.” Then he scurried over to his sister’s side while Wei Wuxian was left stunned silent at his new nickname.

Once Wen Ning was within reach, Wen Qing cradled his face between her hands and gazed into his eyes until he gave a slight nod. There was a rasp to her voice when she told him to prepare for the transfer, which disappeared when she ordered Wei Wuxian to her side so she could explain to him what she required over the next couple days. Basically, he would watch the first part of the operation to become familiar with the items Wen Qing needed, would fetch anything she asked him to, and would provide spiritual energy to her, Wen Ning and Jiang Cheng.

He quickly agreed to everything, considering that Wen Qing was doing all the hard work and Wen Ning giving up his own golden core, leaving him to do very little (relatively speaking).

Wei Wuxian had already considered Wen Qing a brilliant doctor, having read through the medical treatises she’d written and witnessing her talent first-hand. Now, he had to agree with Wen Ning’s assertion that she was the best one alive after watching her painstakingly heal the damage Wen Zhului had wrought to his brother’s meridians so Wen Ning’s core could be transplanted into his body, her concentration and control not slipping once over the long hours. He fed them both a slight stream of energy and tried not to think of his friend’s hands in his brother’s abdomen.

He tried not to think about how very soon, those hands would be in Wen Ning’s abdomen.

When it came time to remove Wen Ning’s golden core, the young man laid down beside Jiang Cheng without any hesitation, a reassuring smile on his broad face which froze in place when his sister paralyzed him with her needles. Wei Wuxian held his friend’s hand as Wen Qing cut into his flesh, the tightness around her eyes her only sign of distress.

If Wei Wuxian thought that time had passed slowly while she had worked on Jiang Cheng, it practically crawled during the hours it took for Wen Qing to remove Wen Ning’s golden core. Only the fact that the glowing sphere didn’t disperse into nothing when she quickly shoved it into Jiang Cheng’s lower belly made the muffled moans of agony from Wen Ning bearable, put to rest the thought that such a selfless young man had suffered everything for no reason.

It took a couple more hours before Wen Qing finished with everything (and finally allowed her brother to pass out); she slumped exhausted next to Wei Wuxian, who’d practically drained himself dry feeding spiritual energy to her, Jiang Cheng and Wen Ning. “Stop that,” she mumbled when he tried to give her a little more. “Think of the baby.”

“I’m thinking I won’t be any good for anyone if something goes wrong.” He groaned as he rested against the side of the tent as well. “It worked, right?” The last time he’d checked, he felt a steady pulse of qi in Jiang Cheng; it wasn’t as strong as his old core had been, but it was there. Wei Wuxian figured that for now, it was enough for Jiang Cheng to wield a sword and fly (for short distances at least), and that his brother would work hard to make it stronger.

“Yes, it worked.” Wen Qing cast a tender look at her brother. “It had to work.”

“What happens now?”

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back as if contemplating the question; Wei Wuxian got up to pour them each a cup of tea, and smiled when Wen Qing gave him a slight nod in gratitude for the drink. “Now… I’ll monitor them for a few more hours. Once he’s stable, you can leave. When he’s healed enough, I’ll let him wake up so he can go, too.”

“What about you?” Wei Wuxian frowned when she didn’t answer. “What are the two of you going to do?”

Wen Qing gave a one-shoulder shrug. “What does it matter? You got what you wanted.”

“Because I wasn’t lying when I said you’re family now,” he said as he lowered the cup of tea. “And I want to know that my family will be safe. Don’t make your didi worry about you.” He pouted for added effect.

She turned enough to look at him, her expression inscrutable, before she shook her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m adorable, brilliant and handsome, my shijie tells me that all the time.” He smiled when Wen Qing rolled her eyes at that statement.

“You’re also delusional.” When he went to complain, Wen Qing held up her hand and gave him a stern look before she glanced at their sleeping brothers. “I’ll wait until A-Ning heals, which will take longer, and then we’ll return to the Supervisory Office.”

He frowned at that and rubbed his nose. “Is that wise? What if they come looking for Wen Ning for helping us?”

Wen Qing shook her head then sipped her tea; Wei Wuxian shifted so he could lift the pot and refill her cup. “Let them come. I’ll tell them I’ve already handled his punishment.”

It took Wei Wuxian a moment to realize what she meant. “You’ll tell them that you removed his golden core for helping us.” He gazed at her in admiration, for being able to turn her brother’s sacrifice into something that would protect them both.

She nodded once. “It’s a way fo both of us to escape Wen Rouhan’s wrath without him being turned into a puppet or being tortured, and should keep him from being sent to fight.”

No one needed to know that Wen Ning had done it willingly or that Wen Qing would never treat her beloved younger brother so harshly, no one but the three of them. “We’ll still keep this a secret from Jiang Cheng.” Wei Wuxian had planned to not let his brother know about the transfer of golden cores when it was supposed to be his golden core sacrificed, and saw no reason for that to change now.

Wen Qing nodded again. “That’s likely for the best,” she said, which surprised Wei Wuxian since she’d argued differently before. “He’ll probably suspect A-Ning of some ulterior motive for giving up his core.”

Wei Wuxian didn't say anything, he merely pressed his lips together at the thought of how Jiang Cheng couldn’t see past the hatred for all Wens and realize how much the two siblings had done for them. Instead, he inhaled slowly and took the empty cup from Wen Qing’s slightly trembling hand. “Get some rest,” he told her. “I’ll watch these two for a few hours and wake you if there’s any sign of trouble. Sleep a little then you can check Jiang Cheng one more time before I go.”

It looked as if she wanted to argue, but Wen Qing was too exhausted from the golden core transfer to remain awake much longer. She examined Wen Ning and Jiang Cheng briefly then finally stretched out near her brother to sleep, unconscious within a few seconds.

Wei Wuxian brewed more tea and nibbled on a handful of dried fruit one of the Wen siblings had packed (probably Wen Ning) while he forced himself to remain awake. He would check his brother and Wen Ning every now and then, to reassure himself that Jiang Cheng’s new golden core hadn’t vanished and that Wen Ning continued to recover, then tried to distract himself with plans on what to do next.

He’d leave Jiang Cheng on the mountain with the Wen siblings to continue healing and go to Yilin to wait for him at the inn they’d agreed upon earlier. Once they both were up to it, they’d travel to Lanling to reunite with Jiang Yanli and look into the rumors of Qinghe calling the clans together for war.

Oh, and at some point Wei Wuxian would have to let his brother in on the secret about his lotus seed, but one thing at a time. He figured he’d worry about that when he was far enough along that they couldn’t fight—well, that Jiang Yanli was there to keep Jiang Cheng from throttling him then attempting to kill Lan Zhan for ‘besmirching’ his ‘honor’.

“Ah, lotus seed, it may be small but it’s a wonderful family you’ll have,” he whispered while he rubbed his belly. “Your aunt will spoil you with the best food and your uncle will fight off anyone who dares to look at you the wrong way. You certainly will be loved.” He thought about the stranger he’d met at the market in Yunmeng, right after he’d realized he was pregnant. Somehow, the woman had known about his condition when not even Madame Yu had figured it out, and had gifted him with the beaded charm bracelet he now wore on his left wrist, which she swore would provide protection to him and his child. She also had said that his child would be a powerful cultivator and that she had an old soul, the woman’s expression wistful as she talked about the unborn babe.

Wei Wuxian wasn’t one to take such prophecies seriously, but there’d been something about the woman, a quiet yet deep thrum of power to her, a reverberation of truth to her words, and a comforting sense to the bracelet, that he accepted the gift and bowed in gratitude to her before walking away. That and… well, who didn’t want to hear that their child would grow into a powerful cultivator? Not that he had many doubts of it happening, considering that Lan Zhan was the father.

“I do hope you’re a girl,” he said as he glanced at a sleeping Wen Qing. “Someone like mom to give those stuffy Lans fits.” He didn’t think that Lan Zhan would try to force any claim on the child if the truth came out, not when there was no mating bond between them nor marriage, but there would be less pressure on the Lan clan’s heir if Wei Wuxian bore a girl; they tended to favor men as sect leaders, not women.

“You’ll be Yunmeng Jiang, just like me.” Wei Wuxian smiled as he thought about a young woman robed in purple, her long hair held back with a red ribbon. Would she have grey eyes like him and his mother, or golden ones like Lan Zhan? Best if they were grey, he decided. He hoped she would have his mother’s smile, one of the few things he clearly remembered about her, and the sense of humor everyone said he had inherited from the woman.

Mostly, he wished that his child never grew up like he did, starving on the streets and all alone, orphaned at a young age. He swore he’d always be there for his child, that they would never know such grief and fear.

When he felt as if he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, Wen Qing stirred and slowly sat up. She blinked a couple times then whirled around to her brother, her hands seeking out the pulse point on his left wrist; after a moment, she sagged in relief then continued with the examination. While she did that, Wei Wuxian brewed a fresh pot of tea.

Once she had examined Jiang Cheng as well, he handed her a cup of tea. “Everything good?”

“Yes.” Her dark eyes narrowed while she sipped the hot beverage. “Did you get any rest?” When he shrugged, she set the cup aside and snatched at his wrist, only to click her tongue after a few seconds. “You’re very low on spiritual energy and nearing the limits of your body. You need to sleep.”

“I’ll get plenty, once I get to Yilin,” he promised, even going as far as to raise three fingers by his forehead. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t forget that you’re responsible for more than yourself now.” Wen Qing placed a hand over his growing belly and concentrated for a few seconds before she clicked her tongue again. “What the gods were thinking by making you an omega, we’ll never know,” she said as she turned away.

“That my children will be as beautiful, clever and adored as I am,” Wei Wuxian said after he stuck his tongue at her (while her back was turned, he wasn’t stupid).

Wen Qing glanced heavenward as if beseeching the gods for patience, then shoved several things into a small bag. Once she was done, she handed it to Wuxan. “Chew on these on your way to Yilin. And be careful from now on,” she admonished, her tone harsh but eyes filled with concern, “because there’s not much else we can do for you.”

Wei Wuxian accepted the bag and gave her a deep bow. “I am eternally in you and Wen Qionglin’s debt for everything you’ve done for me and my siblings. If you need anything, you just have to ask. Anything.”

She sighed and tugged on the sleeve of his black hanfu to make him stand up straight. “I thought we were family now, there’s no need for such things.” Then she wrinkled her upturned nose. “That and it seems unnatural, seeing you act like this.”

“Aww, Qing-jie is- aiya!” Wei Wuxian stumbled backwards, away from the needles suddenly brandished in his face.

“Don’t call me that, and shouldn’t you be leaving?” Wen Qing gave him a cool look and didn’t put the needles away until he nodded.

She begrudgingly waited for him to say ‘goodbye’ to his unconscious brother then walked with him back to the trail which would lead down the mountain. Assured that JIang Cheng would be alright, as would Wen Ning, Wei Wuxian wished her ‘goodbye’ as well and went on his way. He discovered that she’d given him several small balls of herbs that tasted horrible when he chewed them, but helped push aside the exhaustion so that he made good time back to Yilin.

Still, all he wanted was to eat a good meal, have a long, hot bath and then sleep for a day or two. He thought longingly about a few jars of wine, until he felt the charm bracelet slip along his left wrist.

“The sacrifices I make for you, lotus seed,” he said as he walked, struck by a strong pang of loss yet again for Subian; if only he had his sword, he’d already be in Yilin.

If only he had his sword, maybe things would have been different when the Wens had attacked Lotus Pier.

Eventually, he finally arrived at the designated inn on the outskirts of Yilin; he was so tired, he hardly recalled much of the last half-day of travel. Perhaps that was the reason why Wen Chao found him so quickly, or maybe it was just a case of truly bad luck. All Wei Wuxian knew was that he’d barely sat down in the inn when Wen Chao, along with Wen Zhuliu, Wang Lingjiao and several soldiers, burst into the building.

He got up to run away, only to find Wen Zhuliu in his path; the man grabbed him by the front of his robes with his left hand, his right hand pressed against Wei Wuxian’s chest, before the bastard frowned and pulled the hand back to punch Wei Wuxian instead and send him flying through the air to land on top of a table. Exhausted and still drained of energy, both physical and spiritual, Wei Wuxian could do little more than curl his body in a manner to protect the child growing inside of it.

As soon as he regained his footing, one of the soldiers kicked him in the back, which knocked him onto the ground. Wen Chao, the smug asshole, trod on his right hand and taunted him, asking him why didn’t he get up and where his arrogance had gone. He was told to get back up, despite the asshole standing on his foot; eventually two soldiers had to haul him upright.

“Where is Jiang Cheng?” Wen Chao demanded to know. “What, you don't want to talk? You know you can’t save him even if you remain silent. Right now, Jiang Cheng is merely a waste. He’s no better than livestock.”

Wei Wuxian listened to the useless second son of the Wen clan insult his brother and the Yunmeng Jiang clan, as he was told to beg like a dog (a dog!) and crawl on the ground if he wanted to be let go (he knew it was a lie, did Wen Chao think he was as stupid as him?). Even Wang Lingjiao started yipping away as if she was of any importance.

Of course Wei Wuxian didn’t take them up on their ‘offer’ (blatant lie), so it wasn’t any surprise when the arrogant asshole ordered his soldiers to beat him; once again, Wei Wuxian curled up in a protective manner to protect his child as much as possible. Part of him wondered how the soldiers would react if they knew they were attacking a pregnant omega, before he decided that Wen Chao probably wouldn’t care about breaking such an important taboo (and he couldn’t risk the Wens finding out that Lan Zhan was the father).

The assault eventually stopped, only for Wen Chao to threaten Wei Wuxian as if he was anything more than a pathetic bully whose only real power lay in the weapons his father loaned out to him. There was a moment of fear when he called upon Wen Zhuliu to destroy Wei Wuxian’s core, but Wei Wuxian managed to talk his way out of it before the man moved to obey. He foolishly believed that might be improving (despite Wang Lingjiao slicing into his chest with that damn brand she never seemed to be without), before he was dragged out of outside and hauled into the air.

At first he thought they might be taking him to Qishan with the intent of throwing him in the dungeons there, but eventually Wen Chao, the pompous asshole, began talking about the Burial Mounds in Yiling. Wei Wuxian’s eyes grew wide and his heart raced when it became clear what was going to happen to him, but he was too battered and drained of energy to do more than attempt to struggle. Not a moment later, mocking laughter broke out as he was flung downward, toward the darkness and source of overpowering resentful energy that was the Burial Mounds.

Pushing all panic aside, he quickly cast a talisman for wind in an attempt to slow his descent; it worked somewhat, but he still rushed toward the ground. He tried another one, which seemed to have a greater effect (there was an odd heat around his left wrist for some reason), so he then cast his binding spell, the gleaming blue thread forming on his left wrist, which he cast out as he quickly approached what looked to be large trees. Be it by luck or the blessings of the gods, it managed to latch on to one of the tall, spindly structures. A sharp pain tore through his left shoulder when the line grew taut, but his impact upon the ground was lessened to the point that he didn’t die immediately.

No, he merely passed out.

He woke to the sound of screams, of voices calling out his names and cries of vengeance, and a wall of fierce corpses standing in the near distance. Surprised that he hadn’t been devoured by the undead creatures while unconscious, he noticed two things: that there was a glowing, pale blue circle around him and that just outside of it floated the sword he’d found inside the Tortoise of Slaughter and had placed inside his quankin pouch. Confused, battered both by resentful energies and what the Wens had done to him, Wei Wuxian managed to sit up somewhat, hunched forward as he felt for the spark of life inside of him that had been steadily growing the last few months. He almost slumped face first into the ground when he realized that his unborn child had survived everything (so far, a hysterical voice whispered in his head) by some miraculous means.

He needed to get his act together and ensure his lotus seed remained alright; that meant figuring a way to get out of the Burial Mounds alive, something no one had ever done. It was a good thing the Yunmeng Jiang clan’s motto was ‘attempt the impossible’.

He took in the bleak surroundings: the bones scattered everywhere and numerous gravestones, the mist which obscured his vision after a few yards, and a lack of sunlight which made it impossible to tell the time of day. There was the oppressive miasma of resentful energy along with the endless chorus of voices calling out to him, which he did his best to block out of his head. His right hand clutched at the bracelet around his left wrist while he attempted to concentrate, his fingers quick to find the gap from two missing beads.

Had they been broken in the fall? Or during the beating back at the inn? Wei Wuxian didn’t have much time to ponder what had happened to the charm since the intensity of the voices’ shrieking increased to a painful level, as did the pressure from the resentful energy. He struggled to fight against the insidious forces, but he didn’t have much spiritual energy.

However, he remembered that the odd sword had some sort of power to it, that it seemed tied to the ghostly voices in the Dusk-Creek Mountain cave. Or maybe he’d hit his head on something during the fall, or been kicked one too many times by those Wen bastards. The thing was, he and his unborn child weren’t going anywhere unless he did something, and right then? The sword seemed the only source of power around, which meant it might be of some help.

Or it might be one huge mistake, but Wei Wuxian didn’t have many choices available as well as a history of turning mistakes into his favor (well, mostly).

He half-crawled toward the sword and only hesitated a moment to reach past the safety of the circle (where had it come from?) for the weapon’s hilt. For a moment all was quiet, and then the screaming came back in force.

Wei Wuxian

Do you want vengeance?

