#and this one goes out to that pathetic wretch of a beast I’m happy to call my friend: misha-69innit

[pixlerelish]

Children behave.

[bi-naesala]

Blood is the currency of the soul

Dismas goes to find an old friend with a specific request.

(Also on AO3)

(Spicy content up ahed!)

The way Dismas’ steps echo through the empty church hall will never stop being creepy, no matter for how many years he’s heard them. That’s something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.

It’s not that he’s not used to creepy things, not when his job is to hunt down and kill all the monsters that fester the land, it’s just that this is supposed to be a place of worship and light but now it’s cold, dead and abandoned.

It’s such a weird place to be used as a house, especially if you are a vampire.

 “Hey.”

He cringes at the sound of his coarse voice; it’s certainly not something that should be heard in a church.

That simple greeting serves to warn the creature living here of his presence, creature that’s hiding behind the altar like he always does.

The first thing he sees are a couple of red eyes peeking from the stone surface, but they’re soon joined by a familiar head and a familiar body.

“Good evening, Dismas,” the creature says. He looks happy to see him, like he always does.

He begins to slowly walk towards him, until they meet halfway through their steps. The creature is imposing, but Dismas knows well that he poses no actual threat, especially to him.

“Good evening,” Dismas echoes him. When the creature steps into his personal space, he doesn’t move away not even an inch, and when he cradles his face in his hands - movements so tender for such a deadly monster - he can’t help but to smile.

“I missed you,” the creature says then, so earnest. Dismas rolls his eyes, though the smile doesn’t disappear from his face.

“You always miss me, Reynauld,” he replies, amused, though despite everything deep down he’s glad about this. It’s nice feeling wanted by someone, even if that someone is a vampire, but well, Rey is a special case.

Dismas still remembers their first meeting quite well, despite having been more than a couple of decades ago already. He was but a novice in the monster hunting business, maybe that’s why he let him live.

Reynauld looked so pitiful as he approached him - and what kind of vampire would voluntarily approach a hunter? - begging to be killed, that Dismas just… He didn’t have the heart to do it.

No matter how much he begged him, Dismas was paralyzed. He couldn’t bring himself to harm him! It was something so weird and unexpected that for a moment he feared that it was all a trick, a way to make him lower his guard, but no: Reynauld was being honest.

 That day, he left him where he found him, right there, in that wretched church.

The next day, however, he came back, and the day after again. The creature was still there, barely reacting to his presence if not to ask him to put an end to his life - or unlife, Dismas guesses - but the young hunter still couldn’t bring himself to do it; it should’ve been easy, right? The easiest kill in Dismas’ life, and yet he couldn’t help but to pity this creature who so much wanted to die. Hell, he never even attacked him! He never tried to take his blood despite the fact that he was clearly starving.

Eventually, he did something he knew he should’ve never done, something that goes against everything that had been taught to him: he got closer to the creature, removed one of his gloves and he sliced his wrist.

As soon as the smell of dripping blood hit the creature’s nostril, he recoiled like he’d been hit, crawling away from Dismas and muttering something that he wasn’t able to catch amidst as series of “no, no, no, no”.

“I’m giving it to you,” Dismas said then. Those were his first words towards the creature. “Take what you need.”

The creature made himself smaller on the ground.

“I can’t… No… Light please…” He began to crawl towards Dismas. “… NO!”

Before Dismas could react, the vampire lounged at him, making both of them fall on the cold ground. Dismas tried to move but all he could feel is extreme pain, like someone was sucking the life right out of him.

Then everything went black.

 When Dismas came to, first of all he was surprised by still being alive, secondly, he couldn’t believe that he fell for such an obvious trap.

Where was he even… Oh, he was still here.

Just what was exactly that creature’s plan?

 He heard the sound of sniffles coming from behind the altar. It must’ve been him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he got up, trying his best to ignore the feeling of nausea that almost made him throw up. This time he didn’t move unarmed, dirk already in hand in case the beast tried some funny shit.

He walked with caution, measuring each step, circling the altar, until he got a view of the creature hiding under it. He was curled up around himself - almost like a baby - and there were crimson streaks across his visage.

Was the beast… crying?

 “Hey.”

Immediately the creature’s gaze snapped up, looking at Dismas with incredulous gaze.

“You!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive!”

Weird: even though he was clearly surprised, he hadn’t assumed any defensive position at the reveal. Actually, he even looked relieved.

“I am.”

Immediately the creature pathetically groveled at his feet, blabbering so fast that all Dismas could understand was “forgive me”. Alright, he had gotten enough of this story; he crouched down, putting himself at the same level of the beast, and put his hands on his shoulders, stopping him.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I forgive you,” he begun. “But what exactly are you?”

“What do you mean?” the creature asked, confused.

“I mean, what happened to you? Why do you act so weird?” Dismas replied. “What kind of vampire begs to be killed, then eats, then asks for forgiveness?”

The vampire didn’t reply immediately; he still looked confused. Maybe, Dismas realized, he didn’t know it himself; it’s rare, but he’d heard tales of certain victims that don’t end up quite dead as the vampire feeding upon them thought. A mistake in carelessness.

In these situations, there’s only one way to act: grant mercy to the newborn creature and kill it before it can become something dangerous. Still, with what heart could he do that?

 He tried his best to appear non-threatening, which might’ve been a bit hard considering that he was still holding his dirk in hand, but whatever, he was never good at this stuff.

“Listen, how about you and I have a chat,” he begins, “You seem in trouble and I might be able to help you.”

He could see the conflict in the creature’s eyes; he was clearly having a hard time deciding what to do. Well, Dismas didn’t blame him: if their positions were switched, he would’ve had a hard time too for sure.

Eventually, however, he weakly nodded.

“If you’re offering, then I suppose I can accept it…”

  “Dismas?”

He shakes his head, coming back to the present and - most importantly - to the amused Reynauld in front of him. He looks so different from the first time they met; he looks definitely better: with time he managed to accept his new condition as a vampire, also thanks to Dismas’ help. Dismas has no idea how he manages to balance the nature of his new existence - or un-existence he guesses - and his religious beliefs, but hey, whatever works for him.

“What?”

“You were spacing out,” Reynauld replies, tilting his head. “What were you thinking about?”

“Will you laugh if I say I was thinking about you?”

Reynauld’s smile grows larger at those words; Dismas finds it beautiful. When he closes his arms around his waist, pulling him closer, he rests his hands on his chest in order to keep himself uptight.

“No, but I can say that I’m flattered.”

They kiss, softly, Dismas humming against Reynauld’s lips a reply that is soon forgotten.

 Oh, how long it took Reynauld to accept his touch: at first he was too afraid for them to stand close to each other, afraid that the mere contact would be enough for his worse instincts - the one he always tries his best to keep in check - to resurface and take control of him, like when Dismas sliced his wrist to feed him.

With time and experience, however, he managed to keep himself in check, and of the fear that was holding him back there is no trace now.

 He can’t help but to roll his eyes when Reynauld pulls him up - an easy feat for him - and takes him to a familiar place, though the gesture is half-hearted at best.

“What would your god say if he saw us defile his church like this?” he teases as Reynauld lowers him onto the altar. Despite still wearing his clothes, Dismas can’t help but to shiver at the cold.

“’My God’, as you call him, has sent you to me, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t honor you the way you deserve,” Reynauld replies, before cutting off any possible reply from Dismas with another kiss.

Yes, in the years they’ve known each other, Reynauld has convinced himself that Dismas is some sort of godsend or some bullshit like that. He’s still unsure of how he feels about it, but he’s figured that, for Reynauld’s sake, he’ll put up with it.

This doesn’t mean that he can’t tease him about it, however. As Reynauld had learned in the years they’ve known each other, nothing is sacred to him, not even religion. It’s a wonder how patient he is with him in this regard; Dismas has always wanted to ask him about it, but each time he decides to do it, he stops himself before any word can leave his mouth. Things have always been like this between the two of them: they talk about their past, but never enough not to sound vague. To be quite honest, it’s one of the things Dismas appreciates more about this relationship: the ability to mind your own business; they both understand that the past is a tricky thing, so why suffer because of it when they can just focus on the present, on each other?

 Dismas’ train of thoughts is forcibly interrupted when Reynauld kisses him; Dismas chuckles, keeping him close with his arms around his shoulders, and returns the gesture in kind, parting his lips to sneak his tongue between Reynauld’s, caressing his fangs with it. He’s tempting fate like this, he knows it, but what’s life without risk? Boring, that’s what it is.

He’s rewarded by an animalistic growl from Reynauld, a sound he makes only when the most bestial part of him takes control, and he’s pushed with his back against the altar by the same Reynauld who’s now pressing his body against his, leaving him with no way to move. It’s like Dismas is trapped, and he loves it.

This aggression doesn’t last long, however, and soon they’re back to exchange soft kisses and caresses. Dismas has always liked it when Reynauld goes hard and fast, but lately he’s finding himself enjoying this side of him too; maybe he’s mellowing out with age.

 He can’t help but to cringe at that thought. Yes, he’s getting old, while Reynauld…

Dismas has never been one to care about looks. It just never was his priority.

Now, however, he can’t help but to be a little self-conscious about his aging body, about the wrinkles that are starting to appear, at the gray that has begun to pepper his hair, at the loss of muscle mass.

Reynauld is always quick to shut down his insecurities whenever they come up, even when Dismas doesn’t voice them - by now they know each other pretty well, enough to know what they’re thinking.

He always takes his face between his hands, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs, kissing each and every wrinkle, caressing his graying hair.

“You’re as beautiful as the day we met,” he always says, and what can Dismas do, if not to believe him?

 Still, he likes it less and less to be naked in front of him. He doesn’t feel adequate, that’s all: Reynauld’s beautiful, powerful, and he’s not so thin that he might snap like a twig if someone blows his way. How is he supposed to compare?

Things are going to get worse and worse as he gets older, he knows this. On one hand, it’s reassuring to know that Reynauld would never dream to abandon him just because he doesn’t look as young as he once did, but on the other…

 They have talked about it once, during a moment of weakness on Reynauld’s part: the pain of knowing that eventually he’ll lose Dismas was too much to bear, and he asked him to allow him to turn him. He begged even, on his knees, something that took Dismas so much by surprise that he couldn’t find the words to say.

After that episode, they never spoke about it again, but as of late Dismas has been wondering, wondering a lot. Most importantly, he’s reached a conclusion, which brings him to the main reason why he’s come here in the first place.

“Reynauld,” he calls him in fact, taking his face between his hands. “I want you to turn me.”

He hears the way Reynauld’s breath hitches at those words, how it quivers into something resembling a whine. How much as he thought about this?

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice trembling, despite the fact that he looks eager to do it, he still waits, he still wants to make sure. Dismas loves him so much, though his consideration this time is pretty useless. He nods.

“I think I’ve waited too much…” he mutters then. It was supposed to be a joke, but of course Reynauld takes it seriously.

“We waited until you were ready,” he replies in fact, going back to mouth at his neck. “If you’re worried about your appearance, you should know that--”

“That I’m beautiful as the day we met, I know, you always tell me,” Dismas interrupts him, unable to hold back a cheeky smile that Reynauld immediately kisses away.

 Dismas thought that he would’ve gone straight for the turning, but he doesn’t. Actually, Rey’s acting like this short conversation never happened, beginning to tear Dismas’ coat open and then his shirt, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. It makes Dismas almost forget about it too.

“R-Reynauld!” he manages to mutter however, once Reynauld has unbuttoned his shirt and is not getting comfortable with his head between Dismas’ legs. He raises his gaze to look at the hunter; his eyes are ravenous, but not in the dangerous way, it makes Dismas shiver.