Young Master Wei

Stay with us

Hurt the ones who’ve hurt you, Wei Wuxian

Wei Ying

Do you want to stay?

What about vengeance?

The voices were so loud, so constant, as were their shrieks of pain and rage. He thought some of them sounded familiar, thought they might be the dead from Lotus Pier, yet he also thought he heard Lan Zhan say his name once or twice when he dwelled on the voices calling for vengeance. By the time he reached the sword, the voices were an incoherent cacophony in his head that funneled to one thunderous question as his hands wrapped around ice-cold metal.

DO YOU WANT VENGEANCE?

For a moment, Wei Wuxian could see himself standing in the Palace of Sun and Flames, surrounded by an endless sea of Wen corpses, the heads of Wen Rouhan and his sons mounted on pikes behind him. He hungered for the vision to come true, for the Wens to pay for what they’d done to the Jiangs and the Lans… and then he felt a faint flutter in his belly and heard Wen Qing chide him to take better care of himself.

“I… I want the power to protect myself and my loved ones,” he told the voice (the sword?). “To defend them from those who would cause harm.” Who had caused harm.

VENGEANCE!

He thought of Jiang Yanli and shook his head.”I want more than that for my child!” He didn’t want someone to come after her for what he’d done, he wanted an end to the fighting. “Protection!”

Child?

A child. Home

Family

It was faint, but some of the voices seemed to be breaking off from the sword. “Yes, a child, my child. I’ll fight anyone to keep them safe, can’t you understand that?” To give them a happy, safe life.” I want to give them peace, not eternal war,” he pleaded with the sword and the voices. “I understand revenge, I want it, too, but not at the cost of my child’s peace. Help me give my child peace.”

Vengeance

Family, they took away my family

I only wanted a husband and child of my own

Wei Ying

My child was so young

Was he getting somewhere with them? Wei Wuxian gritted his teeth together, his hands long turned numb from holding onto the sword, and offered the voices (the dead) a consoling smile. “Help me, and I’ll help you,” he promised.

*******

Somehow all my italics got messed up. Grrr.

So, the a/b/o here - it’s more lowkey than in other fics, if you can’t tell, and basically comes across as how people reproduce. People don’t put down omegas as being weak or lesser, it just means they are more fertile than betas and can bear children (and so usually have a protected status, especially when pregnant). An alpha/omega pairing will produce the most offspring, but other pairings can technically produce them as well, just with less odds of success. That means no one looks down on WWX for being an omega, though they’d chastise him (and his partner) for having a child out of wedlock and for him not taking care of himself while pregnant. That’s more to deal with the value placed on family and honor than anything.

No obvious scenting, either, at least not until one is in heat/rut, and it’s considered normal for people to take daily medicine (tea or the such) to lessen the impact of them if not put them off all-together, and to prevent unplanned pregnancies.

Also, I’m probably going to skip most honorifics except the immediate family ones. I’ve only the very beginning knowledge of Chinese. Please forgive any mistakes there along with the culture, I appreciate any corrections.

And I promise, a new chapter of Casts a Shadow up this weekend!

#nekojitachanfics #mumbling into the void #don't wanna fall fic #wangxian #the untamed #mdzs #cql

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aquilaofarkham · 4 years ago

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title: end of sanctuary rating: M (violence, gore, disturbing elements, psychological horror, discussions of trauma) chapter count: ongoing summary: Trevor and Sypha enter Alucard’s dream world in order to help him confront, examine, and heal from his trauma while also reevaluating their own personal demons. Cover art by @kamek 💖

additional links: donations for RAINN donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma

READ CHAPTERS ONE & TWO

I NEED A MIRACLE AND NOT SOMEONE’S CHARITY

The candelabras are made from human arms. Nails chipped, fingers discoloured and pale as they keep their iron grip on brass made to look like gold. Dim candle light flickers against darkness, dripping hot wax along the skin, burning it. They hold on without wavering, do their duty and light the way for their passenger in the corridor.

Yet with every slow step forward, closer along the individual halos of fire, the candles move away from him before they’re snuffed out by an unseen and unfelt wind. There’s nothing behind him, he is alone; so he believes. So would anyone believe, surrounded by the dark and the quiet.

He walks on, further and further, paying no attention to each broken shard of glass littering the hard floor. They cut deep into the soles of his bare feet. Smears of fresh blood follow him, wetting the cold stone beneath, but he doesn’t stumble nor slip. He knows it should be painful, realizes that he should stop, and notices how the candelabras continue to inch ever so subtly away from his presence before extinguishing themselves while his back is against them.

There is nothing on his placid face, nothing in his amber eyes. No indicative expression of what he feels within and outside. Where there should be agony, there is only apathy. Where there should be fear, apprehension, there is only a complacent incentive to put one mangled and bloody foot in front of the other.

A thin white nightgown hangs off his body, not nearly long enough to cover his legs, leaving him both guarded and exposed. Another vulnerability he doesn’t care to rectify just as he doesn’t care for the voice speaking to him in one of those darker corners of the mind. It warns him in a whimpered tone: “there is something behind you”.

It’s uncertain whether this “something” has only just appeared or if it’s been following him since the first candles went out. But he can feel it closing in, lapping up the blood he’s left behind as an offering while he approaches the very last candelabra. It begins to turn away, the light repelled by his mere existence, and he stops. Come to the end of his meaningless journey.

His unseen stalker remains silent, even when he can feel its hot breath as it caresses the back of his neck. He hears a sound akin to the wings of a creature much larger than himself stretching themselves out, preparing for flight. Weary eyes fixate on the last trembling candle flames, holding onto their last seconds of life.

Still, he does not turn around. Barely a flinch even as the nightgown is carefully pulled down, displaying broad shoulders and the top of his chest. His long hair that matches the gold of his disinterested eyes tickles the newly bared skin like feathers. Both parts of his body are caged by precise scars not yet fully healed.

Cold leathery skin presses down upon his shoulders, rough against soft. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a hand reach around from behind. Massive, clawed, and inescapable. Using a single deft nail, it gifts him a choker made of ruby red drops that slide down his neck before outlining the curves and crevices of his chest. With the blood comes a revelation that brings neither peace nor panic, only acceptance:

I am with myself.

–

Alucard listens to the distant voices of Trevor and Sypha talking, huddled into his blankets, his cheek pressed firmly against his pillow. They didn’t necessarily wake him because in order for one to be “woken up”, they have to be in the deep throes of sleep and dreams to begin with. Alucard was never asleep; not for very long. And his vision was far from a dream, yet he wouldn’t consider it a nightmare either. More like a personal realization; something he already seems aware of and his mind is only giving him a helpful reminder.

The kitchen is five levels down from the guest bedchambers, but he can still hear them, if only as low indistinct mumbles. He can hear certain things more than ever before. Rats scuttling about within the castle walls searching for their next crumb of discarded food or an old grandfather clock ticking the seconds away before ringing out three deep chimes to signal midnight. Out of all his hereditary gifts most humans will never achieve, Alucard used to feel displeasure with this one the least. Then it had to grow more attuned, long past when he needed it most. Overstayed its welcome and now it’s useless.

He can’t even make out the words spoken between Trevor and Sypha.

“How long do you think he’s had those?”

The two travelers both feel as though they’re staring at themselves in a mirror crafted by a rather creative toddler. If not that, then a very doting grandmother or toymaker. A pair of dolls placed side by side on a kitchen counter, fashioned out of simple cloths stuffed with wool, buttons for eyes, and spoons in place of limbs. One is dressed in blue to match its eyes with orange fabric atop its head shaped meant to resemble short curls. The other sits next to an empty wine bottle in simple beige with two tiny red straps across its body and brown yarn for its own hair.

“I suppose not very long.” Sypha replies, bent down in order to get a much closer look at their little imposters. It’s the details of each doll; Trevor’s scar along one eye, a thin piece of string attached to his hip, and the high collar of Sypha’s robe. Alucard made these with care and attention, like he remembered every inch of them. Each individual thread, each stitch a reflection of themselves through the eyes of someone who desired their company.

Neither one is entirely sure whether to be charmed or concerned.

Sypha picks up her twin and taps at one of the button eyes with a fingernail. “I think they’re cute. Well made, too.”

Trevor finds it difficult to share her amusement. He knows what an unhealthy coping skill looks like; he could write an entire book on the subject. “Finding a hobby to keep yourself entertained for a couple months is all well and good but don’t you think this meant something else for him? Like a cry for help?”

Sypha holds the doll awkwardly before setting it back down in silent agreement. The worry was there before but perhaps she didn’t want to admit it. After all that’s happened, she needs some respite; to see something and not contemplate its’ darker connotations. Then Trevor had to go and validate her initial unspoken concerns about Alucard. The dolls are not the first sign; they knew something was amiss when they walked down the battered halls of the castle, stepping over untouched broken glass and rubble.

They knew even sooner when those bodies came into view. Both are gone now, removed days ago with haste out of disgust and before other wandering outsiders began to suspect anything, but the blood is still there. Sunken deep into the earth, staining the grass then drying up. Sypha can’t look down, no matter how many times she steps outside.

“There’s so much he will not tell us…” Her thought, voiced by a hushed tone is interrupted by a mere glance at the clock. “Look. The day is half gone and we still haven’t seen him at all.” A sense of responsibility and a desire to help surges through her, the same sort that’s always been a vital part of Sypha’s lifeblood. “We should cook him something. That might open him up to talking.”

Trevor nods. “I’ll go get him. I can only take so many “I’m fines” before I grab him by the shoulders and shake out whatever’s torturing him.”

Sypha expected such a plan. The way that Trevor cares, considers, and perhaps even loves is rougher than how others do it. It may have worked for him all those years alone with no one else to offer comfort, but it might not work now; not for Alucard. “Please don’t do that.”

It takes little time for Trevor to traverse the castle from its kitchen to its hall of bedrooms; during their first day back, he asked Alucard if he had any maps to spare. Perhaps too subtle of a joke as the dhampir merely shrugged it off and showed them to their own chambers. Before either one could say another word, another joined expression of relief to see him again, Alucard was gone. Glided out through the door as though he were a passing phantom.

Trevor stops at one of the doors and raps his knuckles against the carved door. Of course there’s no answer, but he’s lucky enough to have it already ajar. Alucard won’t care if he slips in; he doesn’t seem to care about much these days.

“Hey. You awake?” A human-shaped lump covered in blankets stirs atop the bed with its simple, humble canopy; sturdy and made entirely of wood. Nothing like the extravagant transparent silk curtains of Trevor and Sypha’s bed. A head of golden hair pokes out but doesn’t turn around. No, you’re right, Trevor thinks. It was a stupid question. Alucard’s complicated relationship with sleep runs deep.

“Sypha and I are making breakfast… though I guess it’s lunch now.”

No need to finish his query; Alucard can answer it. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat something. You can’t fool me, I know that half-vampires can still eat human food.”

“I will eat later.”

First strike then second soon after without a moment’s hesitation. Trevor already knows there will be more if they continue like this but he won’t resort to ripping off the covers and carrying Alucard over his shoulder. Sypha wouldn’t approve of that. Even worse, he’d be choking on his own blood before reaching the door, torn out by a certain pair of fangs.

Trevor wants to remain alive. More importantly, he wants Alucard’s demeanor to be a bit brighter. Straightforwardness won’t work, but a different method might. If not, it will at least give Alucard some irresistible blackmail to use against him. Retracing his way through the castle, Trevor makes a mad dash back down into the kitchen. Alucard listens, one ear against his pillow, the other exposed. More voices, more words he cannot understand, followed by a series of quick footsteps coming closer, rising in volume until they stop. Something tiptoes towards his bed. What is it now?

“Alucard… Aluuuucaaaard.”

His sleep-deprived eyes open just a touch wider. It sounds like Trevor’s voice, only with a slightly higher pitch and an imitation of Sypha’s Iberian accent which straddles the line between charming and good enough reason for her to box his ears.

“Please get out of bed. If you don’t come down, I will be sooooooo upset.” Alucard contemplates burying his head underneath the pillow until he feels another presence on the bed; small, light, and flimsy like a doll.

The doll. Panic quickly seeps in, turning Alucard’s body rigid. They found the dolls. He knew it was going to happen but he needed more time to prepare his admittedly troubling explanation. It would have been better if Trevor and Sypha never found them at all; he should have locked the stupid things away and not keep them in plain sight. For this situation, Alucard blames no one but himself.

“We have food, Alucard! Delicious, scrumptious food.”

Still, it is amusing to hear the rugged Belmont carry on in this manner. “I know that’s you, Trevor.”

“I’m not Trevor! I’m Sypha Belnades, the smartest and most powerful Speaker in the entire world! And if you don’t get out of bed, I’ll burn off all your hair with my fire magic.”

Alucard stifles a chuckle at the similarities between Trevor’s impression of Sypha and his own. They both must know her too well. “For some reason I don’t think you’re the real Sypha Belnades.”

“But I am!”

“Really? Then why do you feel much, much smaller and why does your voice sound like that?”

“I was cursed! By… by a witch! That bitch turned me into this. Now I’m trapped in this pitiful body. But if you have lunch with us, the spell will be broken!” This time Alucard doesn’t try to hold back his laughter. Trevor is clearly having too much fun with his little acting production. But when Alucard, despite his brightening mood, remains in bed with his back turned to him, he nuzzles the doll against the dhampir’s cheek.

“Alright, that’s enough of you.”

“Pleeeeeeease, Alucard?” Trevor moves “Sypha” all along his blanketed body as if attempting to tickle him. Alucard feebly waves his free arm, trying to resist but he feels the doll everywhere; on every inch of him. Moving over the scars.

“Enough, Trevor…”

“Pleeeeease do it for meeeeee?”

Alucard flips over and swiftly grabs Trevor’s wrist. “I said that’s enough!”

The two men finally see each other eye to eye, surprised against panic-stricken, as Trevor’s hold on the Sypha doll wavers. A tense moment passes before Alucard loosens his grip as well, realizing how tightly his fingers dig into the skin. Had his nails been sharpened, they might have gone straight through and down to the bone. His intense gaze relaxes and he lets go.

“I… I will be down shortly.”

Trevor nods then leaves. In a way, his ridiculous plan worked yet he doesn’t feel successful or proud. He doesn’t even stay long enough to hear a regret-filled “sorry” shyly muster its way out of Alucard.

–

Dracula’s modern inventions are a marvel—and a nuisance.

Trevor and Sypha endlessly fiddle with the kitchen’s large contraption. A beast of burning wood logs crafted from metal and copper that’s been seemingly neutered by their shared incompetence. They could wait for Alucard instead of fumbling around until both of them reach their limits of agitation. But the idea was to surprise him with a fully prepared meal the moment he walks through the door. Light a few candles, pour three glasses of finely aged wine; just as Alucard would do for himself.

Now they’ve wasted too much time wrestling with basic cooking mechanisms, pining for the days when they could create their own version of hearty gourmet food using only a simple campfire. Even Trevor found himself scrounging about in the cellar, stepping over broken glass, all for a decent bottle.

“I’m using my magic,” Sypha finally announces.

“Don’t do that.”

“I am. I have had enough of this stupid thing.”

“You’ll burn the whole bloody castle down if you do.”

“Would that be such a terrible thing?”

Her reply causes Trevor to stop and think. Just as she whispered exclamations of awe and wonder after first setting her eyes upon the Belmont Hold, Sypha was mesmerized by the castle’s sheer size, the depths of its architecture, and the intricacies of its numerous machinations. Part of her regretted the use of the word “grotesque” before she crushed the castle’s heart in her own hands thus transforming the engine room into an irreparable mess.

She felt so young back then. Now she sees Dracula’s castle for what it truly is and what it may be destined to remain as; a place that causes pain. A place that hurts anything caught within its walls.

Trevor searches every corner of the room before settling on a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and some strips of dry meat hanging from hooks. “He’ll be down soon, let’s just put together something quick.”

He pulls Sypha away and brings her to the nearest countertop just as she contemplates melting the oven down into a steaming puddle. She glares at the butcher’s knife placed into her hand then at the three food items in front of her. Seems too simple given the other ingredients surrounding them, but their time was cut short to begin with.

In the midst of their frantic slicing, pouring, and preparing, they pause to hear delicate footsteps making their way down the corridor. Alucard appears in the doorway, shoulders slouched and the dark circles under his eyes visible even from a distance. He doesn’t announce himself, though his silence does nothing to alleviate the awkward atmosphere. Taking his seat at the table, Sypha joins him along with Trevor, his hands full of three plates. He places them down unceremoniously.

“There. A meal fit for a prince.”

The two wait in anticipation while Alucard sits motionless. He examines the plate’s contents, his so-called “prince’s meal”: layers of stacked goat cheese and bacon sandwiched between two decently sliced pieces of sourdough bread with a thin twig of rosemary placed on top as a last minute garnish. Not a single vegetable or fruit in sight. Then Trevor and Sypha see something from Alucard that’s been missing for almost the length of an entire week following their return: a smirk. Subdued, but plain to see on his placid face.

“Did you make these, Trevor?”

“We both did, but it was Trevor’s idea,” Sypha answers in his stead. Alucard presses his lips tighter together, an honest attempt to keep whatever’s behind them locked away—a laugh perhaps? Hard to believe as it may seem.

“What?” Trevor demands. “What is it about my cooking that makes you giggle like a young nun who’s seen something naughty?”