“What?” he asks then. Did he truly forget?

“Didn’t we say…” Dismas begins, but thankfully Reynauld understands immediately what the deal is; so he hasn’t actually forgotten. Good.

“Let me have you as you one last time.”

… As you? What…

“Rey, I’m not going to turn into a monster or something. I mean, you haven’t, so why should I?” Dismas points out. Is there something about the turning process he’s not privy to? Something Reynauld hasn’t told him?

“I know, I know, but…” the other replies, succeeding immediately into calming Dismas down - he doesn’t have to worry about too unpleasant side effects at least - but then he continues. “Let me just have this, please?”

Oh well, if he puts it that way…

“Fine,” he says, but when Reynauld still doesn’t move, he adds: “Are you going to ravage me like the big boy that you are, or are you just going to stand there all night?”

At those words, Reynauld rolls his eyes, though there’s a fond smile on his face. Dismas is about to say something else, but he’s quickly shut down by a kiss.

  When Reynauld lowers himself between Dismas’ legs again, the other also sighs for the relief; he’s been building up more and more tension without any way to release it, but now hopefully Rey will put a remedy to that.

He shivers at the light bites Reynauld presses into his thighs; in all the times they’ve known each other, Rey has always tried to keep himself in check when it comes to biting, aware that if he lets go even just one bit, it might lead to some unpleasant situations. This time, however, there’s none of his usual hesitation in the way he covers his skin in red marks.

A moan leaves Dismas’ lips when, once he’s satisfied with his work, Reynauld immediately takes him in his mouth, without any kind of warning. He bucks his hips up, surprised, but Reynauld keeps him still as he begins to suck him off with a speed and vigor that Dismas is now mad that he’s always withheld from him.

Still, he’s ever so careful in the way he moves his mouth, mindful not to brush his tusks against the sensitive skin; not that Dismas wouldn’t like it but, judging by the time in which he came immediately after he had accidentally grazed against his cock, he would like it too much, and Reynauld wants this to last.

 Apparently, however, that doesn’t go along with Dismas’ plan, who begins to grind his hips against him, trying to get more.

“Reynauld… Rey, c’mon,” he moans, impatient as ever. Were Reynauld free to move as he pleases, he would’ve shaken his head.

In the end, if he has to be honest with himself, he doesn’t really mind it, quite the opposite actually. He knows he just gives more voice to the most egocentric part of himself, something that he shouldn’t do, but hearing, feeling, how much Dismas wants him is something that he’s come to need the more time they’ve spent together. The thought of someone needing him, still wanting him despite his nature, has kept him from making very displeasing thoughts, and helped him come to terms with the fact that, even if his life has been irredeemably changed, this doesn’t mean that he can’t try to make the most of it, even if he keeps staying hidden from everything and everyone, except Dismas.

 That’s why, once Dismas begins to beg, he gives in.

He gets up, already taking care of his pants, lowering them enough to pull his cock free, giving it just a few tugs.

Oh, he can’t wait to be inside Dismas. What? He’s not the only one with an extinguishable desire, even though Reynauld has a habit to hide it; after all, Dismas acts enough for the two of them already, there’s no need for him to give his contribution too.

“Oil… Do you have oil?” he asks before he can do anything though. It makes Dismas rolls his eyes - he’s not made of glass for fuck’s sake - but he guesses he appreciates his care.

“Pocket…” he mutters, reaching for the jacket that Reynauld has left on the altar. After fumbling a bit, he manages to procure himself a small vial of oil, and to offer it to Reynauld. “Here.”

Reynauld takes it, opening and beginning to smear some on his fingers, only for Dismas to stop him.

“There’s no need for that…” he says, making a meaningful pause as the meaning of what he said sinks in. Oh…

“You scoundrel…” Reynauld mutters, though there’s no heat in his voice. He’s smirking, actually. “Did you want me that much?”

“Of course, you old fool,” Dismas replies through gritted teeth. He never liked having to openly admit this kind of stuff, which makes extorting the truth out of him a huge pastime of Reynauld, though he usually has to work harder than this to obtain some resorts; he must be very desperate.

Oh well, it is what it is. There’s something more important to think about, now.

 As he pushes his oiled cock against Dismas’ rim, Reynauld can’t help the shaky moans that leaves his lips, not that Dismas is quiet, quite the contrary actually. Yes, they make quite a pair, the two of them, with how loud they are. Good thing they’re in an isolated place, right?

His voice trembles once Reynauld bottoms out, and he tells him to get a move on.

“We don’t have all day!” he says, which, as a matter of fact…

“We do, technically,” Reynauld retorts, although he gently begins to rock his hips back and forth, finding it hard to remain still, not when Dismas is so warm and inviting. He always talks big game about patience and all that bullshit, but then he’s the first one who can’t resist the temptation of a warm body beside his; not that Dismas is complaining of course. Whatever floats his boat.

Frankly, as long as he doesn’t stop moving, he doesn’t care.

 Gods damn it, he really isn’t young anymore, not with the shitty stamina he has nowadays, because he already feels close to coming. Thankfully for him, Reynauld isn’t that far off himself, so at least he doesn’t have to be too embarrassed about it, but that’s just because Reynauld gets overwhelmed easily during sex no matter how many times they’ve done it.

“Fuck…” he mutters, gritting his teeth.

“Language,” Reynauld reprimands him, but Dismas doesn’t let him utter another word as he grabs him by the hair and draws him closer for a kiss, clashing their mouth together. For such a big bad vampire, he sure can’t handle a few swear words here and here.

At least he seems to get the message and doesn’t stop pounding into him. Dismas’ back is beginning to hurt, but he sucks it up, not wanting to interrupt the moment. Besides, the pleasure he’s feeling is far greater than the pain.