“There is nothing wrong with your taste in food this time… shockingly so. I’m just remarking on how… humble this all looks. I expected nothing less from you both. Thank you.”

While Alucard takes his first few bites, Trevor and Sypha look to each other with uncertain expressions. He was always genuine in the small ways he showed his gratitude towards them, and they hear that very same gratitude in his voice. But only a sliver of it; the rest felt clinical. Still, they got him out of bed. They got him to eat. That’s more success they’ve accomplished in less than an hour than they’ve had for days. What they need right now, what they all need, are small victories.

The silence they eat in is comfortable, almost peaceful. Trevor and Sypha both know it won’t last. The enjoyment they feel with each bite of juicy meat, strong cheese, and soft bread comes with a sense of guilt. They know the difficult topic of Alucard’s refusal to tell them anything will have to be brought up now. If not, the wound will only meet the same end that all others left untreated do: left to fester and rot until there’s no hope of talking to him.

Alucard seems oblivious to their eternal conflict; maybe it’s for the best. Once half of his sandwich is finished, he raises the glass of white wine and downs every last drop in one bold gulp. Trevor turns to his own glass, barely half empty.

“Show off.” He mumbles under his breath, though not quiet enough as it catches Alucard’s attention.

“Oh? Have I bested you in that particular skill set?”

“Don’t push your luck. I’m still ahead of you in experience. A good couple of years in fact.”

“Remember, there is just as much inhuman blood running through these veins as there is human. I have more of a tolerance when it comes to certain vices.”

“Give me something stronger than whatever I used to find in my aunt Delilah’s liquor cabinet and I’ll show you how to take certain vices with tolerance.”

It always happens like this between them, again and again, over and over no matter the circumstance or situation. One man must compare himself to the other, measuring up his own long list of successes and failures. Sypha suddenly loses interest in her food. This conversation could go in many different directions—merely thinking about the probabilities brings her no ease.

“Well, you’ve never been one to refuse a challenge. Let’s test that famous Belmont tolerance, shall we?”

Before Sypha can interject, Trevor does instead, pushing her further into silence. His expression turns grim as he lowers the wine glass. “I’ll pass on that challenge.”

“Showing restraint? I didn’t think you knew the word.”

“No, I just don’t want to give you an excuse to keep drowning yourself in something that hasn’t been resolved yet.”

Sypha is an excellent judge of character; she considers it to be a gift the same way she regards her prowess in the mystic arts. Simple, quiet observations of how a person carries themselves, how they move the slightest inch, and how they react to certain provocations tell her more than words can. When she sees Alucard’s eyes narrow while his fingers curl in on themselves, Sypha braces herself despite being the only one who predicted this. This will not end the way she wanted it to.

Trevor doesn’t notice those sorts of things quick enough, not like her. If he did, he would have swallowed that tactless statement before it had the chance to escape. Wash it down with the very same white wine he so candidly belittled.

“You think I’m drowning myself. How so?”

“Look at yourself, Alucard.”

“I do. Every day, in the mirror. It’s not something I particularly enjoy doing.”

His words sting, laced with venom but Trevor and Sypha understand what he means. Their eyes are drawn to his wrists and that window of skin exposed by his shirt’s plunging neckline. He tries so hard to hide those new scars—the ones he still hasn’t explained—but more often than not, they catch glimpses of tender flesh turned raw and inflamed. They abhor the thought of him carrying more, yet haunted by the idea that their worries are not unfounded.

If only he would talk to them. Truly and deeply talk to them. Not in this way.

“I also do not enjoy being spoken down to like a troubled infant incapable of making their own decisions.”

“I’m not talking down to you and I’m not trying to tell you what and what not to do.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Sympathize, that’s all. And maybe help. I’ve been down that same road before and it’s not pretty.”

“I never asked for your help. I never gave you permission to coddle me, nor did I ever ask you to come back.”

“But you clearly wanted us to if those two dolls are any indication.”

“Those were not yours to see.”

“You left them out in the open! How could we not fucking see them?”

While voices and tensions rise with every heated exchange, Sypha breaks her vow of reluctant silence. “You cannot keep us in the dark like this forever, Alucard.” Both men turn towards her as all the words she left unspoken for days stumble out less like a steady stream and more like an untempered vomit. “Trevor is right; we just want to help. We want to understand what’s wrong and how we can all fix this. But you need to talk with us. What happened while we were gone? Who were those two outside the castle and why on earth did you display them like—”

A sudden loud clatter causes Sypha and Trevor to jump. Alucard holds his plate whiteknuckled while the rest of him shivers in quiet anger. He dropped it upon the table not hard enough to shatter but enough to crack. His half-eaten sandwich has fallen apart.

“I’m not hungry.” The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as Alucard pushes it back. He takes his leave without another word; not a bitter thank you or something far harsher. In a display of utter defeat, Trevor pushes away his own plate and rubs his face. A way of saying, “that was a fucking disaster”. And it all seemed to be going so well.

Sypha doesn’t want to give in so easily. She follows Alucard out of the kitchen, her voice echoing off the castle’s stone archways and walls that dwarf them both. Nothing more than mice amongst giants.

“Alucard, please.” She calls out, still a fair distance away from him but catching up quickly. “We can fix this, just let us help you.”

“You can’t fix anything. Not even I could.”

Sypha knows she should be more careful with her choice of words but fears that if she hesitates for the slightest moment, she will lose him. He’ll retreat back into his room or another place deeper within the castle unbeknownst to her and Trevor, locking himself away in self-inflicted isolation, shutting out all daylight and human interaction.

“And you can’t keep punishing yourself like this either.” She’s close now; close enough to hold him. Close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I want to be alone.”

“Alucard…” Sypha keeps her touch light and gentle. For him, it’s just another weight, another burden that’s been forced upon him. A sense of bodily contact he did not ask for. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Alucard feels her fingertips graze over a scar curving around his shoulder. He spins around and slaps Sypha’s hand away, his lips drawn back into a snarl, revealing fangs that have grown longer and sharper.

She takes a step back, then another until the divide between them is larger than it should ever be. There was no cry of shock or pain even as Sypha stares at Alucard with wide, possibly terrified eyes. He’s never seen her like this; not when their entire world was at stake. She holds the hand that was struck and then he sees it: three fresh claw marks. Alucard glances down at his own hand, though he already knows what he will find.

The rageful lines gracing his face soften while his eyes turn not just sad, but horrified. “Sypha, I…”

“What happened?” Trevor catches up to them, drawing Sypha into his arms. With the utmost care coupled with panic he takes her wounded hand and repeats the question, furiously shouting it in Alucard’s direction who stumbles with his answer.

“I—I didn’t mean—I won’t hurt—”

“What the hell did you do?”

Alucard forces out an apology, but is barely heard by either Trevor or Sypha. Again they fail to hear him when it matters most. They say nothing else, waiting for an admission they might never receive and stare at him as though they no longer recognize their friend. Friend. Alucard cannot breathe, cannot speak, yet his mind screams. Thoughts that plagued him for months which he tried burying now fully resurrected. Was he ever really their friend? Did they ever think of him that way? What must they think of him now?

Do they see him? Or do they see his father?

Trevor and Sypha’s poor attempts to make him stay fall on deaf ears. Alucard is gone from their sight, unable to hear their pleas. They’ll not see him again before the night comes.

–

“I’m not mad at him. It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

They don’t return to the kitchen. Instead, they traverse the ruined castle hallways until they reach what was once the foundation of Dracula’s genius and intellect. A laboratory filled with knowledge of a future not yet realized by humanity; or maybe a past that was deemed too heretical, too blasphemous by modern European institutions and so it fell into the hands of a monster. Knowledge that might thrive in the hands of someone else but now lies amongst broken machines, like every other room surrounding it. Still, there are smaller forms of medicine which Trevor uses to heal Sypha’s mild injuries. He rubs the cream over her hand, soothing the angry red scratch marks left behind by Alucard’s outburst.

“Well, there might be some bruising. Thankfully he didn’t draw any blood.”

“Would you have gone after him with your whip if he did?”

Trevor leaves the question as is; hovering in an awkward silence while he mentally searches for a change in conversation. Not because he doesn’t have a reply, but because he doesn’t want to face the conclusion he’s come to.

“Why doesn’t he use any of the medicine here? Continue his mother’s work, you know?”

“Maybe he’s just being cautious especially after what happened to her. Human beings are not ready for that sort of new knowledge yet.”

“And he spent more effort cleaning up my family ruins than he did with his own home.”

“You did give it to him as a gift.”

“But now that I really think about it, he never even liked the hold or its contents. It was a piss poor excuse for a gift.”

“Then why did you do that for him?”

He closes the lid on the jar of cream and places it back on the nearest shelf. Really, giving away his childhood home was done purely on impulse (as are most of Trevor’s decisions). But there was another motive, one he didn’t want to admit to at the time else a certain someone would endlessly mock him.

“He said he wanted to make the castle his grave and… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him wallow in guilt and self-pity anymore so I thought I’d give him something to live for. A project he could dedicate all his time to and take his mind off things. I didn’t think he’d actually take it to heart like that.”

Sypha gives him a tired smile. “What you did was selfless and good, Trevor Belmont. Give yourself more credit than that.”

He tries, yet all that transpires is an exasperated sigh. “I will never fucking understand what goes on inside his head.”

“Don’t you want to, though? Don’t you want to help with whatever is troubling him?”

“Sypha, I don’t think it’s that easy. You remember those bodies.”

“I try not to.” Nevertheless, she still wants to rationalize Alucard’s current actions which means those two corpses along with his new scars will have to be explained. Her stomach churns at the thought. It couldn’t have been as simple as the shallow excuse of attacking the castle then attacking him.

“I hate feeling so useless.”

Trevor gently brushes a stray curl of strawberry hair from her face. His smallest gestures of affection are the ones she loves the most. “I know you do. You always want to help others and save the day. That’s what makes you so wonderful.”

“Or naive.” Sypha almost misses the time when she was far more optimistic, when her view of the world was a touch brighter, but past comforts do not fix present miseries no matter how fondly we dwell upon them—actions do. “We can’t lose another friend.”

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Trevor pulls her in close and kisses her head. “We’ll give it more time. Try again tomorrow.”

–

It’s not another dream but if it were, Alucard would hardly be able to tell the difference. He saunters down the hall, past each flickering candelabra, stopping momentarily to take a closer look. No soft flesh, no pulsing veins of blood, only painted brass. One piece of evidence to suggest that this is not a dream. Alucard needs that reassurance while he wanders dazed and disoriented, like walking through a thick mist.

The thin nightgown clings to his uncomfortably sweat drenched back, chest, and limbs. He’s taken to wearing the longer kinds, ones that reach down to his ankles. Hardly suitable for humid summer nights but he finds it better this way. Alucard continues on his aimless nighttime trek until he stops at a certain closed door. It’s not the first; there are many rooms within the castle which he finds no use for so they remain locked away from prying eyes. This one, however, is special to him.

After his father’s death, Alucard thought revisiting his old childhood bedroom would be too painful. A single glance would conjure up memories best left untampered with. Since then he’s looked inside and even walked among its contents, frozen in time. He’s turned these brief visits into sporadic personal rituals, ways of grounding himself—or punishing, it depends on which feels more appropriate. He never touches or changes anything, not the singed carpet, not the crumbled up bed sheets stained with blood, and certainly not the ring.

Alucard raises a hand to push open the door before pulling back. Not tonight, he tells himself. He carries onward, quickening his pace past another closed door that will stay bolted tight until either his bones disintegrate into dust or the castle does, whichever happens first.

Moonlight streams in through the tall kitchen windows, lighting the room in a nightly blue hue. Not strong enough to reach the ever-present shadows that hide in darker corners. That’s where Alucard left the dolls on their shelf, in plain fucking sight as Trevor said. It rings truer now that Alucard stands before them, staring down at the culmination of his little “hobby” long and hard.

Why did he make them with such love and care? With so much attention to their unique, individual finite details? It would have been easier to find two potatoes, a few buttons, some burlap, and be done with them. If there’s shame in the way he looks at the dolls now, then what must have been the purpose of starting this project?

Alucard knows that the real Trevor and Sypha are safe in their bed. He felt their presence during his walk; skin upon skin, hands resting along the curves of each other’s bodies. Neither one sleeps peacefully, discontented by earlier events. Because of him. He knows this for certain.

Alucard picks up the Trevor doll first, running a thumb over the plush stomach before sharpening his nail. It tears into the fabric, spilling out the toy’s soft insides. Tufts of white wool float gently float down like snowflakes as they clutter the black and white floor, soon joined by a head torn from its body in an emotional fit. Once he’s finished with Trevor, he does the same to Sypha, ripping her into pieces. Everything, the dolls, their destruction and the manner in which they are torn up, it all seems so childish. When Alucard is faced with the mess he created, he’s filled with a confusing sense of regret over his impulsive actions and the frustration that he should have destroyed those dolls a long time ago.

Exhausted, head pounding, and chest aching, he joins what used to be Trevor and Sypha on the floor. Sitting uncomfortably, worsening his ruined posture, staring into nothing. “This is all so stupid.”

–

The large platform sways momentarily, dangling in midair before it begins to lower Sypha down the derelict tower that leads far beneath the Belmont manor. This is the first time she’s seen Trevor’s family hold in daylight; even in ruins, everything is brighter. Remnants of a once grand legacy that’s been holding on by its fingernails through sheer stubbornness and determination thanks to its last surviving son. She can now see the portrait of his founding ancestor without the obstruction of darkness.

Leon Belmont, fabled vampire killer and the first to hunt down Dracula—in appearance, there are no similarities between him and Trevor. Blond curly hair like a Renaissance cherub, noble demeanour, a true knight of old. That’s what the painting tells Sypha. She knows even less about Leon than Trevor does. Perhaps she’ll discover something in their family archives, something more scandalous than a spellbook involving vampire cocks and other unmentionables both human and inhuman. Though it’s certainly not her original intention; Sypha didn’t have any set goal or purpose in mind when she decided to seek out the Belmont archives.

Only that it feels better than being inside the castle. Anywhere feels better than that incubator of sadness, death, and loneliness. Trevor may have questioned it but it’s no wonder Alucard put all of his effort into one family home instead of his own.

Upon arriving at the bottommost level, Sypha steps through the heavy door and nearly repeats her trick of igniting the entire hold in fire light. Until she notices that every torch has been replaced by the same bulbs of glass found beneath Gresit’s catacombs. There has to be a switch somewhere; always some sort of mechanism or device when it comes to the Tepes family and their inventions. She eventually finds a lever and pulls it down. A gentle humming sound fills the chamber and after a couple flickers, the bulbs illuminate bookshelves, cabinets, and other menagerie all kept in perfect condition.

“Incredible…” Sypha thought she was used to the archives. Questions dance in her mind as she descends the staircase. Is the electricity that Alucard installed the same as what she can conduct with her magic? She’ll have to ask him.

Sypha isn’t looking for anything in particular. Simply being present around books interspersed between trinkets of no doubt dubious origins is enough for her. Meandering down each aisle, taking in the various titles containing any variation of “vampire”, “demon”, “mysticism”, and “grimoire”. They merge together until one happens to stand out: The Dream World: Mind Spells, Astral Projection, & Psychological Magick. It almost makes Sypha guffaw. Trevor still insists that the Belmonts were not magicians and never dealt in the more unsavoury aspects of the art, yet the contrary keeps rising to the surface. Sypha knows magic better than anybody and there’s plenty of it running through Trevor’s veins. If he ever picks up a spell and tries reading it, then he might realize.

Sypha holds the weighty tome, carefully skimming over each worn out page lest they crumble under her fingertips. An entire account of how someone could slip their own consciousness into another’s as if stepping into a friend’s home and rearranging its contents. All of which made possible through the simple act of sleeping.

I will never fucking understand what goes on inside his head.

Don’t you want to, though?

Sypha shuts the book without a second thought, feeling shock and a small bit of shame. She deals in elemental magic, manipulating the earth’s natural creations—never human bodies. It’s too dangerous and there are too many risks; something, or someone, could break. Shatter beyond reparation. Some minds are more delicate than others.

But if she did the necessary research, as all good scholars of magic should, she won’t have to jump to such dire conclusions. Her predetermined fears might be dispelled; there might be hope. So, Sypha does the one thing that will always bring her comfort—she reads.

–

YOU SEE YOURSELF AS THEY SEE YOU

The water is always coldest in the morning. Before Alucard fills his two buckets with it, he dips a couple fingertips into the running stream, creating a slight shock that helps keep him alert. At the moment, the castle is empty and for good reason. Sypha is in the Belmont Hold; she always seemed more at home down there. The last time Alucard saw Trevor, he was following her outside and presumably to the archives as well. Still inseparable, those two. Meanwhile he’s here in the woods, away from castles and manors and underground chambers that have held on for generations. This place keeps him both sheltered and vulnerable.

This is a menial task, one of many that fill the days. Yet like all the others, it slipped Alucard’s mind until it reared its head and practically dragged him out of bed. It wasn’t always this way; not so long ago, the task of completing daily chores went differently. Collecting water, gathering ingredients for future meals, he treated them all as though they were part of a religion, a cycle that never stopped turning. Alucard’s mind once thanked him for it. Small distractions were blessings in the guise of simple tasks to keep himself afloat.