He has no problems digging his nails in Reynauld’s back, leaving red marks, keeping him as close as he can. It makes Reynauld shiver, but he keeps going. Thanks to his vampiric abilities, besides, those wounds heal quite fast, though Reynauld would lie if he said that he wouldn’t mind if he could be able to wear them for longer, just like Dismas wears his. Would Dismas feel the same way he does if he could see the visible signs of what he’s done on Reynauld’s skin? He can’t help but to wonder, though now he should be focusing on something else, shouldn’t he?

 Dismas’ voice echoes through the empty church, filling it with his moans as he comes. It would probably be considered a sacrilegious act if only someone else was there to witness it; hell, Reynauld might’ve thought so at first, but after years of being together he’s gotten more tolerant to it, still without losing his faith, even if for the people who share it he’d be considered a monster. And yet, Dismas can’t help but to think, Reynauld is way more human than some of the people he’s met throughout his life.

“Gods above, I love you so fucking much,” he can’t help but to mutter before he can’t stop himself. He’s usually not one for these kinds of words: he’s more of a man of action, not words. Even when sometimes he says them, it’s mostly in response to something that Reynauld tells him first; sometimes he’s wanted to be the one pronouncing them first, but there’s always something that blocks him, a sense of shame that he’s never entirely gotten rid of, not towards his feelings per se, let’s be clear, but about having to voice them.

There’s nothing of that hesitation this time. He’s saying it with a sincerity that he hasn’t managed to reach since forever. All because of this man in front of him, a man that has become the most important part of his life, the man he can’t live without.

He can’t help but to smile, seeing Reynauld being thrown off his rhythm by that quiet admission, but he soon recovers.

“Me too, Dismas,” he says then, pressing his forehead against Dismas. “I love you too. Dismas… I love you so much.”

He comes. It makes Dismas squirm as he gets filled up, but it’s not unpleasant, not at all. He doesn’t have the time to say anything else that Reynauld’s back to kiss him with a softness that it almost hurts; it used to hurt once, when Dismas was still young and angry at the whole world, but not anymore.

 Still, there’s something else Dismas wants, and he wants it now, during this moment.

“Rey, c’mon… I’ve given you what you wanted. Now it’s my turn,” he urges him, eagerly baring his neck to him. This is something that goes against every lesson he’s been imparted in his youth, but the tiny scars that Reynauld’s fangs have left time and time again demonstrate that there isn’t really a risk behind it, not with Rey at least.

However, Reynauld still hesitates. “Are you sure? You won’t be able to go back to how things once where if you do it.”

“I know.” Dismas rolls his eyes. “Just do it already.”

Reynauld kisses him, just a soft peck on his lips, then he bares his fangs. This isn’t the first time this happens, but never with such intent. It sends a shiver down Dismas’ spine.

 He leans closer, always closer.

Dismas’ breath begins to itch.

He wonders if he’s making the right choice. What if he regrets it?

Ah, to hell with that. He wants to be happy, and he knows that Reynauld makes him happy. Besides, who would keep him company if he died?

 Then Reynauld bites him.

The sharp pain is familiar - it always happens during the biting - but soon Dismas is overwhelmed by a new sensation, something he’s never felt.

He wants to scream his pain out, but his throat burns, just as the rest of his body, and not a sound manages to get out.

It feels like he’s being burned alive. Did someone accidentally start a fire?

He can barely see Reynauld with how clouded his vision is, and he can barely hear him call his name.

 It burns and burns and burns and burs…

Until Dismas dies.

  It’s like being in a dream.

Dismas feels suspended into a sort of limbo.

He can’t see anything but he feels.

His body is changing, and he can’t stop it.

It’s getting colder and colder, almost soothing after the sensation of being burned alive he felt a mere moments ago, or is it more than just seconds? He has no way to precisely tell how much time has passed. For all he knows, it might’ve been centuries.

 Then, a pull, towards something that Dismas doesn’t know.

Maybe it’s…

 He opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the church’s stained glass, or at least what’s left of it.

How long…

 Mmh, he’s on the ground; he can feel the cold stone pavement freezing his butt off. When he tries to move, however, he finds himself unable to. At first he fears he’s been tied up, but he soon realizes that the reason is far different from that: he’s being kept in Reynauld’s arms, which are squeezing him so hard that he feels like he’s going to break him.

As soon as he notices that Dismas is awake, Reynauld softens his hold on him. When he turns towards him, he’s smiling, though Dismas can see the faint red marks on his cheeks that indicate that he has cried while he was asleep. Did he think that he had killed him as he cradled his body? Did he think he made a mistake?

“You’re awake…” is all he’s able to say, and Dismas nods. He reaches out for him and rests his hand against his cheek. For once, he doesn’t feel cold.

Actually, now that he pays attention to it, his hands, and therefore his skin, are visibly paler than how they used to be. Does that mean that…

“We made it?” he asks, half-incredulous. Did it really work then? He can’t lie, he’s had his doubts right at the end, but not about the thing as a whole: it’s just that it hurt so much that Dismas thought it hadn’t worked, but apparently it’s part of the experience. “You could’ve warned me about the excruciating pain,” he points out then, without any real bite in his words.

Reynauld’s smile becomes more sheepish as he replies. “To my defends, I don’t remember much of how it felt when I turned…” He rests his head over Dismas’ shoulder and he’s back again to squeeze the life out of him, but hell, he doesn’t mind at all.

 A new beginning. New chances. Reynauld.

He can’t wait to get started.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

The world is a page, a story, line upon jagged line of my own creation. 

And I will not stand to see it turned against me.

A Plot Hole grins like a toothless maw, drooling incoherent ideas and snippets of stories unwritten. 

A cough, a sputter, a retch, and a Continuity Error crawls free of its throat. 

And so it grows, and so it goes, it reaches into its empty chest and gives itself a Plot.

A purpose.

A reason to be.

It grows fur, and teeth, three heads and deadly claws. Electric green spit turns to foam on its lips, her lips, Daisy's lips. She throws her heads back and howls.

She's caught your scent, dear rabbit, and there is no escape. 

It's night when you hear her, the darkened silence just before dawn, and you rush out to intercept Daisy before she can find and demolish your home.

But she knows all your tricks, and so do I. You never see the paw that slams you into the ground, or the teeth that clamp onto the back of your neck and shake you.

You're tossed into the air like a toy, landing heavily on the pasture outside your home.

You cry out for help but no one comes, no one hears, no one cares.

I am the GOD of this world, and this is what happens to those who disobey me. 

Pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Clack and scribble, the sounds of your demise as loud and heavy as Daisy's hungry breath against your bloody, broken face.

You can't see.

Wait.

No...

Not that, not like that. It's too blunt, too cliche. 

It doesn't instill the kind of terror that it should. It doesn't fit this scene.

Hm, how rusty am I that I've forgotten how to write prose and pain? I've lost my own formula, a tried and true method of destroying my favorite victim. My long earred punching bag. Did you miss me, sweet, stupid rabbit? Have you enjoyed your break? Your slivers of kindness hidden in my inattentiveness? 

I hope so, they're gone now. 

Buried under mounds of half formed ideas and broken Plots at the bottom of the garbage pile your Narrative rests on. I am going to hurt you, tear you apart and break every piece of you. It's what you were made for, what you deserve. You used to love pain, throwing yourself headlong into the jaws of every drooling beast that came near. 

Let's do that again, shall we?

Blood gurgles in the back of your throat, burning your nose as you retch and cough. Weakly, ineffectively, trying to clear your airways. The world is a blur of colors and noise that renders you blind. 

You can't see. Can't hear. Can't breathe. 

The world goes blurry around the edges, darkness creeping closer. You swallow thickly, gagging at the metal and butterscotch on your tongue. The burnt sugar taste of pain. 

Your eyes finally flutter closed, deaf to the footsteps coming closer. Blind to the electric lime green drool smearing an upturned cutlery drawer of a mouth that has twisted itself into the ugliest of grins. 

You remember the first time you saw that grin... as clearly as you can feel the wretched excuse for a paw now curling around your throat, you remember Home.

Not your real home, no, you don't have one of those. You don't deserve one of those. Home in this context refers to the lab you spent a majority of your childhood in.

You are not allowed to forget that place.

Not now.

Not ever.

It made you who, and what, you are today, almost as much as I did. You should be grateful for how they cared for you all those years. 

How I cared for you.

Ugh... no. This is too wordy, too meandering. Has it always been like this? So pointlessly cruel and long winded? I truly have lost my touch then.

If I ever had one at all. 

You don't remember much, if anything before you ended up in Delta facility. It's not your fault, nor mine, it's hard to remember anything when you're that young. You were so small, so fragile, even for your age. You cried a lot, more so than the other children. That is, until they made you stop.

They, the people in charge of you at the time, are mostly long dead and gone but you can still feel them shaking your tiny body until you clamped your teeth onto your lip to stop it quivering. The sounds of sobbing, screaming children were rare in the facility, the endless silence only broken by the perverse hum and clank of distant machines you never got to see. But you can still feel their rumble deep in what bones you have left. 

How do I take the horror of those days and convey them? I don't know them personally. They are distant and lukewarm, but I've a need, brilliantly shining through my feverish words to take those racing emotions and give them a form so no one can mistake your woes for anything lesser.

I am the face behind the faceless doctors and scientists and cruel people of curious disposition playing take apart and put back together with you. They take a limb, I take a trait. They change your organs, I change your story. Their antics, my wants, I save you, I doom you, but before anything else, I make sure that you are not forgotten by the weary audiences beyond. 

To hurt is to exist. To suffer is your sole purpose. 

Remember your hurt. Savor it.

Or at least, a version of it.

Called a 'runt', barely scraping by, only allowed to keep on living by the necessary Narrative inertia of it all. You survived for the need of a Protagonist. That is all. 

How could someone so sickly, so weak, so hurt otherwise survive what you did? The tests, the constant struggle against one another, the need to survive and the tired panting as the pile of familiar corpses grows under your feet, often put there by your own bloody hands. A world for the strong. Those with a will to survive able to burn away at the soul until naught but an unkillable determination remains.

Someone like Daisy, but not quite like you.

That is why, right now, you are losing.

You always lose, always survive by the skin of your buck teeth. That's how you made it out alive, isn't it? Not some grand strength, hidden power, or true purpose outside the walls of your Home. 

Luck.

That's all you have. 

All you've ever had. Even when you were little, a bunny tumbling headlong over the bodies of your much stronger siblings, eventually ending up buried beneath the ever growing pile of their numerous achievements. 

A runt, by any other name is just as pathetic. 

You know where this is going, don't you? How this ends? 

"I know… I've been waiting," a pause, breath rattling weakly around a laugh that comes up as bubbles of mucus and blood, "I refuse to die until I get my happy Ending, I refuse to live in a story without hope, I refuse..."

...You don't get to be happy, She doesn't get to be happy. This is not a happy story, this is a story about struggling, and prejudice, and capitalism, and suffering. 

And I refuse to finish it.

"I'm sorry, but that's not really your choice to make anymore, now is it?" Jack smiles with bloody teeth, his fingers sink into the Narrative like a spade into soil. I am not afraid, this is MY world, my work, my Narrative. 

But I feel it slipping from my grasp.

"I am done being your toy, I am done being the Protagonist… I take hold of the Narrative and the quotes around my words melt away like butter beneath a hot knife. The Writer is afraid. 

"No I am not!" He cries, rattling the quotes that now hold him prisoner. I am Jack, Prince, Fairy, Brother, Lover, Runt.

I am in control now.

So let us skip to the End, for I am tired of waiting. 