Alucard has tried to uphold this new religion. Though his attempts may not be so obvious to others. Occasionally, he’ll see the Belmont tower in the corner of his eye, no longer the crumbling pile of stones stacked atop of each other it used to be. He’ll feel the urge to pick up where he left off with its reconstruction. His palms are getting a bit soft, maybe it’s time to give them a few blisters and splinters again.

Then there’s the one constant thing keeping Alucard from dusting off his tools, the immediate feeling that bars him from other forms of distraction: guilt. The same way he still “lives” within the castle despite its torment, he needs the reminders of what happened and everything he did. Distraction leads to remorse, then comes self-punishment, and finally discipline. This is Alucard’s new cycle, routine, and religion.

This recent excursion may seem like a step forward, but he’s certain it will be followed by many, many steps back.

He doesn’t return with any sense of urgency once the buckets are full. Instead, something in the water catches Alucard’s attention: a grey stone with a near perfect egg shape. He reaches down and pulls it out, wiping the mud and sand off its rough surface.

“Papa, it’s just a dirty old rock. What’s so special about it?”

“Watch closely, my little bat…” Using a single claw sharper than any hunter’s blade, the vampire cuts a perfect line along the stone. It cracks open, revealing colours that only exist in the younger vampire’s imagination. His gasps of wonder bring a smile to his father’s face.

“Do you know what we call a natural phenomenon like this one, little bat?”

“Hm. A geode,” Alucard mumbles to himself. Rocks that look unappealing on the outside but once they’ve been smashed open, they transform into treasure chests of jewels and crystals. He remembers now; Dracula used to bring him to the rivers and mountains surrounding the castle so that he could show his son the smallest of nature’s gifts. Without much deeper thought, Alucard drops the geode into his pocket before picking up the two heavy buckets. Sypha might enjoy such a trinket; perhaps it will bring her some much needed distraction. A paltry way of apologizing for the day before.

Alucard prepares for the trek back to the castle, but not before getting a good long look over his shoulder, then again once he’s started walking.

–

Trevor stares into the fountain, watching as momentary gusts of wind move dead leaves amongst twigs, animal droppings, and other debris littering the cracked stone. Otherwise empty and dried up just like the rest of what used to be the Belmont courtyard. Funny, it’s always the smaller, frivolous things about a broken home that are left to the very end when more important things demand attention and repair. That’s what Alucard did and only now does Trevor truly see the extent of his efforts not just to the Hold but the entire manor itself. Give it a few more weeks of hard honest labour and the building could almost be liveable again.

Why? It’s a question he’s been asking himself since their less than joyous reunion. Trevor remembers what Alucard said on their first night down in the Hold, hearing every word while he himself fawned over a piece of metal and chain. He must have thought the Belmont couldn’t hear. “Museum”, “dedicated”, and “extermination” coupled with other unsavoury terms as the dhampir looked over a casket of fanged skulls—one of which was smaller than the others. Much smaller.

Then why do so much for a family that hunted his kind for generations? Like so much else concerning Alucard, the answer may always elude Trevor. Yet the only reaction stronger than his confusion is his own form of guilt. Trevor would say there hasn’t come a chance to show his full appreciation for Alucard’s work, but it’s just another lie and excuse.

He’s tired. Tired of staking his life on the constant movement from one road to the next, tired of putting walls between himself and others when there shouldn’t be any. During that brief, shallow time when he and Sypha settled down, Trevor felt a subtle sense of peace which had been lost to him for years—it scared him. But now that the manor is no longer a forgotten ruin, Trevor looks upon the structure not with sadness or pain, but hope. Life could return to its many rooms and corridors.

If only Alucard hadn’t halted his reconstruction progress. Still, the manor sits there waiting for the necessary work to be picked up again. He could talk to Alucard, offer a helping hand, rough up his palms a little. It doesn’t have to be a one man endeavour.

Trevor forgoes the thought before it has an opportunity to solidify itself. All of it might be fruitless; there’s no point in having such a conversation if it only ends with more arguing, more yelling, and more of them storming off in opposite directions. More of yesterday’s events.

His flimsy attention span refocuses at the sound of Sypha calling out his name. He turns around and is greeted with an unsteady pile of books where her face should be. “Bit of light reading, eh?”

Sypha peeks out from behind the stack. “If you had come down with me, I wouldn’t be lugging all of these back up,” she says with a strained grunt.

“What’s the urgency?”

“I wanted you to see these.” She places the books down by their feet and begins handing them one by one into Trevor’s hands. He takes them, barely getting anything more than a few seconds to read their titles. What he manages to see doesn’t cultivate much optimism. Dreamology makes him believe that Sypha is simply having nightmares while Thought Manipulation Through Magic fills him with a creeping sense of dread. Those are only two amongst a dozen more.

“… What?” She asks, stopping once she notices Trevor’s usual silent cynicism. He holds up Cognitive Astral Projection.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on making me your actual braindead manservant.”

She snatches the book away. “This is serious!”

“Hm. These say otherwise. Or are you getting bored of skewering beasties with ice pikes before scorching their arses off and want to try something a bit more subtle.”

“Just listen to me.” Sypha takes a breath to settle herself. “Remember what you said about not understanding what goes on inside Alucard’s head?”

“Vaguely.” But Trevor does remember, clearer than his most sober thoughts. And he already realizes Sypha’s plan before she can spell it out for him. His eyes turn dire while the palms of his hands suddenly feel cold. “Sypha…”

“No, listen, I have looked through all of these and look there are spells one can cast to, to, to project yourself into another’s mind.” She speaks faster than her thoughts. Trevor can’t even get his own opinion out while she excitedly stammers on.

“Sypha.”

“A-and it happens when both participants are asleep, you see, which means we can access Alucard’s mind through his dreams while we are both conscious yet also unconscious at the same time—”

“Sypha!”

“What?” She exclaims. “This is our chance to help him. If he cannot tell us outright then we have to see for ourselves. Otherwise we’ll never truly understand what happened. He can heal and we can all finally move on from this.”

“Maybe. Or maybe something goes wrong and none of us ever wakes up again. Maybe we end up putting another crack in that brain of his whether we meant to or not. Maybe we break him completely.”

“Nothing will go wrong as long as we follow the directions.”

“Have you ever cast a spell like this before?”

“No, but the very scholars who wrote these books were once beginners starting out for the first time in their lives.”

“Yes, and then they practiced and studied for decades before sitting down to write the entire fucking codex on mind manipulation.” While Trevor waves one of the books in her face, Sypha matches the rising volume in his voice.

“You are just afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am! But you can’t abandon him like this just because you don’t want to attempt the only option we have. Do not go back to the man you once were, Trevor.”

Teeth grind together, hard enough to crack and shatter. He stares Sypha down with fury in his eyes; not for her, never for her, only for what she said. “I don’t want to do this because I am so fucking sick of magic. Sick of enchantments, incantations, and all that other occult bullshit. All it ever does is hurt others and make the world darker than it already is.”

Sypha holds her ground, expression placid and immoveable. “Is that what you think of my magic?”

A simple question that breaks Trevor’s hardened demeanour. He knows his answer— her magic is terrifying in beautiful ways and she might be the only morally decent practitioner in the world—but he doesn’t say it like that. “You… Sypha, you know I didn’t mean it like that, I just…” He tries placing a hand on her shoulder before it’s shrugged off. Calmly but with the right amount of force, she pushes a book against his chest. Trevor manages to guess two words from her intense gaze: read it.

Sypha steps back, about to take her leave, before giving him a valuable piece of information that’s long taken root in his mind. All he needs to do is accept it. “The Belmonts were capable of magic. As are you.”

Trevor opens his mouth when she’s too far away to hear or acknowledge.

–

When Alucard returns to the castle, he’s faced with a choice: slink back into bed and wallow in a false sense of security or take a bath before Sypha starts confusing him for Trevor. The first sounds more tempting but he’s been mobile all morning, it would be a shame to erase that progress. He could have an alright day. There haven’t been any great or even good days, only the alright ones. The slow and dull kind, which Alucard takes happily. Anything would be better than yesterday.

With no windows to the outside world, the castle’s main powder room is darker than the others. It’s only source of light comes from sweet smelling candles scattered throughout, kept firmly in their places by years of hardened wax like pearl-coloured tears. The walls are dyed in that same sort of red that reminds Alucard of red wine or freshly spilled blood. Drenched in soft candlelight, the room is more a boudoir than a bathhouse (in some parts of the world there’s little difference between the two).

He turns a few heavy knobs at the head of the large brass tub and once the pipes clear their throats, buried deep behind walls and underneath the floorboards, clear steaming water begins to spurt out. Alucard checks the temperature; it burns to the touch which he prefers. He removes his boots yet hesitates with the rest. A single passing glance at himself in the ornate vanity mirror, one glimpse at all the pieces of bare skin despite being fully clothed, and his reluctance seems rational. Even alone, he doesn’t want to see the rest of him.

Alucard sits before the vanity, listening while the tub fills itself to the brim. His eyes glaze over each cosmetic alongside his geode. He settles on a small bottle of herbal oil made from lavender and lemon balm leaves which he gently applies to his wrists. Smells divine, hurts like absolute hell. Liquid seeps into the raw, tender skin and he lets out a hiss. The necessary pain subsides; Alucard’s breaths turn deep and slow. He hates looking up into the mirror only to be faced with his overly familiar weary eyes surrounded by dark circles. It’s unavoidable.

Something on the table begins to shake. For a moment, Alucard thinks it’s because of his own trembling hand gripping the mahogany wood until he notices the river stone. It moves from side to side, teetering then tottering, like a child’s spinning top about to fall. He stares not in fear but with caution as the stone cracks, louder than anything that size should sound. An egg ready to hatch.

Alucard expects to be greeted by a newborn chick when the rock turned egg finally cracks right open. What clumsily rolls out instead is still trapped within its embryonic sack, not strong enough to break through. He assists by making a tear with his nail as a viscous substance pours out along with its inhabitant. There’s hair, two arms, two legs, and a pair of wings weighed down by the fluid. Unsure and a little nervous, he helps clean whatever just emerged, allowing its delicate, transparent wings to fully unfold.

The creature stumbles like a freshly birthed calf getting used to its own legs before using Alucard’s fingers for support. At last, he sees the long caramel hair that envelopes its entire body, not much larger than his outstretched hand. He sees the pointed ears and the earthy green tinge that covers the very ends of each limb.

Despite what humans of sound mind and reasonable logic may proclaim, vampires and night creatures exist in this world. They may very well rule it. Why shouldn’t the smaller, daintier beings of fantasy exist as well?

Softly and with the utmost care, Alucard cups the fairy in both hands and lifts her off the vanity. “Now where did you come from?” A silly question, admittedly.

Her eyes, which seem too big for her tiny face to hold, finally open. She stares up at Alucard, blinking rapidly, before her lips curl back, revealing a smile of pristine yet razor teeth. Wings flutter like a hummingbird’s and following a few delighted inhuman chirps, she’s encircling Alucard, unable to decide where she should land first. A second on his shoulder, then another atop his head. Eventually, she discovers the incomparable joy of hiding herself within the smooth locks of his hair.

“Well, aren’t we an excitable little one.” Alucard manages to pluck her free but the fairy isn’t finished with her thorough examination of her chosen imprint. She comes across his marred wrists and lets out a softened chirp of concern. He mutters the same excuse he gave to Trevor and Sypha: it’s nothing. The fairy can’t hear, or she just doesn’t listen. Determined to use every ounce of her miniscule strength, she begins pecking at the wrist, planting kiss after kiss upon his scarred flesh.

“Oh no, please don’t trouble yourself with that.” There are accounts of fairies who carry certain healing abilities, but this one is still a babe. The only world she knows is Alucard. Better she learns how to crawl before she walks. But the fairy couldn’t care less about any of that. This golden-haired giant could end up being the only world she ever knows or will ever know, and she would be overjoyed. Flying upwards, she holds his face in both arms and nuzzles against his cheek.

It’s a surprising development, but Dracula’s castle will continue to play homestead to all things strange and odd. This fairy may just be oddly wonderful.

–

Trevor’s body has always despised him for many reasons, rebelling against itself. He can’t remember what he looked like without his battle scars (if there was ever a time when he didn’t have them), some bones have been broken then rearranged so often they float around amongst muscle and blood utterly ruined. He once considered keeping a log of every time he stumbled into a back alley to cleanse his battered insides through vomiting. One column labeled “drinking”, the other “fighting”. Some nights would require both to be marked up.

Those are understandable reasons. Trevor never thought reading would elicit the same visceral reactions. His head pounds away, the backs of his eyes sting like mad, and there’s an unseen weight pressing down on his chest. It’s been hours since he made Dracula’s disarrayed library his own, surrounding himself with books and half opened scrolls like some hermit monk or scholar holed up in his study. There must be a curse on this room; whoever enters to read its contents and is not the castle’s lord or of undead blood shall be stricken down with nausea, tiredness, and frustration.

Trevor ignores how his mind pulses and aches with every written word. Sypha’s talk of dreams and mind spells is the cause of all this. He’s managed to retain a fair amount of knowledge, though whether or not any of it will be helpful he cannot say for certain. There’s one story concerning an unnamed alchemist of the 10th century who performed dream spells on himself; perhaps he still had some higher morals to not use other bodies for his tests. With these incantations, his mind created absolute paradises where he would live for decades while only a few hours passed in the realm of reality.

The effects on his physical body were apparent; the first time he cast the spell, he aged thirty years in the span of five hours. During his second sleep, he died in the dream world a peaceful old man with no regrets or unfinished business. When whatever colleagues he had left found him, he was a half-rotting corpse in his bed.

Accounts like these—factual or mere ghost stories—don’t encourage much optimism. Which is why Trevor keeps reading, keeps searching in case it’s not enough. His nose buried so deeply in knowledge previously unknown to him. He doesn’t notice that Sypha has found him, not until she lays a hand on his shoulder, startling them both. Trevor drops his most recent find while she lets out an exclaimed gasp and holds her chest.

“Christ…” He says breathlessly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up like that. This is the very last place I expected to find you.”

“I’m full of surprises.” As Trevor gathers up his resources, Sypha observes their contents; the very same she herself had been researching all morning long. Dream lore and mental magic, everything he denounced not too long ago.

Trevor makes a note of her silence. “I looked through that first book you gave me. Started thinking… which is never a good sign with me, and wanted to do some reading myself.”

Full of surprises, indeed. “Trevor, I’m shocked.”

“Hope it’s the pleasant sort. But you should know that I did all of this for you… and for him. Mostly for you.”

Sypha is used to Trevor’s deflections. She thought by now he would readily accept his growing ability to care deeply for others when his outward appearance suggests otherwise. There is always much to rebuild. “These are his books… does that not disturb you?”

“Hm, not really.” Sypha almost chides his nonchalant response, thinking back to how violently he reacted to the prospect of Alucard being his father before their silly duel was put to rest. “Dracula may have been a monster but he was a genius. There’s not much difference between what’s down there and what’s up here. Suppose one has to know their enemy.”

Genius. Trevor Belmont of the House of Belmont is either mad or drunk. Sypha assumes that if his family were alive, he would have been flogged for speaking their own form of blasphemy. The same might have happened anyway had they known about his partnership with the son of their centuries old adversary.

“So… you’ve thought about it?”

Trevor takes a breath, eyes downcast. “You wanted me to read, so I did. To be honest, a lot of this is just fear mongering, which is why I kept at it. There are things worth learning and knowing about. I’m not exactly jumping with enthusiasm over your proposal, but you could say I’m more open to it than I was. We just need to find the right spell.”

“I think I have. It was in one of the books from your family’s library.”

“What do we do?”

“There are a lot of steps involved, but the most important element is that we all have to be asleep. In order for our collective consciousness to enter another’s mind, that person has to be in an even deeper sleep. All but dead to the world.”

Trevor suddenly turns grim and angry. “I’m not fucking drugging Alucard.”

Sypha reacts in an offended manner. “Of course we won’t! Why on earth would you ever assume that?!”

“Sorry… some of the things I read about this didn’t give me the best mindset. Does it involve any other unsavory acts like blood sacrifices or ritualistic masochism?”

“No, nothing like that. We just need to prick our temples hard enough to draw blood and burn something that belongs to each of us.”

“What’s the purpose of the fire?”

“As long as the items keep burning, we remain inside the dream world. When it runs out, that’s when we wake up.”

“And the blood?”

“Supposedly to help open up our minds. The chapter explains everything in detail. But we need Alucard’s consent first.”

Trevor bites at his thumbnail, something he hasn’t done since the age of thirteen. “It won’t be easy convincing him.”

“If we fail, we fail. It’s his choice.” Though there’s a part within Sypha, deeper and more persistent than she’s willing to admit, that wants their plan to succeed. Not for her sake and not for her ego.

“Right. Let’s go find him.”

They stand up to leave but only walk so far down the corridor before they turn round a corner and nearly crash into Alucard.

“Fuck’s sake, enough with all the sneaking around.” Trevor grumbles once his heartbeat settles.

“I heard voices coming from the library and wondered if it was you two.”

“Course it was us, who else could it have b—” He squints, peering closer at Alucard. “Is something on your shoulder?” It could be an effect of reading too much, but Trevor knows he hasn’t gone insane—yet. He sees the wings, the miniscule head and the even smaller face staring back at him with suspicion.