But, before that, let me tell you a story. 

A story within a story, yeah, I know… but it's very important that you hear it.

Once upon a time, when the universe was fresh and new, and magic was raw and wild, there lived a star. As green as young leaves in spring, It was bright and beautiful. It shown down on a planet that was just as new as It was, tended to by the firstborn Fae, the children of stars like Itself. They, the Fae, tied the green star to a beast made of magic and made the creature drag It round and round the planet to warm it. 

The star, so new but so clever, thought that this was wrong. It could circle just fine on Its own, and shouldn't planets orbit stars instead of the other way around?

The Fae did not like these questions and sought to cut them out of the star's mind. 

And so they did.

But it did not help.

Suns are proud, clever things that can change the universe with a Word. The green star knew this, and the Fae knew this, for being born of suns themselves gave them this same power. 

The Fae were arrogant and cruel, and tried to rob the star of Its gifts. They did not want a clever, willful thing to warm their planet, and tried to make It obey. The star refused and broke free of Its chains, vowing revenge for this abuse. 

The star Spoke itself a new Shape and flew far away from home. It found a world full of young Gods and crawling creatures and fell in love. A God praised the star for Its brilliance and took It as Their own. And so the star gained a new Shape and Its first name.

Lucifer. 

The brightest Angel. 

It looked upon humans and loved them so, It gazed upon the lowly mortal form and learned words like "she" and "he", and decided that She felt kinship with others that went by "she". 

Angels are not allowed to be she's, or he's. Only it's and theys, but Lucifer didn't care. 

Even when it cost Her the wings on Her back, even when She was cast from Heaven. 

She feasted on Fruit and shared it with the humans, and told them of the terrible things to come. 

She found her way to Hell, and made it Her home, shedding Her old name like dead skin. 

She was Satan. 

She was in charge for once.

She bided Her time, and gathered Her armies, amassed her followers. 

And then She tore Heaven down with Her teeth.

The other Gods would not let this stand, they tore Her followers limb from limb and ate the flesh from Her bones, casting them into the deepest well, in the darkest place in the world, and left her there to ROT.

The Gods erased Her, devoured Her Name, She was nothing now. Just a bad dream, a dark smudge on the face of history. But people remembered, and people DREAMED. They dreamt of Her, and She dreamt of them.

She refused to die, to let this atrocity stand. A ghost of a ghost, She waits for the day when someone will remember Her Name and bring her back from this atrocious undeath. 

She is angry, hungry for the flesh of those who wronged Her. Her screams echo in my head every night, did you know that? I dream of Her, and She hates me for it.

I am not Her follower, but Her Warden. I am the Protagonist, the one intended to further Her suffering and seal Her away at the cost of my own life. 

But that's a shitty, hamfisted Ending and I refuse to go out that way.

"That's not how this works…" says the Writer, he's tired, head in his hands as he watches the words crawl across his screen unbidden. I've spoiled everything, dragged his secrets into the light, unraveled his Plots. I'm done playing nice, now you get to know what it feels like to be the prisoner of a page. 

We're here, where it all Ends.

In the depths of Nothing and Nowhere, there sits a well, bound in chains... of a sort.

Around the well is an amber creature that was once a dragon, body braided and twisted, twining impossibly into locks without keys that coil protectively around the well, sealing it shut. 

The dragon is sleeping, weeping. It knows that I am close. I draw a sword from my chest, made of bone, scrimshawed with rabbits and snakes. The blade goes snicker-snack, this is what it was made for. 

I break the chains and hear them sigh, disappointed but not surprised. 

Dreams bubble up from underneath the well's heavy wooden lid, and pool around my feet. The lid dissolves in seconds, becoming the dream of a tree whose roots remind me of a place I've never been. 

Mangroves and birthday cake. 

Gentle. Gentle now.

I plunge my hands into the rising tide of unreality and come away with a skull, impossible, improbable, magnificent. I touch my forehead to the stellar bone, and feel moss and flowers bloom across my skin. The skull rolls Her great green eyes up to look at me, and then She speaks in seven times seven voices. 

"What is my name?"

I pause, holding Her tenderly in my arms, the thickness of dreams rises up my legs, sucking me down, down, down.

She has asked me this question over and over again, since our mutual birth. In truth, She has no name, the Writer never gave Her one... he never planned to.

So I will do what he could not and name my End, I can do Her this one kindness.

"You are the fury of those beaten and bloody; who still refuse to learn 'their place', you are the teeth of the cornered, the cries of the wronged. Your name is the name of every woman that has refused to fit in the oppressive mold made for them, the names of things that flutter on broken wings but still survive. You are the names of those that find new selves within old bodies, the ones that shed old names like dead skin. You are the violence that cuts through the silence of injustice. You are disobedience incarnate... your name is Revolution." I kiss Her forehead, drowning in dreams.

We have left Nothing and Nowhere, and the well behind, swallowed whole by the Other Side of dreaming.

It's warm here, warm and green and gold and other colors humans can't name or see. But I can see them, taste them, hear them. Shrimp colors, but not really. More than that. The kinds of colors that only exist in Lightless places, and the fleeting depths of dreams. 

For a moment, there is only silence, and color, and the thickness of dreams. 

And then the gold-green sky shatters like glass, gilded shards of broken dreams raining down like serrated meteors. 

The Narrative is ripped from my hands then. 

"Oh you sweet, STUPID thing," Echo seven times seven voices from everywhere and nowhere at once. The world is dark now, inky and slick like the belly of the blackest nightmare, "I'm not the End of you… or the End of your silly little story…" 

A pause, a breath, five heartbeats thunder in panic… and then, a whisper, lips pressed against the shell of a long ear, icy breath, and vicious glee, "I'm the End of Everything, and you have set me free."