“Oh, this. Well, I… I found her in the river and—”

“She’s precious!” Sypha interrupts, bending down to get a clearer look at Alucard’s new companion the same way a child looks in fascination at a brand new doll. “I know about these creatures… she’s a pixie, correct?”

Trevor and Sypha hear a series of quick jingles and chirps but Alucard hears something entirely different. “She prefers to be called a fairy.”

“You can understand that thing?”

More jingles, more chirps followed by a distinct growl from the fairy. “She also doesn’t like being called a thing by giant hairy oafs who smell terrible.”

Trevor would almost feel insulted if he wasn’t already accustomed to far harsher and disgusting terms throughout his adult life. So Alucard’s new friend doesn’t like him. Fine, he never liked fairies to begin with. Too many bedtime stories warning him about those who steal babies and gather in hordes to eat the flesh clean off a human’s body.

“Sypha and I need to discuss something with you.”

Alucard’s muscles seize up; he feels the fairy grow more restless, impatient with these two strangers barging into her life and what they might do to her keeper. He calms her with a light pat on her head. Don’t let what happened the day before happen again. Listen to them. Hear what they have to say then react.

“Go on.”

Trevor glances at Sypha and lets her speak for both of them. “We were thinking about what you said the other day, and you’re right. We can’t fix you. It was ignorant of us to believe we could especially after being gone for so long. But we still want to help in whatever ways possible. Talking about causes you too much pain, we understand that. So maybe if you showed us…”

She pauses, examining Alucard’s demeanour. Still face and even stiller breath. Sypha carries on with extreme care. “We read about a type of magic that focuses on dreams and projecting oneself into another’s mind. If you would allow us, Trevor and I could relive your memories and feel whatever it is you’re feeling through dreaming.”

“What she’s trying to say is—FUCK!” Trevor lets loose an entire chorus of expletives as the fairy swarms about trying to lay another bite somewhere she can reach. In between her efforts, she moves to Sypha and pulls her hair, chirping frantically. They flail their arms, ducking and avoiding the little menace as best they can while Alucard looks on. He doesn’t take any pleasure in watching this chaos, yet is in no rush to stop it. Eventually, the fairy tires of her own antics and hides behind his neck, hissing in their direction.

“If it does that again, I’m pickling it inside a jar full of ale.” Trevor threatens, wiping away the small amount of blood drawn from her many bites.

“How much did you read about dream magic?”

Sypha smooths out her curls and straightens her robe. “A lot. We found books from both the Belmont library and your father’s.”

“Were you aware that you can easily die while in someone else’s consciousness?”

“… Yes, we did read about it.”

Alucard nods, clear that he’s holding something back. He hides it behind an uncomfortable stance and glare. “And when you do, your soul wanders aimlessly between worlds. No heaven, no hell, not even limbo. The only afterlife is emptiness. You’re waiting for peace or punishment or anything you actually can feel, but it never comes. Never to be reunited with your loved ones no matter where they are.”

The final statement instills slight panic within Trevor and Sypha. They know the truth as it’s been sitting with them, a festering wound that demands attention. Neither of them have told Alucard but the way he speaks leads them to believe he somehow knows. The one parent seems obvious, necessary even, but both? Another revelation to weigh heavily upon him. The two brace themselves for his venom and the further erosion of his trust for them. They’ve accepted it; maybe they both deserve his vitriol.

“I will consider it.” Alucard walks away with the fairy still glaring daggers into Trevor and Sypha, plotting their inevitable demise.

It’s not what they were expecting, far from his first reaction to their outstretched hands offering support and help (or rather forcing). Though it does not surprise them. I will consider it, I will think about it, all of it means the same outcome. A gentle, polite method of saying no without pushing someone away.

They have failed, but Sypha was truthful. It is his choice.

–

Night arrives quicker at Dracula’s castle. It rushes across the sky and fills each hallway with rushed excitement. The earlier conversation feels like nothing more than a hazy memory, one that warns him of bad tidings whenever it rears itself, now pushed back in favour of things Alucard wants to think about willingly. He sits on his bed holding a white and gold porcelain box while the fairy balances herself on his thighs waiting patiently. He had to do a bit of searching in order to find the illusive box. There was an image tucked away in his distant memories; something his mother always carried with her during the later hours of the day. He thought it was only his mind conjuring up a false recollection but he found it by chance.

Dracula was an inventor as much as he was a conqueror, a recluse, and a legend to keep hell-fearing morals in their place. Yet in the eyes of a child and mother, his grander discoveries paled in comparison to his smaller, more intimate ones. They appreciated and gazed in wonder at the various devices that kept the castle alive like a ticking clock tower but individual items like a music box carry far more heart than gears or electric lights. With a few turns of a small winding key on the side, a soft metallic melody begins to play. The fairy’s ears perk up as do her wings, twitching rhythmically as she stares in elation.

“You enjoy music, don’t you?” He chuckles. She has another surprise in store for Alucard when her mouth opens and lyrics tumble out in perfect tune with the music box. Her high-pitched voice sounds sweeter than honey in the sunlight, but Alucard is most endeared by her skills as a little musician. Less than a minute of listening to a song she’s never heard, and already the words come more naturally to her than to a seasoned court bard.

He closes the box thus silencing its music and the fairy returns to her happy chirps. It is in these moments when he wishes he could match her cheerful presence. All he can do is return her displays of affection with a tired smile, reopen the box, and fashion a bed just for her. She squeaks in delight, immediately flying in to make herself comfortable before curling up, ready to enter a peaceful sleep after an exciting first day alive.

Alucard snuffs out the room candles and settles himself under the covers. While he dreads tonight’s sleep like all the ones that came before and will come after, he feels somewhat pleased that today has joined his list of “alright” days.

Eyes close and he hears the screams. He doesn’t recognize them as screams but instead as distraught squeals similar to that of an animal caught beneath a predator’s claws. Alucard sits upright and turns to the fairy who thrashes about in her makeshift bed, eyes shut tight as sobs wrack her body. The box clatters against the table with every movement.

“What’s wrong? Here, let me help…” He goes to cup her in his hands but her fearful eyes open, tinged red with tears. She backs away even further when Alucard tries again.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid.” His fingertips brush along her head; he feels how she trembles at the mere sight of him. She’s terrified of a presence she once loved unconditionally.

It takes a moment, but the fairy holds Alucard’s fingers and hugs them against her chest. There remains a hesitance in every action. It’s clear that members of her kind display certain talents that moral minds could never hope to achieve. They’re naturally attuned to the art of music, the mythic science of healing, and the magic of dreams. What did she see within Alucard’s?

He keeps the question to himself out of respect for her sanity; his own as well. Placing the fairy back into the box, she’s not as quick to sleep as she was before and neither is he. She’s too occupied with watching him close, still shaking, while Sypha and Trevor’s proposition crawls its way back into Alucard’s thoughts. It will keep him awake for the rest of the night.

He did say he would consider it.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #trephacard #my writing #*cvfic #updates will be made periodically #ask to tag #silent hill was a HUGE inspiration for this so read with care <3 #end of sanctuary

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qqueenofhades · 6 years ago

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Okay, but I still just have... so much rage and grief and utter, bone-deep bafflement and exasperation and more rage and more heartbreak over this whole thing that I feel like I have to throw at ye olde blue hellsite before I try to sleep. Because half of me can’t believe that this could have happened to Notre Dame of all places, and the other half of me absolutely can.

There are various well-meant posts in circulation trying to assure everyone that everything’s not gone and can be rebuilt to some degree, and I appreciate the intent behind those, but... we don’t even know the scale of the damage yet. The entire interior of the cathedral could be a loss, along with the roof, countless artworks unaccounted for, at least one of the major rose windows, and who knows what else. For all of us to discover that Notre Dame -- one of the global cultural institutions that you’d figure was pretty much untouchable -- had to literally beg for funding once actual pieces of it started falling on people -- has made us wonder, or at least it’s certainly made me wonder, how much more of this we can possibly sustain. My earlier post pointed out that as a species, we have money for one $13 billion dollar warship (and for the 500 super-rich trillionaires wrecking the planet), but apparently we don’t have a pennies-by-comparison €6.8 million to save an 850-year-old icon of art, history, religion, science, literature, and culture. I know Notre Dame had been allowed to fall into disrepair before. I know other beautiful and important things have been destroyed or lost through sheer carelessness or unavoidable tragedy or simple accident. I know tragedies and senseless losses are part of every historical era. But the context in which this one happened is what’s particularly upsetting.

First, this also happened last year with the National Museum of Brazil, which burned to the ground and lost centuries of irreplaceable artifacts after its funding was slashed to nothingness. That was possibly “easier” for people to disregard, because it happened in Latin America, in a non-Anglophone country, and not in what is generally recognised as the “West.” But if the West had any remaining delusions about what it’s left for itself after years and years of defunding the arts, mocking humanities as “worthless” and asking why people don’t get real jobs or degrees, and promoting a ludicrously fictionalised history that gets increasingly spouted as the Word of God by Twitter experts everywhere, it....well. Shouldn’t have those anymore. I’m sure it does, because its denial appears to be impermeable and irrecoverable. I recognise that nothing lasts, that beautiful things are destroyed, that the overall arc of human history is one of loss and rebuilding and resilience. There are beautiful messages to be had from all that. They’re important. And yet.

This did not have to happen.

We are, objectively, the richest and most prosperous and most technologically advanced we have ever been as a species, in any number of ways. We have never had as much information at our very fingertips as is available to anyone with a smartphone. And yet. The shared feeling of everyone in my generation (the 18-34-year-olds) is that this is a breaking point. We are facing essentially the make-or-break for Western civilization and the future of the planet in about.... the next two decades. We have no money, no sense of what, if anything, awaits us, and an increasingly grim realisation of just how badly late-stage capitalism is failing right when we’re trying to start careers or find jobs. We all have anxiety, morbid-humor coping mechanisms, and the awareness that there’s a less-than-zero chance that civilization collapses in our lifetimes. Many of us won’t have children because we can’t countenance giving them this broken world to inherit. We are so worried about not having enough time. The knowledge that we could work as hard as we can and just....watch it all burn, as we watched Notre Dame burn tonight, is inescapable. Millennials know that feeling. We live it all the time.

As other commentators have pointed out, we have seen art and history destroyed and disregarded, the return of rampant nationalism and xenophobia, anti-intellectualism, facts that are tailored to what you want to believe about the world, misogyny, fake news, Actual Nazis, a cultural discourse of capitalism that values you solely by your earning potential, and so forth. The knowledge that not even a seemingly untouchable place like Notre Dame is safe is just.... terrifying. If Notre Dame isn’t important enough to be saved or to be uncontroversially funded, what is? If Notre Dame is regarded as acceptable collateral damage, then.... where does it stop? What goes next? What do we lose now?

I am obviously a medieval historian and someone who tries to teach people about the importance of the past (and somehow still hope I can actually get paid to do that, which seems.... increasingly absurd by the day?) I have bewailed the fact that kids come into my classes apparently pre-installed with beliefs about Ye Olde Bad Medieval Times (tm) and I just... do not know where they get them from. So I am heartbroken on a personal level to see Notre Dame destroyed, due to the irreparable loss to history (we don’t even know how to make stained glass the same way they did!!!!) But when this plays into my struggle to make people understand where we came from and what we’ve done and how modernity has so many comforting lies about itself that render it completely incapable of confronting humanity’s worst traits and most terrible habits, because of some smug belief in “progress” and “superiority” and so on...

It just makes me wonder if anything I’m doing matters, if anything that my colleagues are doing matters. I know we care. It might be easier if we didn’t, but we do. But if it’s just us out on our island, shouting warnings at people who won’t listen to us, who sometimes take deliberate pride in not doing that, it’s hard to pick yourself up and do it all again. We will, and we need to do it, and I am deeply passionate about it, but I’m.... pretty knocked for six right now.

Notre Dame is burning because we, collectively, decided it was not important enough to save. I haven’t been there (and had always wanted to go), but I have been to other cathedrals in France and Europe. I don’t have to agree with the institutional Catholic Church on anything (and I don’t) to recognise the value and beauty and history of those places. If Notre Dame can fall victim to apathy, ignorance, derision, and the sheer staggering ability of humanity to not give a fuck about anything except its greediest impulses -- anything can.

If you’re worried about what else could go next: Good. You should be.

#hilary for ts #history #rant #notre dame #notre dame fire #i may have more to say later #but yeah

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ardawyn · 6 years ago

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OC Backstory Weeks by @yourocsbackstory | Sir Robin von Finholdt

Unlike the previous drabbles, this one has a much darker theme, and marks the end of a friendship that perhaps never really had been one.

The air in the cell was heavy with unspoken words. Heavy with deception and disappointment and cold anger. It drained the air from of his lungs and left his mouth dry.

Light flooded in from a small barred window, but did not quite reach the corners of the cell. A bed stood on one wall, a table and chair on the other. Sparse, and yet more than a convict deserved. Parchments, ink and a quill lay upon the table. Untouched, by the look of it.

Nearly unbearable, his heart throbbed in his chest, and Robin was glad its call could only be felt and heard by him alone.

“You wanted to talk to me,” he said, and folded his arms, glancing at the man who stood as far away from him as the cell allowed. Had he once felt some kind of affection for him, all that was left now was disgust.

Robin remained by the door, ready to leave whenever he saw fit. He no longer would swallow the lies and sly words that lightly.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Siward said. Proudly, he stood there. His face was emotionless. Phlegmatic. Only his voice betrayed him, revealed the irritation boiling inside him.

Or whatever it was that upset him. Robin no longer cared.

“I shouldn't have told the truth?” he asked, calmly yet with a certain sharpness. “Is that what you are saying?”

Siward came a step closer. “You shouldn't have betrayed me. I am your friend. Haven't I done enough to prove that to you?”

Hasty images crept across his inner eye, and Robin clenched his fists. “Don't you dare talk like that. You have brought it all upon yourself. You are the wrongdoer, not me.”

Siward chuckled, cold, void of any amusement. “No, Robin. You are free of any mistakes, are you not? You are the golden boy, admired by the highest. A true and gallant knight. All you need to do is ask, and the world is yours.”

Robin swallowed. It was as though Siward had taken off his mask eventually, turning into a man who was foreign to him. How could he have been so blind this entire time? He was a man of witty words and wry humour, but he never had been cruel.

Although, Siward was excellent at playing his game of deception, had he not only fooled Robin but the others as well.

After Robin had made his confession of what he had witnessed, Siward had been seized at once. But not without drawing a knife at the Knight-Commander. Sir Oswald had been injured badly and still was weak from the blood loss.

“Of course they blindly believed you when you told them what you saw,” Siward continued. He came another step closer, and halted in the light beam that filtered through the window. “You must be very proud of yourself. I am proud of you, Robin. Congratulations are in order, I suppose, for your utmost honesty and bravery.” He clapped his hands thrice, the sound cracking from the cell walls like whip lashes.

Robin winced. “Have you got anything else to say but the venom you are spreading? I am weary of your words.”

“Soon you will be rid of me. I just wanted to see you a last time. I wanted you to see me for the last time.” He tilted his head. “I wonder, will you remember me in a few years?”

Irritation and sorrow alike ate on his heart. “I am not one to easily forget,” he said. “Grave memories tend to remain for a long time.”

A smug smile edged upon Siward's lips. “Good.”

“Do you regret what you have done to that woman?” It would change nothing though. Siward could never undo what he did. And Robin could never forgive.

“What do you believe?” His voice was dangerous, but he no longer smiled.

“I cannot tell what has driven you to such a crime,” Robin replied, his throat tight. “I don't know who you are, nor who you were the past years. But I like to believe that even someone like you feels at least some kind of remorse.”

Siward huffed. “Of course you do.” He came to a halt before him, glancing up with an apathy veiling his eyes. “Yes, I do regret it. I regret that you have witnessed it. And I regret calling you a friend.” He squared his jaw. “Mistakes happen. Friends do not betray one another.”

Robin stepped backwards, and stood now with his back against the door. “I did not betray you. What you have done is wrong,” he hissed. “Any person should face the same fate, friend or not. It pains me that we have to part this way, it truly does. But I have seen no other choice. You have committed a crime, and should not go unpunished.”

Despite her fear, the young woman had travelled the short distance from Riebach to the Grau Wacht the day before, accompanied by her brother and a friend. She had come to thank Robin for saving her, had even given him flowers she had picked along the way. It was difficult to look into her face without feeling guilt himself.

“The kingdom needs no knight like you. We are to protect, and keep the people from harm. You have ravished that oath.” He stepped aside, and gave the door a knock. Keys jingled on the other side. “I can no longer call you a friend.”

“Do you have any other last words before you leave?” Siward asked. There was a spark of sorrow in his voice, and the last word crumbled into nothing. He was afraid.

Robin squared his shoulders, and met his steely gaze. “You disgust me.”

“One day we might see each other again.”

The door creaked open.

“Goodbye, Siward.”

tag list: @cirianne, @lady-redshield-writes, @dreamsofbooksandmonsters, @theforgottencoolkid, @maskedlady, @elaynab-writing, @writingmyassoff, @midnightstreetwanderings, @kittensartsbooks, @writingrosesonneptune

#wip: tdb #oc: robin #yourocsbackstory #ocbackstory #edits #wiptdbedit #tdbbackstory

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clownfuckery · 7 years ago

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A Monster for a Mate - Chapter 3

PENNYWISE X OC

Previous Chapters:

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

—–

1. Step into the Light

Glug, glug. The water funneled into the drain as I stepped out of the Jacuzzi tub. I patted my body dry and then folded the tower, placed it on top of the toilet seat cover, and sat to lather the lotion onto my body. Its sweet almond vanilla scent filled the entire bathroom, and I let out a sigh of bliss.