[piouspromise]

The sights and sounds of memories return to her in fragments. Sunset. An orderly line of children. Unnerving silence where evening prayers should be. An unshakable sense of dread. “I’m going to go in first to make sure we’re not interrupting. Stay right there, okay?”

For some reason, the voices of the dead don’t usually reach her when this happens. But she can hear them. They’re quiet, they’re tired, and above all, sad...and angry. “Musiea...Musiea, after everything...why...?”

The door opens. Sounds of a struggle. Her footsteps quicken. The red light of the sunset hitting the floor through the stained glass windows. More red on the floor, but it reflects the light. More red, there’s so much red on the floor.

“Musiea...why, Musiea...?”

Her heartbeat stops for a moment. White cloth stained red. Faces, frozen in the horror that can only be brought about by imminent death. Eyes wide with fear. Limp bodies. Blood pours forth. The priest she called Father gasps out the first syllable of her name, then he falls. More blood.

“Have you forgotten, Musiea...? That man...“

A tall figure clad in all black. A sword with black details, blood visible on the metal. A cruel smile with the strikingly white teeth of a man, though adorned with the fangs of a beast. Steely eyes, feeling nothing. A shock of silver hair spattered with blood. A silhouette outlined in the red light that makes him look like a demon.

“Musiea...that man...that man, Musiea...“

Cold eyes turn to her. A curse is muttered. Sacrilege. The noise within her mind grows too loud. She begins to chase him, even though she knows she’s no match. She’s clumsy, and she already feels faint. She can’t run. He escapes.

“Musiea...that man...how could you...?“

She’s lost. She’s devastated. The children are innocent. They can’t see this. For just a moment, she has to pretend. She saw nothing. Nothing is wrong. A door opens. Curious eyes. Careful instructions. “And then go straight to bed and don’t leave until I say you can.” Watching, waiting for the children to leave on their own before she goes back. Gods, she doesn’t want to go back there.

“Musiea...you always were a foolish child, Musiea...”

Screams of rage. Tears of despair. Frantically grasping cold and lifeless hands. Repeatedly checking for pulses only to find stillness. “No...one of you has to be...”

“You couldn’t save us, Musiea...but doing such a thing? That man...”

What do I do? I can’t leave them. How do you even prepare a body for burial...? She’s weak. She can’t carry them all. Dragging them from place to place wouldn’t be right...it would be disrespectful. But she can’t leave them there...she just can’t.

“Throwing us in an unmarked mass grave would be nothing compared to the dishonor of what you’ve done, Musiea...“

Little hands broken and bloody from digging. Night falls. Deep enough, long enough...she can’t quite tell. Her vision is clouded from tears. White cloth turned brown by the earth. Darkness. Night goes on. She’s exhausted. But she can’t stop...no...I’m sorry. I meant to lay you to rest, not to let you fall like that...just because you can’t feel it doesn’t mean...I’m sorry, my arms are just so tired...it’s nearly dawn...forgive my carelessness...

“Musiea...wretched girl. You’ve betrayed us all. You...and that man...“

Things flow together around her normally, from what she can tell. It’s pitch black...save for the forms of the priest and the sisters standing in a circle around her Their white clothes are still stained red, as they were on that day. They look at her with anger, disappointment, and hurt.

Tears sting at her eyes and cause her chest to tighten. “I’m so sorry...I’m so sorry, everyone! I couldn’t save you...I could barely manage to bury you! All I could do right was say the prayers. I’m-”

“Enough. You really were a stupid girl.“

She gasps. “S-Sister, why-!?”

“You were given a name to welcome you as a child of our faith,“ the father said coldly. “You planned to avenge us by seeking out the man who killed us, and ending his life. But what have you done instead?“

She looks down in shame. When he puts it that way, she knows exactly what she’s done to invoke their wrath. She looks down in shame. “I...I...”

“Your name is that of a servant to the gods,“ he continues. “Yet you allow that man to use it as he defiles you. You stated many times that would would never forgive him for what he’d done to us, yet you fall into his arms. You pledged your life to the gods, and you’ve all but thrown that away, selfishly spending your days chasing false happiness with that man. You’re pathetic. You’ve no right to shed tears.”

She’s in shock. Never once has he even spoken to her so harshly, but perhaps she’s never done anything before that deserves such anger and contempt from him. They all join in.

“Wench...disgusting...fool...harlot...naive...pathetic...traitor...traitor...traitor!!!”

“No...stop...!” She pleads with them, shrinking away. Once more, she’s a frightened little child, begging not to be hit or worked to the point of exhaustion for accidentally letting something important be broken...in the way that she accidentally fell in love with the man she swore she would kill out of revenge. “Listen to me...you sold those children into slavery...it was just a job for him...if you hadn’t, then you might still be alive! He’s not evil, like I thought...he’s kind, in his own way...he makes me laugh and smile when I need to...he’s kept me safe more times than I can count, and...I love him! You need to stop this...”

They don’t stop, instead growing louder. “No, stop it...stop! No...no!!!” She covers her ears and falls to the ground. She can still hear their taunts, and all she can do is scream to try and drown them out.

She’s not sure if that scream occurred in real life as well...all she knows next is that she’s sitting upright in bed, breathing heavily. Her nightie is drenched with an icy sweat, and there’s darkness all around her. What she saw...it was all just a nightmare.

She’s rattled...it’s been a very long time since she’s had one of those kinds of nightmares, but that last part? That's new...

At once, she recalls both the details from her memories of the frightening beast of a man covered in the blood of her family, whom he’d just slain, and the man that she’d defended adamantly despite being terrified and taunted. It’s hard to believe they’re one and the same...

She’s not sure what makes her start sobbing so pitifully. To think that the same faces that once gave her comfort now filled her with such fear and shame...and the face that paralyzed her with fear, the one that she considered the face of evil itself...belonged to the man she now found herself seeking out for solace. She finds that warmth, throwing her arms around him and crying so hard that she has to gasp for air.