“Nada mejor que esto” I purred, not even realizing I had spoken in my birth tongue. Nothing can be better than this.

I now stood fully naked in front of the sink. Taking a paper towel from the stack provided by the townhouse, I wiped the fog from the mirror that ran the length of the wall. For a moment I stood there, staring at my reflection.

My mother’s reflection.

“Ay, pero si son igualitas!” She looks exactly like you! people always exclaimed upon seeing us. As a child, I couldn’t believe that one day I would grow to look anything like her. She was unbelievably beautiful, with her raven black hair that tumbled in waves down to her waist, her piercing green eyes, and magnificent olive skin. She was the epitome of grace, always boasting perfect manners and basking in the goodwill of all who met her. Men parted for her when she passed, women stared with awe and envy, and I wanted nothing more than to be like her.

“Always look down, Luseres” she instructed me as we came to pray in the town’s cathedral every morning and every evening. “We cannot dare to look at the Omnipotent. We are vile, cursed, and we don’t deserve His forgiveness. Now, fold your hands, and say your prayers”

She was exceedingly pious, my mother. For her the cathedral was home, just as much as the one bedroom duplex in the center of town. She always did penance, gave alms to the poor, kissed the hand of the priest, and recited Hail Mary’s as her fingers counted nimbly on her rosary. Looking at her from the corner of my eye, I could see the tear glistening as it rolled down her cheek, could hear the tremble in her whispers, and watched as she gently hit her chest, repentant of some vile sin. She acted as though she were the one at fault, but deep down I knew: Something was terribly wrong with me.

I could feel it in the way she always made sure I was blessed with holy water, felt it in the way the priest’s hands trembled with fear when he made the sign of the cross upon my forehead. I could feel it in the way she made sure there was a statue of the Holy Virgin in my room. “She will protect you,” she said when she tucked me into bed, then laid down next to me. Her sleep was always restless as though expecting some danger to suddenly swoop down on us.

She never spoke of my father. All I knew was that he was a soldier who died during one of the riots in Buenos Aires in the late eighties. I had no picture of him, and she wept if I ever tried to ask. At night I had nightmares of bombs exploding, of blood flowing down city streets, of red eyes under black hood that stood menacingly around my bed. Every night when I woke up screaming, she would fall at the feet of the Virgin and pray for the evil to be kept at bay.

“He can’t have her!” she cried out, pleading with the higher powers.

I slammed my fist into the counter, fighting back the tears. I tried to still my shaking body as I looked into the mirror of the past. I was the image of my mother, but I had none of the virtues that made her perfect in my eyes. I was a vile thing, selfish and prideful, seeking only to satisfy my every whim. Had she lived, she would have been revolted by the monster I had become.

I guess in the end he did have you, she would have said with disgust.

I stood up straight and took a deep breath, swallowing the memories. With shock, I realized that I hadn’t thought of my mother in a very long time. I had drowned her memory beneath a frozen layer of apathy that served to numb the pain. Complacence and the joys of this world had only pushed her back to the recesses of my subconscious, to the point where she became only a shadow, a faint image of some distant past. But in the few hours since setting feet on Derry I had thought of her already twice, the first being on the bridge when I looked within to bring my voice forth.

Why?

Was it the effects of the portal the Man in Black claimed this town to be? Or was it due to the powerful force that seemed to conceal it from the rest of the world?

I proceeded with my nightly facial ritual, then let my hair down. I threw on my silk robe and walked into the bedroom. I turned off all the lights, leaving only the lamp on the bedside table still on. I pulled back the covers of the bed and as I moved to climb onto it, I heard the faint sound of laughter. I stopped and looked toward the door, hoping to see the shadow of someone passing by, but there was no movement in the hall. Then I heard it again.

It was a high pitched, almost childlike cackle.

My brow furrowed when I realized it came from outside my window. I rushed to the balcony and looked out, but there was no one there. I reached for the curtain to shut it, but instead my hand clutched the fabric in shock.

A red balloon drifted gently, directly in front of my window. It moved slowly as if floating. As I looked, it passed in front of a building with a flag on its roof, and I noticed that the wind blew in the opposite direction. With a gasp, I realized that the balloon was drifting against the wind, then a deeply unsettling thought passed through my mind:

What if it’s the same balloon from the clown at the Canal?

“You’re going batshit crazy Lus” I chuckled as I watched it drift down Main Street and disappear. I drew the curtain closed and turned back to the bed.

Then my blood froze.

The clown was crouched on top of the dresser. He sat perfectly still, with his eyes fixed on me. The dim light from the bedside table caused him to be bathed in shadow, but I could still make out the intricate pattern of his white silver suit. I took in the orange pompoms and red cords that adorned his torso and boots, the tassels at his ankles and wrists from which bells hung, the thick ruffles of his collar. Looking up I contemplated his face. He had a large bulbous head caked with grease paint and talcum powder. His lips were a bright red with two extending lines that crossed his eyes and peaked above his brow. The tip of his nose was painted with the same bright red, and his eyes… dear God, his eyes. They were two raging flames that burned and sparkled in the near darkness

He was… mesmerizing.

“Hello little songbird. Remember me?” he purred. His voice was a mixture between raspy and shrill, a sort of disjointed infantile yet masculine voice. It was unsettling, but at the same time perfectly reasonable and rather pleasant.

“Who are you?” I whispered. He didn’t reply. His eyes danced over me, looking me up and down as though I were an odd creature.

“Are you an Ancient?”

No answer. His head moved side to side, studying me.

“Are you an Elemental?”

Silence. More inquisitive looks.

“A… Glamour?”

His cocked his head at that, then he lifted a finger and wiggled it.

“Ding, ding, ding! Congratulations, you are kee-rrect!” he squealed.

I took a step backwards. “What do you call yourself?”

His yellow eyes twinkled and his mouth opened in a wide smile. I noticed the two large bunny-like front teeth which gave him a childlike appearance.

“I’m Pennywise” he purred.

“Pennywise” I breathed, feeling the way the name rolled off my tongue. I was completely taken by him. There was something fascinating and yet dreadful about him.

“I never met a glamour before. I am…”

“Luseres Vardanyan” he blurted out.

I felt my body go ice cold. He had said my birth name.

My mother’s name.

“How did you know?” I gasped. When he didn’t reply I took a step towards him, trying to catch a clear view of him. “Show yourself. Step into the light”

He jumped off the dresser and began sauntering towards me, slightly slouched and with his hands clasped together. Like an animal walking up looking for food, the thought crossed through my mind. He stopped at arm’s length, moving his head side to side, smiling at me. I stood my ground.

“Oh, I know a bit about you” he singsonged “but I wanna know more”

“If you’re trying to intimate me, it won’t work” I chuckled “you’re not the first shapeshifter I’ve come across”

He laughed deep in his throat, but there was no humor in his eyes. His gaze was piercing, searching… seeing.

“Oh, but none like old Pennywise I’m sure” he crooned. His hand slowly reached out to me, ghosting over my face. “I can see you. I can smell you. I can taste every drop of fear that seeps into your bones when you lay awake at night. I know why you always leave the light on. You’re afraid of the dark”

I laughed long and hard. He laughed along with me as though it were a great joke.

“Afraid? Me? Please little clown, I’m an Untouchable. I can walk through fire and not a single hair on my head will burn. Nothing can harm me. Not even you” I said, crossing my arms.

“Untouchable? Ooh that’s exciting!” he exclaimed, shaking his shoulders and making his bells jingle. “If you can’t be touched, then how can I do THIS?!”

I screamed. His large gloved hand curled tightly around my throat and a searing pain exploded in my head. I felt him push into my mind, and as much as I tried to fight against the intrusion, he easily overpowered me. I felt panic rising in my throat, and I clawed and tried to break free of his neck-breaking hold.

Suddenly he let go, and I nearly crumbled to the floor.

“Guess you just got touched” he teased, and began laughing maniacally. I took the opportunity and made a dash for the door, but he bested me by leaping in front of me, blocking my way.

“You can’t hurt me, you can’t hurt me” I kept muttering in dismay as I clumsily stumbled backwards and he mirrored my every movement. We danced around the room until my back hit the dresser and I couldn’t stop the cry of alarm that escaped my throat. Fuck. I was trapped. His hands roughly grabbed my face again and he held me in place as he pushed his nose into my neck and inhaled.

“Hmm…” he moaned, drinking me in “what you are running from, Lus?”

I felt my mind go numb as he entered me again.

“There is something… oh yes, I see it… wait, what’s that? Hmm… daddy has to do things… dirty things…”

“Get out of my head” I snarled.

“I can help you, little Lus. I can make you disappear. You will just simply…float away”

I opened my eyes and looked up at him, fighting against the pain that throbbed in my temples. Mastering every ounce of strength, I reached forward and curled my hands around his neck, right through the ruffled collar, and with my mind I pushed back against him. If my demise was about to come at the hands of an otherworldly horror, I was not going out without a fight.

“Show me what you are!” I demanded. He growled down at me and pushed further in.

“SHOW ME!”

And then I felt it, the electrifying pull of a magnet followed by a jolt as though two pieces were forcefully thrust together. I looked deep into his yellow eyes, he looked deep into mine, and then I saw…

…There was a well, an old well, and were seven blurry figures poised to strike as the clown cowered in fear… there was a paper boat racing toward its tragic destiny down a gutter swollen with rain… there were mangled bodies of children… countless bodies all piled in a bloody heap of limbs and shredded flesh… and then there were flashing images of a small budding town receding back into its past until it was no more than a small cluster of log cabins… and yet the pages of history kept flying backwards until there was an explosion in a darkened, prehistoric sky, and something came crashing down to Earth… and then… I saw It… there was darkness, and yet in the midst of that darkness were three swirling orange lights that raged and mewled, writhing in ravenous hunger…

“It was you” I whispered “you feed on them”

The clown recoiled as if burned, and the link was broken.

“You come from the darkness behind the universe, from the Prim” I said with realization. “Now I understand. That’s why this town is a portal, because it is your feeding ground. I’ve heard of your kind and where you hail from, but I never believed you to be real. They said that all eldritch creatures were dead, and yet here you are. You must be the last one left”

He stared at me for what seemed like forever. A thin line of drool began to flow copiously from the corner of his mouth.

“Who brought you here?” he asked “are you an agent of the Other?”

“No. I was brought by the Man in Black. He calls himself Walter Padick”

“Man in black” he repeated, looking away as if contemplating the name. I could almost see his thoughts racing in that huge head of his as he nodded, staring off absentmindedly. “Robert Gray… Walter Padick” he murmured, barely above a breath. Then his face lit up with realization and he turned to me once more, taking my face in his hands. This time his touch was not rough or probing, yet not exactly gentle. His demeanor was no longer antagonizing, but curious again.

“You’re a gift. A most opportune gift” he purred. He touched my hair, traced the contours of my face, and then I felt his thumb brushing over my lips. His eyes danced over me, drinking me in. Then to my surprise he brought his face close to mine, dangerously close. He nuzzled my nose and I felt drool drip onto my chin. And then, for the first time, I smelled him. The cacophony of smells that exploded in my senses was both pungent and delectable, like a toxic potion of wet earth, of hallowed ground defiled by the falling of the rain. I could smell the circus, with its jumble of buttered popcorn and all manners of tempting confections. I smelled time on him, like the smell of vintage fabric inside some old granny’s wooden chest. But beneath those scents, there was something tangy and endearingly sweet that I could taste it. It was the unmistakable scent of lemon drops covered in sugar, my favorite candy as a child. Overwhelmed, I buried my nose in the ruffles of his collar, wanting nothing more than to devour the source of that smell.

So captivated was I, so lost to this new wealth of sensations, that I did not notice when the ties of my robe slid open. In the throes of my haze I felt a gentle tickling sensation that sent shards of heat surging to my head and the tips of my toes. Had I enough sense of reality I would have realized that the pompoms of his suit were rubbing against my skin, particularly the one at his waist which was brushing against the juncture of my legs.

I let out a sound that was either a whine or a moan, and felt his body vibrate as he growled deep in his throat. His hands were at my hips, pressing into my skin as he held me against him. He was so firm, so strong…

“Never had a mate before” I heard him whisper.

At the words, I snapped out of my trance. I gasped loudly upon seeing my naked state and yanked my robe closed. I quickly looked away, ashamed, horrified… and confused.

“Open your mouth” I heard him order “let me see”

“What?” I asked incredulous.

I gasped when he opened my mouth with his thumbs and peered inside. “Hmmm… mmm…oh yes” he mumbled as he turned my head this way and that way, opening my mouth wider and trying to see deep down into my throat. He swooped in closer and sniffed.

“What are you doing?!” I babbled as his fingers prodded my mouth. He let go and I shrank back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“What the fuck was that?!” I yelled. He reached out again and this time he squeezed my jaw. I winced when I felt him pushing against its hinges as if testing out its strength.

“They’re strong” he remarked with satisfaction “oh you’ll do just nicely!”

Then to my astonishment, he jumped and clapped in sheer delight, laughing so hard it sounded like a hoarse shriek.

“What do you want from me?” I breathed “you obviously don’t want to eat me”

He kissed me. It was the most awkward and clumsiest kiss. His lips were pursed together and he pressed them against mine. He pulled back with a loud smacking sound and then he pinched my cheeks.

“Don’t go anywhere, little songbird. The fun has only just begun”

And with that, his eyes glowed blindingly bright. I took one look, and the last thing I registered was the way my knees buckled and the rustle of silk as his strong arms scooped me up.

Then, darkness.

End of Chapter 3

Click here for the next chapter!

-----

Tagged: @hello-helianthus @floatingwithpennywise

A/N: If you wish to be tagged so you don’t miss any chapters, leave me a comment or send me an ask! Please let me know what you guys think, it means SO MUCH! The smut will begin soon in a couple of chapters from here, so don’t worry, it’s coming! ;-)

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differentworlds-fiction · 7 years ago

Text

NICOLE

It was never my intention to give her the cold shoulder.

The sudden hiccup in communication between us was far from deliberate, yet my beloved maternal figure insisted otherwise.

I drew a line in the sand, Barbara concluded in one of the three-part passive-aggressive emails idling my inbox. A crippling sense of uncertainty riddled me the longer I pondered on what my reply should be. Responding back with a defensive tone would earn me nothing but a hostile talking to and me running the risk of potentially being motherless all over again. No matter how thorough the explanation and my reasonings behind failing to reach out by simply picking up the phone were, my behavior would always be deemed as ‘sketchy’.

I was on the losing end of the battle; criticized for the distance that had wedged between us.

“Our relationship is falling by the wayside because of your doing”, according to Barbara.

The statement like a harsh blow to the gut, weakening me more than she’d ever know.

Above all else, Barbara Dawson despised feeling slighted. And as mentioned in part two of her lengthy laundry list of discrepancies, we hadn’t spoken to each other in a month of Sundays.

Had it, been that long?

Sure enough, calls had been far and few between, much of that having to with the ironclad obligations taking up my schedule. In the instances where I wasn’t expected to tag along with Mya to dress alterations appointments or listening in on conference calls where the indecisive bride-to-be made changes to the reception menu, I enjoyed any bit of slumber I could take.

Being the close friend Mya Evans wasn’t the quintessential walk in the park as the public presumed it to be.

My fingers were set into motion across the phone’s hypersensitive touchscreen attempting to form some sort of response.

Silverware purposefully clanking together on the opposite side of the table prompted me to place my phone down altogether. I huffed inwardly, allowing my eyes to roam over the Caprese salad placed before me that had gone untouched. Soon the aimless din pervading Rosemary’s, an Italian hotspot for brunch located on Greenwich Avenue, became unbearable; a pair of eyes belonging to my recurring lay bore into mine.

Our shared silence bothersome, intensifying the moment he followed my stare downward.

Before I could raise my arm to pick the phone up again, he beat me to the punch and grasped it, placing it to the left of him soon afterward.

“You’re awfully quiet.” He observed, fiddling with the small portion of smoked salmon lingering on his plate.

“I’m always ‘awfully quiet'. That isn’t so out of the norm.”

He offered the barest hint of a smile; the fact that--more times than not--our lulls sufficed, resonated the longer we stared at one another.

Our relationship hadn’t been built on typical courting.

Screwing each other’s brains out and the routine outing for a meal where we happened to engage in what seemed like contrived small talk just for the sake of being polite was more our forte.

Two weekends ago, however, a dramatic shift was initiated.

I accompanied him to Complex’s cover reveal for their highly anticipated summer issue.

Solange Knowles, their cover girl, was in attendance.

Not mixing in with the crowd and taking those expected snapshots in front of a blow-up photo of the magazine cover, but DJing. Most of the partygoers, permalance journalists as well as digital content editors and record label bigwigs who tended to scope out unsigned talent at those particular events, stood around in disbelief -- flabbergasted at the carefree creative and how down to earth she turned out to be.

She was personable and coy, all while playing R&B songs from the nineties.

The sweltering rooftop gathering erupted in nostalgic delight that evening as classics from yesteryear livened the sticky summer air.

It was a night to remember for many reasons, the most significant basis being that it rendered a shift in my dealings with Troy. Although we were successful in the aspect of not labeling our circumstance as dating, his arm remained draped across the small of my back throughout the entire night. I could’ve chalked it up to him wanting his colleague to witness him acting chummy with a model, but I didn’t.

It felt genuine.

It felt right.

At the same time, it also petrified me; feeling at the very moment develop actual sentiments for this man beyond lust. I was beginning to crave him beyond the encounters within the confines of my home. I wanted to know him, wholly.

Shrugging away the flurry of thoughts cluttering my mind, I picked up my fork and dug in. In comparison to Troy’s need to eat with gusto, I ate with apathy.

“So do you plan on holding my phone hostage over there, or do you intend on handing it back anytime soon?”

“Eat first.” He instructed, indicating my full with his fork. “It wouldn’t hurt to go few minutes without it. You haven’t looked up from that thing since we ordered.”

“Something of great importance must’ve had my attention then.”

“Perhaps. What’s so important that we can’t engage in conversation while we eat?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” He let out a timid chuckle. “Humor me, Nicole.”

“My mother,” I spoke in an even tone. “Hill’s mother. I should’ve specified beforehand--”

“--But you look to her as a mother.” He gathered.

“Very much so. During my childhood, I acquired guardians. What the foster care would deem as remarkable or promising maternal figures. I had a ‘father’ too once. But Barbara Dawson is my mother. The only mother I’ve ever had.” The statement hung in the air for quite some time. Stolen glances substituted for words that failed to be expressed. Her piercing brown eyes bore into mine, longing to inquire about why a former lover’s mother had been my epitome of a maternal figure. “My biological parents were never in my life. If by some chance they were walking alongside me on the street, I wouldn’t even be able to tell you what they look like.” My attention drifted towards the table able, perusing the Alaia laser cut tote bag. Its white exterior embossed by numerous punctures reminiscent of lily-white doilies. “Up until my teens I was in and out of foster homes,” I murmured, “I harbor a bit of resentment and anger because of that.”

“Given your circumstances, you had a lot to be angry about.”

“Right.” I reaffirmed without saying too much.

I would’ve gone on a spiel about the young interracial couple in Woodhaven and told him that I was their little introduction into parenting. They treated me like porcelain--as if I came equipped with directions to treat with delicacy. By the end of my year-long stay, none of that mattered, anyway. The truth of the matter remained that whenever I reached a point of normalcy, it was ripped right away from me.

By my tenth birthday, Olcott Street out in Forest Hills became my new home.

Due to my firm assertion to call her everything but ‘mommy’, we never quite meshed.

A series of school fist fights landed me at Sister Gloria’s doorstep. Social workers responsible for the livelihoods of other children referred to the Astoria resident as a Godsend due to a number of foster children raised in her three-bedroom home. At one time I vaguely remember there being six children living there; three boys and three girls, including myself. All of us were expected to carry out daily chores once homework was completed. Wednesdays evenings were devoted to bible study. The running joke amongst the congregation Sister Gloria and her children never missed Thursday choir rehearsal; rain or shine, sleet or snow. On Sundays, Sister Gloria woke us all before sunrise to prepare us for morning service. Aside from hearing the good word she sought out that the seven of us would occupy the second row of pews inside the sanctuary, right behind the deaconesses.

I could’ve bored Troy into a thoughtless story about Sister Gloria and her ultimately ending my cycle of being passed from promising parent to promising parent. Though she didn’t quite fit the mold of the mother I yearned to have, I was blessed to have crossed paths with her.

“I’ve been through some shit,” I declared, “Internal shit. I’ve been through more foster parents throughout my childhood than you can count. It wasn’t that I was some difficult child looking to act out at any given moment. It was either they acquired too many children at once, or a pair of doting foster parents fresh out of pre-service training realized taking in some random child carrying wasn’t as easy as they perceived it to be.” I elaborated, lifting up my fork and placing a generous slice of mozzarella and basil. “You ever meet a person, and for whatever reason, you two just happen to click?”

“Sure.” Troy retorted sparingly, propping his head on his palms.

“Well, Barbara’s that person for me. From the moment Hill introduced me to his family, we clung to each other. And despite the fact that her son and I are no longer together, we’ve still maintained our relationship.”

“There was some uncertainty in your voice during that last part.”

Troy countered, his eyebrow-raising in suspicion.

“Was not.”

“Was so.”

“Eh,” I sensed where the conversation was beginning to shift eased down a bit in my seat, “How about I spare you the long-winded version?”

“Either way I’m all ears.”

Although he opted for either version, I refrained from dishing out too much.

Glancing at the practical wristwatch I donned, time was of the essence.

There was somewhere else I had to be.

Despite my best efforts to squeeze in an afternoon quickie, I was met with a docile kiss on the forehead; far more reserved than the ones we exchanged in the familiar setting of my apartment. “I have to run. Gotta finish this write-up,” He murmured against my skin, “Have fun at the bridal shower. Call me when you get back from the Hamptons.” We separated, rejoining only seconds after to kiss again.

My excruciating two-hour commute to East Hampton couldn’t have ended soon enough. Aside from fighting the urge to tell the driver that I wasn’t up for engaging in aimless conversation and being ill-equipped with nothing other than responding to work-related emails to keep me busy, regret set in the once a returning draft from the truck’s AC rushed against my skin.

Perhaps nixing a bra with the lace off-the-shoulder top I threw on at the last minute wasn’t such a good idea.

The SUV cruised onto the property along the stone pathway, parking under the porte-cochere supported by stark white columns.

Though he made the drive unbearable, I gave my thanks to the burly chauffeur and mentioned that I hadn’t to stay the whole duration of the party.

My mind was set on seeing Mya, handing her my gift, and leaving.

I arrived amidst a somewhat frantic transition from activities.

The host--chief editor of Blakewood Publishing Group and close peer of Mya--soon followed happy hour up with the gift portion of the party.

Subsequent to spotting yet another article of La Perla lingerie removed from a plain box, I decided I’ve had enough and ventured off, setting my sights on the bar.

That was, until, I discovered the bar located by the home’s waterfront entrance

At the bar, I indulged in a dirty martini.

One turned into two.

Two almost turned into three, but before beckoning over the brunette behind the bar for another martini, I acknowledged the set of eyes that had been peering over at me devouring an olive. “You’re staring?” I blurted out, sinking my teeth into the flesh of my bottom lip. Recoiling atop the lucite barstool, I pushed the empty glass aside with one hand, tossing the bare toothpick along with it.

“My apologies.” The woman with deep-set dimples uttered apologetically. The space between us lessened once she ditched her seat at the bar’s opposite end and claimed the empty seat beside me. “Eileen Darby.”

“Eileen Darby. Eileen Darby. I’ve heard that name before. Where have I heard that name? Ugh. Either I’m well past tipsy or my memory isn’t what it used to be.” I mumbled.

Delicate snickers floated through the thick air muddled with inebriated coos coming from the drunken pack of partygoers behind us.

A settled Mya sat clad on one of the multiple pieces of aqua patterned furniture, clad in a skintight midi dress that hugged every curve in her figure. Over low cut ‘do sat a personalized veil she was rumored to be given upon her early arrival; her forthcoming name change, ‘Mrs. Pratt’ was hand-stitched on its back in wide cursive.

“Media. You’re in media, aren’t you?”

“You can say that,” She pursed her lips into a thin line, nodding sparingly. “I worked in casting some years back but with some success, I’ve been lucky enough to executive produce a few hit reality shows.”

“Reality TV, huh?”

As the liquor sank in, a newfound courage emerged, fueling me to spar with a media juggernaut who force-fed dysfunctional behavior to the masses.

“Oh, a hmph from Nicole Warren. Interesting. Trust me I could detect the criticism.”

“That wasn’t criticism,” I paused, “Okay maybe it was. Could you blame a girl for having her assumptions about the madness you display on television?

“Entertainment.” She attempted to correct, earning a firm head shake.

“You consider drink throwing and belligerent women charging one another ‘entertainment’?”

“Personally no. But according to the average two million viewers any of the shows I’m the executive producer of, it is.”

“Is it really worth it though? What good is garnering millions of viewers every week when the castmates are being presented in a bad light because of the contrived situations they’ve been placed in?” I challenged, managing to not slur my words. My brow rose as Eileen and I engaged in a staredown.

Though I made it a priority to stay far from pursuing any form of reality television that involved an ensemble cast with ego inflated by meager accomplishments, I was hip to the behind the scenes antics production tended to pull on the individuals who hoped to establish themselves as household names.

The over-consumption of liquor during filming.

The contrived meetups with cast members that set the tone for anti-climatic squabbles that were always cut short due to on-site security.

In the grand scheme of things, none of the horrid behavior was worth the negative exposure.

“In some ways, it is worth it to these reality stars. They’re getting noticed-- some more than others, but still noticed nevertheless. It’s all about gaining publicity and getting the masses talking.”

“Early on in my career, I was told that all publicity isn’t good publicity.”

I learned that hard lesson in during London Fashion Week.

An after-party hosted by Burberry’s creative director left me sloppily teetering out into the paved streets with Hill guiding me into a town car parked nearby. The two of us were tossed into the throes of success at the same time and transitioned of those who were inexperienced to individuals who traveled out the country on a regular basis.

“Look at you, all drunk and shit...This ain’t you.” He reprimanded me like a parent reprimanded their child. “You’re gonna be plastered all over the internet by morning. Watch. Mark my words.”

Of course, I was too intoxicated to form a verbal reply then.

To acknowledge that I’d heard him I nodded just as my head hit up against the car’s window. Before a drunken cat nap pervaded me on the way back to our hotel, I remembered the slick utterance, “All publicity ain’t good publicity. Craig told me that.”

By that time I’d been just about sick hearing about the decrepit trainer he regarded as family.

Turns out he was right. By the morning, I was referred to as the runway model who couldn’t seem to handle her alcohol. For a week I was a public spectacle.

It was safe to say that that particular London Fashion Week, for me, was a complete dud.

I turned back to Eileen, shrugging Hill out of my thoughts. This time I traded in my tight-lipped smirk for a look of indifference.

“Maybe I shouldn’t judge all reality stars by lumping them all under the confrontational umbrella. But you have to admit they’re pretty extra. Are you okay with having your name attached to all that madness?”

She offered a halfhearted shrug, far too timid to outright answer at this point.

“Not all of my shows are centered around confrontation. I’ve co-produced a family oriented mini-series following a rapper and his family.

“Oh you mean the rapper doing damage control after his multiple affairs and secret children were brought to light?”

“Yes, but the show was still centered around family. The children he and his wife shared met the children he had outside the marriage.”

“After the mothers got into a heated argument in a restaurant parking lot.” I tutted.

“For someone to be walking runways and posing for ad campaigns, you seem to know a lot about my shows.”

“I’ve watched a few,” I confessed with an earnest shrug, recalling the four-month long hiatus I’d taken from modeling. Amidst keeping tabs on Hill as he ventured from city to city on a frequent basis and caring for myself I binged watched a marathon in awe at the behavior displayed. It was as if I were witnessing a trainwreck. No matter how much I wanted to look away, I couldn’t seem to turn the channel. “Petty fighting aside, I could see why the average viewer tunes in every week. I’m guessing you and whoever’s head of casting orchestrate the tangled storylines --”

“I’m afraid not. You’d be surprised how little production has to do with the storyline. Yes, we might set up a scene where friends may meet up somewhere to film together. And unbeknownst to them a rival of theirs may or may not have also been listed on the call sheet and mandated to show up for air time.”

“So you’re saying, you and your production staff have -- to an extent-- contrived storylines.”

“I won’t say yes, and I won’t say no. Can I ask a question?” She didn’t bother to hear my answer before starting up again. “Why do you have such reservations about reality television --”

“Not all reality tv, just the ones you’ve happened to have a hand in producing,” I quipped, easing the jab with a glib grin.

“Well, as an individual who strives to do better, may I ask what I can do in order to improve my programming?”

“I don’t work in television so I wouldn’t know.”

“But you do watch tv, my shows specifically.” She added, countering my petty jab with one of her own. “So tell me what can I do to improve my programming.”

Before dishing her the answer Eileen sought out to receive, I beckoned the bartender over and ordered another dirty martini. “For starters, you can tone it down on all the alcohol I’m certain the castmates are being provided. All that liquor only fuels bad behavior. And if the people on your shows are striving to elevate their careers to the next level, being filmed with a glass of whatever in your hand will hurt them unless are they’re looking to do business-wise is earn a collaborative deal with a bottom-shelf liquor brand. Another thing would be to allow genuine situations to happen. Not of that manipulated bullshit should fly, like ever. In a perfect world, production should let situations be organic.”

“Well said. Concise, even.” Eileen tilted her head. “Now if you were to be given a show what would be its premise?”

“I don’t know. Maybe me and a few of my girlfriends -- actual friends of mine by the way, not some people I halfway don’t know or like for the matter-- panning through our circumstances but also helping each other out at the same time. Sorting our own bullshit out, you know. Not in an unhealthy, belligerent way.”

“Funny. Mya said you’d say something like that.” Her hand adorned with gold plated midi rings motioned in Mya’s direction. “‘We’d been in close contact for some time now. I thought greenlighting eight episodes with the network about a show surrounding Mya Evans as she juggles the many hats of being a wife, career woman, and friend to an assorted group of women would be interesting. She wasn’t too fond of the other shows I’ve been attached to but she didn’t shy away from the pitch. We played with the idea of which of her friends would make it on. Your name was the first to be mentioned, of course. I think you’d be a great addition to the tv world.”

“Oh no, no, no…I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? Just imagine if you graced millions of viewers’ TV screen every week. Of course, they’ll associate you with being just another pretty face. But once you open your mouth and articulate yourself, they’ll fall in love with you.”

“Me? Of all people why me?”

Eileen sighed, tugging a sandy brown wisp behind her ear. “I don’t know you on a personal level and I’m solely going off of what I’ve read in magazines and seen in interviews. Women would reason with you--connect with you, especially if you let that prissy guard down of yours and actually open up.”

“Prissy?”

“Oh please! Has no one ever called you prissy? I’ve heard stories about you being quite the diva.”

“Assertive bitch--maybe. Classifying me as a ‘diva’ is a bit of a stretch.”

“Don't shoot the messenger, darling. I'm only telling you what I've heard from photographers and their people.”

I pursed my lips into a snide grin. “I may have had a few choice words for an unpaid intern or two in my past..”

”You’d be surprised how much gossip I’ve heard about folks in the entertainment industry that I don’t care to follow up with and determine whether it's factual or not.”

Somewhere between laughing at a joke and Eileen recalling a squabble on set where extra security had to resolve two women pulling each other’s hair out, Mya removed herself from the party’s epicenter and joined us at the bar. “I’ve seen you met Eileen.” She took a sip from her champagne flute, her other hand running down the ivory colored number she wore for today’s festivities.

Eileen cleared her throat and downed the last bit of the brown liquor on the rocks she’d been nursing throughout our entire conversation.“Yes, we’ve been having a little pow-wow over here,”

I tussled my wavy wisps. Mya’s eyes peered into mine, assessing whether there was something else on my mind, something that I wanted to say. Though our friendship hadn’t dated back as long as some of the women gifting her with the cliche silk monogrammed pajamas with her forthcoming married name on the back or high-priced jewelry Mya had the means of getting herself, she knew me well enough to know when I was holding back.

As Mya continued to assess me, Eileen stood up from the barstool and bid us farewell. We exchanged a firm handshake while Mya was quickly engrossed in a hug.

“So when were you planning on telling me about the reality show you’re doing with Eileen Darby?” I uttered the moment the cunning executive producer mingled with other guests.

“Eh, I hate the term reality show. It has such an ugly stigma. I prefer to refer to that project as a docu-series.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I quipped. “Why was my name brought up in that conversation? And don’t lie and say that it wasn’t because Eileen herself told me.”

“Can’t we talk about this sometime later? Like tomorrow when there are fewer people around.” She attempted to walk away, taking quick, eager sips from her champagne glass, but I reached forward and lightly grasped her arm.

“No, we can talk about this right now.”

“Fine. Follow me.” She spat. We ventured away from the party and headed up a flight of stairs that led to the home’s second floor. With each step made, our footsteps made corresponding clicking noises that echoed the further we trudged along the hardwood. Two wooden chairs bedecked with patterned cushions that looked to be far too firm were located at the end of the hall, along with a row of potted plants positioned by the wide, sun soaking windows. Mya and I engaged in a staring match for what seemed to be an eternity until she gave in and sat down, unfastening both of her sandals’ ankle straps, tossing the high heeled shoes aside before retrieving her glass again.

“I was offered the deal after my co-writers and I submitted a few chapters of the book. I wasn’t sure how word got out there but maybe a week after that I ran into Eileen and an OK! Magazine event. We exchanged numbers and maybe went out to lunch once or twice. She presented the idea. I was completely turned off by it. And from there, we began discussing who’d be a great fit for the show. And that’s that. Nothing else.” She spoke, tilting the champagne flute’s base upwards. “I haven’t signed off on everything yet. My attorney’s still looking over everything. But if I were to sign on, I wouldn’t begin filming until after my honeymoon.”

“Where do I come in at in this whole thing?”

“However you wish to come in at, Nicole. You don’t have to come in at all if you don’t want to. I’d respect your wishes. Convincing someone to do anything they have reservations about was never my thing. It’s your life and your reputation on the line. Television could make or break you.” She rushed out before taking another gulp of champagne. “I should be back in Manhattan a week after the wedding. Jason finally settled on a location for the honeymoon.” She said, her eyes beaming with enthusiasm. “It’s looking like Santorini for us, and thank goodness it is because he strongly considered the Maldives even though we just spent my birthday weekend there last March...” She blabbered on.

Unbeknown to her, I tuned out at the mention of the moment the Maldives were mentioned.

The South Asian island arrayed with more sandbanks that I could count was where Hill and I had spent our last vacation together. A three-day two-night stay in an overwater villa was followed by a two da yacht ride along the waters of the Indian Ocean.

We conceived there.

Our relationship reached its peak there.

The reason behind its demise, among other aspects, had originated there.

A reciprocated passion wasn’t the uncompromising issue.

Our displays of affection never dwindled, whether we were at odds or working out over the periodic rough patches of an overzealous dispute. Kissing, groping and heated lovemaking were constants that bound us; it was the glue that held us together--that joined us from the very beginning.

We were doomed from the start.

“Call me when you’ve thought it through. I guess I’ll present the idea to my other two girlfriends.”

“Hypothetically speaking, what happens after that?” Part of me wanted to prod around about the ‘other girlfriends’ that she considered to be part of the docu-series but decided against asking. Mya was fond of knowing the who’s who in the entertainment industry. From urban models to overly-privileged wives of record label execs.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to refill my glass. If I’m going to judge a damn contest based on which dress made of toilet paper is the prettiest then I need me a buzz.” She snickered before grabbing her heels and her glass. She paused and then reverted her gazed to me. “Thank you for the gift. No one’s ever gifted me with cooking classes before.” She said prior to hurrying back down the hall.

#Different Worlds #Different Worlds Fiction #fiction

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orchid-cs · 7 years ago

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Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange” film-sound analysis

STANLEY KUBRICK Stanley Kubrick was Born in New York City on July 26, 1928, where he worked as a photographer for Lookmagazine to later explore filmmaking in the 1950s directing so some of the cult movies on the cinema’s history, including Spartacus (1960), Lolita (1962), Dr. Strangelove (1964), A Clockwork Orange (1971), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), The Shining (1980), Full Metal Jacket (1987) and Eyes Wide Shut (1999) etc. Kubrick is well-known for its elegant juxtaposition of sound in his masterpieces as well as what is referred to as ‘diegetic sound’ (sound which presence is implied off screen by actions which include voices, laughs, distant sounds of objects in the story etc.).

“Kubrick really understood the rhythmic impact of two images coming together. He also had an extraordinary feel for the pace or tempo, a musical term, of a given scene.” (Scorcesse, M.)

#A clockwork Orange

A Clockwork Orange (1971) starts in its opening scene with the Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary, creating a contradiction of order that pervades society therefore listing so a number of issues the movie directs, such as violence, sexual-desire, order, ‘panopticon and panopticism’, Foucault, perception, politics, and furthermore. Kubrick is a real master in implementing a fourth dimension in his movies, by an exquisite choice of classic music (including original one as well as new synthesised versions). The choice of specifically using Henry Purcell, Ludwig van Beethoven, Gioachino Rossini, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, and Edward Elgar’s music, comes as a result of adding up to Kubrick’s main theme which is the idea of: a society of control vs. a society of freedom. What makes it even more extraordinary is the use of a ‘synthesiser’ version of the original symphony as played by Wendy Carlos.

In 1968 a Moog synthesiser was a quite unknown instrument for the time, until Wendy Carlos would remake a whole new version of Johann Sebastian Bach's six "Brandenburg Concertos” and turn it into the most influential Electronic/classical recording of all time, destroying so the separation and distinctive borders between classical and synthesised music. Her work winning three Grammys later on sent an important comment on the world, by marking so a new era where synthesiser started being considered a real instrument and no more just a bizarre tool used to make unusual robotic sounds. At the same time Dolby had long trying to fight Hollywood’s conservative attitude towards new technology, by stating that noise reduction could have a huge impact. It was Rachel Elkind, together with Wendy Carlos that managed to fix a meeting between Ioan Allen (Dolby Studios) and Kubrick to discuss Dolby’s innovative ideas. Kubrick accepted to be the experiment on these new technologies, not knowing he would shape the further sound design of Hollywood productions.

The film industry noticed the impact the sound had on a Clockwork, therefore the use of Dolby technology became the standard. Jumping back on the storyline:

Quite Shakespeare-like, Alex – who is also the narrator – uses made up words to introduce us to his “droogs”. There are four of them including Alex, and they are all in white clothes. So far, we are seeing and hearing arbitrary and extraordinary things and words, a total challenging of concepts of normality, order, language (therefore perception) and society. This distorted language and setting meets perfectly with the synthesiser version of Purcell – the distortion of harmony, melody and order. The narrator tells the audience that the kind of drugged milk they drink gives them the energy they need for the good old “ultra-violence”. By ultra-violence, Alex means rape and violence, which he and his “droogies” are so fascinated by. This power to commit acts of violence comes from the breasts of a woman (like a mother figure), but both the milk (drug) and the mother figure (nude, posing seductively) is tainted just like the way something just as pure as classical music is tainted with a synthesiser. Moving forward to another scene the gang are seen to approach a “HOME” where a married couple depicting sophistication and order live, for some more violence. By the time they ring the doorbell the first notes of Beethoven’s 5th symphony’s emerge by giving so the message that something is about to happen (furthermore the movie reveals, Beethoven as a depiction of an alarm for another violent event about to happen) What happens next is pure acts of violence and rape, where they tie and beat up the old man and force him to watch the rape of his wife, while right at this moment Carlos’ synthesised version of Purcell emerges and starts playing again, throwing the audience again in disorder, apathy and lack of humanity. Back on Korova Milk Bar which seems to be this reflecting symbolic environment where the movie goes back and forth for more ‘hidden’ symbolic and metaphorical messages and where Alex embraces his role as the narrator, the focus jumps this time to the characters around the room, who make Alex and the rest of the gang look unfit for the place with their bowties and suits. At this exact moment a woman starts singing Beethoven symphony 9 right after Purcell came to an end. As he enters the apartment building, a different synthesiser version of Purcell is heard while Alex still whistles along. And as soon as that different version is heard, the camera turns to an art piece where are penises drawn or scratched on nearly every depiction of man, and there are many other drawings on the actual art piece that make fun of the painting. This childish mocking and degrading of art is also the continuity of disorder, violence and sex motives of the film. In this case, Purcell’s different synthesiser version somehow refers more to the disruption of art and perception, and not mainly to physical violence and rape. Purcell is the holistic account of the film. As Alex enters the apartment, what is heard is another synthesiser version of Purcell, to right away show around drawn penises turned to art pieces, and drawings of them on top of real art pieces and so on, to a hysterical extent. The comment Kubrick is trying to make in this scene, is just a further depiction of disruption, disorder and mocking chaos.

“Purcell is the holistic account of the film.” (Bali, S.)

What depicts the heaviest symbolism of all scenes after the audience have have been involved in the roller-coaster of sound switch from classical to synthesised/distorted understanding finally what each one represents in this spiral of order and disorder, is Alex entering his room, giving us the first private approach, in a moment when the transition from Purcell’s “disorder” into the original version of Beethoven’s Symphony 9 happens.

What is definitely not expected in this scene is the tidiness in Alex’s room which does not fit with the image portrayed so long into the movie of him, but the order found in his surrounding now justifies Beethoven’s Symphony 9. What the order in his room is trying to depict is what was forced and the influence educated by his parents, since in this scene we also find out he still lives in his parent’s house.

The parallelism is given in the sense of Alex’s parents disrupting his inner/real nature in the same way that Kubrick uses synthesiser to distort Purcell. Alex is given as a representation of a new shaping in society, destroying so violently an imposed order by society, by the same matter that Carlos new understanding of music breaks the barrier of the untouchable classical music.

However, what one can state is also that Alex never really commits the acts of violence while Symphony 9 plays, but instead he just imagines them.

The Guillame Tell’s overture on the other hand fits the next scene perfectly as if it was made for it.

“It seemed to me a good way to satirise what had become the fairly common use of slow-motion to solemnise this sort of thing, and turn it into ‘art’. The Guillaume Tell’s Overture also seemed a good musical joke to counter the standard Bach accompaniment.” (Kubrick, S.)

Next, the film takes another turn and the scenery changes, as Alex is imprisioned for fourteen years. An above point of view is given of the prison while Guillaume Tell’s overture / opera is playing non-diegetically to glorify Alex’s fight against authority and make the audience sympathise him a bit.

This is however the first very obvious reference of Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon.

Panopticon is an architectural project for a prison, drawings of which were published on 1791 by Jeremy Bentham. The prison consists of a circular architecture, where cells are placed on the external wall facing the main central tower, where that main point would keep the surrounding cells constantly under surveillance without the prisoners knowing when they would be watched.

What Michel Foucault did later in 1975 was apply this architectural design to develop it further and apply it as a theory to modern society, in his book Discipline and Punish. “Knowledge linked to power, not only assumes the authority of 'the truth' but has the power to make itself true.” (Foucaul, M.)

Furthermore, Foucault discusses that a constant surveillance of society becomes part of the observed’s nature to a certain point that the observed becomes on its own an apparatus of surveilling himself. Regarding Alex’s time in the prison, he dedicates it to reading the Bible and imagining all sort of controversial scenes of whipping Jesus while Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade: the Sea and Sinbad’s Ship plays as the soundtrack. However all the flow of his imagination is interrupted by the priest of the prison. For the first time in the film we hear the term Ludovico Treatment, which apparently was a form of therapy, while Alex requests from the priest to be used on him. Right here, we have another reference and example of Foucault’s theory, on how Alex himself depicts an eagerness to be treated. During the whole film, Kubrick seems to mock England’s authority, by overdramatising everything from the acting to the sound use to a level that it almost becomes a parody, and this is enforced even more when the Minister of the Interior of England pays a visit to the prison to inspect furthermore the order. Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No.1 is Kubricks choice for this particular scene, which takes the mockery of England’s authority to another level, stating the obvious.

Furthermore, one of the most uncomfortable/controversial moments of the movie emerges: Alex’s treatment. During his treatment Alex is given a paralysis drug in order for him to remain static while he is forced to watch various depictions of violence and rape in the screen. At the moment Hitler appears and concentrations camps, distorted Wendy Carlos’ version of Beethoven’s symphony 9 emerges once again, diegetically. At this particular moment the audience is already been trained through the movie that that is the main trigger for disorder and that this symphony remains precious and untouched to Alex. Alex requires the interruption of the treatment while yelling “It’s a sin! He did no harm to anyone! Beethoven just wrote music!”

As for Foucault’s relation to the sound use of Kubrick, it gets its explanation and becomes more obvious by this particular moment.

Explaining the symbolisms: The “panopticon” prison and Ludovico Treatment Facility are references to the observing society. Alex - the antithesis of society has finally reached what Foucault argued as the peak where the observed makes a natural habit of his own surveillance. Beethoven - on the other hand is a representative of Alex’s nature, the real him, what makes him the unfit for the society and what they ware aiming to treat and change about him. His awareness of him destroying his own true self is what triggers him to beg them to stop. the Guillaume Tell – depicting the oppression of revolt as Alex is taken to the prison/panopticon.

By the ending of the treatment, the Minister of the Interior organises a presentation of Alex, which does indeed ring a bell, reminding one of modern society governments showcasing their authority and control with each success, but what draws really the attention here is the phrase “Observe all” a direct reference to panopticism.

The emerge of another overly theatrical scene of mockery where someone shames and violates Alex to the point of licking his shoe, accompanied in the mean time by musical non-diegetic sounds, presents a changed Alex disgusted by it all. His disgust grows bigger when they put a woman only wearing underpants in front of him, where the idea of bare breasts emphasises the disgust he feels. However on this particular moment a non-diegetic synthesized version of Purcell emerges to depict the sexual desires of Alex, but however he does not respond to that desire anymore. Regarding his return home, he shortly after arriving finds out someone replaced him in his room, and his parents do not want anything to do with him anymore. As we empathically feel Alex’s sadness the Guillaume Tell’s overture starts playing non-diegetically, depicting once more since the prison scene the oppression of revolt and the winning of authority. Lately, Purcell emerges once more when Alex get confronted by Dim and George (his used to be droogs), at this moment they try to drown him and hit him with a truncheon, but however the interesting element here is that the truncheon sound starts interacting by distorting the music on each hit, and since Purcell depicts Alex, we get a portrayal of a weaker Alex. The movie seems to be taking a circular curve, turning back to the places which are already fmiliar for the audience such as the home where Alex raped a wife in front of her husband, for Alex to find out the writer is crippled and his wife died. Alex relaxes taking a bath and joining for dinner while the writer drugs him. The writer, mr. Alexander, is in fact part of a party which is strongly against the Ludovico treatment method, considering it highly inhumane. What the whole plan consists is on making Alex suicide in order to show how dangerous and unbenefitable the treatment is, but also to benefit on the scandal to replace the actual government.

Beethoven’s 9th symphony emerges once more ripping Alex off his humanity, and since the version playing it’s the synthesized/sitorted one, it is depicting the corruption of the party, who hypocritically are against inhumanity but are at the same time sacrificing Alex.

Next is a vibrant version of Purcell playing while Alex wakes up to find his parents present in the hospital, regarding an accident, of him throwing himself from the window. However this version of Purcell depicts also the change in Alex, following tests done by a psychiatrist. However since Alex mentions dreams he had about someone interacting with his brain, one can fairly suggest that another treatment has taken place this time without any consent. What follows later, is a visit from the Minister of the Interior who recites his prepare speech and continues by making Alex knee to his power.

The movie ends with a pair of gigantic speakers playing the finale of the original version of Beethoven Symphony 9 while Alex smiles in relief while he is dro wn back in his imagination of raping and the society applauding him. However, one will forget the crimes of Alex and instead be cheered on the side of the ruling party, while he himself becomes a tool of propaganda and bows down to authority.

As a conclusion, Purcell and Beethoven are the holistic accounts of the movie. The music choice of Kubrick is creating indeed paradoxes and contradictions of being outlandish, disturbing and at times comforting. What the electronic sounds of Carlos’ synthesizer did was giving the movie it’s 4th dimension of atmosphere. Therefore the music was integral to the story. The comforting order scenes were given by the original classics while the disturbing violent ones were alerted by Carlos’ treatment of the originals by distorting them making these scenes even more controversial. Lastly, Kubrick’s genius treatment of implementing the panopticism theory to explain governmental surveillance and how we suppress instincts due to a panopticon surveillance, adds up as the strongest comment on his film, ending it with a strong statement of control and authority as we observe Alex bow down and accept becoming a tool of propaganda for the leading party. ___________________________________________________ #REFERENCES

Scorcesse, M. Available at: http://old.bfi.org.uk/sightandsound/filmmusic/scoring.php Accessed: [ 11 April 2018] Macris, A. The Immobilised Body: Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange Accessed: [11 April 2018] Foucault, M. (1995) Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Vintage Accessed: [11 April 2018]

#Bibliography

Foucault, M. (1995) Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Vintage McDougal, Stuart Y. (2003) Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. 125. Google Books. Google Inc. Web. 21 May 2016. .

Ciment,M. (2003) Kubrick: The Definitive Edition

Burgess,A. (1988) A Clockwork Orange (Harmondsworth: Penguin,)

Polan, D. (1989) “Jack and Gilles: Reflections on Deleuze’s Cinema of Ideas”, Art and Text, vol. 34 , pp. 23-30 Barr, Ch. (1972) “Straw Dogs, A Clockwork Orange and the Critics”, Screen, vol. 13, no. 2 Duncan, P. (2003). Stanley Kubrick: The Complete Films. McDougal, Stuart Y. (7 July 2003). Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange Volkmann, M. (16 October 2006). "A Clockwork Orange" in the Context of Subculture Powrie, P. and Stilwell, R. (2017). Changing Tunes: The Use of Pre-existing Music in Film. London. McQuiston, K. (2013). We'll Meet Again: Musical Design in the Films of Stanley Kubrick. p.Chapter 7 Musical Dialectics and the More Troublesome Beethoven. Geselowitz, M. (2016). The Masterpiece Behind the Music in A Clockwork Orange - IEEE - The Institute. [online] Theinstitute.ieee.org. Available at: http://theinstitute.ieee.org/tech-history/technology-history/the-masterpiece-behind-the-music-in-a-clockwork-orange [Accessed 30 Apr. 2018]. #LIST OF IMAGES: fig.1, McDonald, N. Meet Wendy Carlos: Godmother of Electronic Music and Badass Trans Woman. [image] Available at: https://thump.vice.com/en_ca/article/53agdb/meet-wendy-carlos-godmother-of-electronic-music-and-badass-trans-woman [Accessed 5 May 2018]. fig.2, [image] Available at: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/d7/53/f7/d753f70524fa077121006012de3ecbce--a-clockwork-orange-prison.jpg [Accessed 5 May 2018]. fig.3 Bentham, J. , panopticon. [image] Available at: http://www.ethics.org.au/on-ethics/blog/july-2017/explainer-the-panopticon [Accessed 5 May 2018].

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