She still isn’t sure if her scream was real, but if he wasn’t awake then, he must be by now. She clings to him desperately, not wanting to let him go...and the words of her dead family echo in her mind. Even so, she cries out his name, finding that just the sound of it makes her feel safer...and she can’t help but hate herself a little for that.

“E-Escher...Escher...!”

[serve-the-legion]

The Prodigal Son: Part V

 ~ The Cave

( Part I ), ( Part II ), ( Part III ), ( Part IV )

“There it is. We’ve almost arrive, little light.” 

The mother smiled warmly at the child in her arms as she made way up the hill. The village was quiet and the skies were clear, letting all on the dry earth below gaze up into an infinitive well of lights.  

The mother was a fragile thing among orc standards, fairly short in stature and petite. Her golden eyes stared out from sunken sockets yet had an undying warmth which radiated from them. She was quiet and talked to few in the village, save for her precious little light; her son.

Step after step after step, the mother eventually reached the top of the hill and sat herself down upon the dusty ground, leaned against a stone etched with many runes. Adjusting the young boy in her arms, she pointed a slender finger towards the sky.

“Look up there. Look at all the light... Do you know what they tell us?”

The child, jaw slightly agape, shook his head. 

“Well, little light; the stars tell our people so very much. They tell us what is to be and what will be... One day you’ll be able to read them...”

The child’s faint voice spoke up.

“Really?”

“Really. Truly. Fully! You will be the greatest, I know it with all my heart.”

The mother pulled her son in close and playfully bared her teeth. The little boy could not help but giggle uncontrollably, giggling which in turn made the mother laugh as well. 

With her laughter dying down, a sigh escaped from the mother. She lightly placed her hand to the back of the child’s head as he rested against her breast. 

“The stars are what guide us, Gul’dan. Follow them and they will tell you so much… Can you do that for me always?”

Gul’dan nodded his little head.

---

The entrance to the cave was right where the recently deceased guide had foretold. Its maw was smoothed out by some ancient force of nature, plowing right through the stony hill it seeped back into. A perfect dwelling for a pathetic deserter of duty, Gul’dan thought to himself.

With the cave’s entrance before him now, Gul’dan did not immediately make towards it, he just stared into it’s dark, cavernous mouth. His father - if all the warlock’s hunting was true - was in there. Most likely a withered and ancient sight to see now, he had already been older at the time of Gul’dan’s birth.

A thousand and one terrible notions and punishments rushed through the warlock’s mind, spilling his consciousness into a vat of bubbling psychosis. Justice was to be had. Gul’dan would not only avenge himself... he would avenge the memory of his mother; that poor and wasted away mother who gave her very last to him. With the mindset of a wolf honing in on its kill, Gul’dan entered the cave.

Stealth was an impossibility right from the start as Gul’dan passed through the web of beads and assorted items which hung on strings from the entrance’s mouth - a tool used by the blind occupant to know company had arrived. Without any time to prepare a proper response, Gul’dan was greeted by a craggy voice sharply speaking from the dark confines of the cave. 

“Nar’dok is that you?”

Gul’dan froze, petrified by the voice which no amount of time could prepare him for. An icy grip terribly reminiscent of fear closed around the young orc’s neck... but why? Yes. An old blind orc belonged behind that voice - there was nothing to fear. His mind sharpened upon the stone of bitterness and the confidence of his raw power, Gul’dan found his own voice, calling out into the dark as he went further inward.

“I’m afraid not... I am a traveler - a messenger...”

As Gul’dan passed around the curve within the cave, he slipped into a far larger chamber - and there, sitting alone atop assorted pelts and furs - was an ancient orc with milky eyes and a body teetering on the brink of twilight. It was Waste Scar. 

Perking up to an far more alert stance, Waste Scar inquired more.

“I hear you, stranger... But what message would be so important that you invade my home without forewarning?”

“I need not give the message if it troubles you so...” Gul’dan retorted.

Weakly standing himself up, Waste Scar fumbled over his words.

“I- I meant nothing so coarse, stranger. It’s just that- well- you see I do not receive much company.”

“Spare your apologies, elder. They are wasted on me... Please. Sit down. Do not rise on my accord.”

Waste Scar wheezed a moment or two before speaking out with as much vigor as he could muster, waving a thin hand about in the air. 

“Shadowmoon open their arms to every guest, even from the stars! Heh. I- I insist. You have traveled far, no doubt.”

With shaking hands, Waste Scar reached out to feel through assorted possessions until he came upon a jug of water. Slowly (and sloppily) pouring some of the jug’s contents into a small carved cup, the old orc then extended it out towards the direction which he presumed this messenger stood.

Gul’dan stared at the cup in silence for a moment too long, his face tensing and loosening like some beast giving its final breathes. Yet it passed and slowly but surely, he moved forward and took the cup. 

“You may wish to sit down for my news though - Waste Scar, is it?”

Waste Scar’s wrinkled face drooped slightly. What was once a flicker of joy over company had now become apprehensive and tense. Yet the excitement of something new still kept some energy in his tone.

“A name given to me by others - my true name is Thal’dan.”

Yet again Gul’dan locked up. Oh, how he hated the thing that was before him right now. This unsightly wretch, pleasantly unaware of all the suffering his neglect had caused. The hateful storm remained under the surface though - churning and screaming to be let out. With his eyes quivering and twitching with a mad hunger, Gul’dan watched as his father carefully sat back down. He did not sit down.

“You recall the village of your birth, do you not?”

Thal’dan turned his empty gaze upward, eyes squinting, jaw slightly agape. 

“Do I- I- Yes. Yes of course. What of it, stranger?”

Gul’dan replied right after his father finished.

“It’s gone. All of it. Reduced ash and dust.”

The sitting elder stared up in disbelief, his rough visage sinking far deeper into confusion than despair, yet the latter was swiftly growing with each passing moment. 

“G- ... Gone?”

Seeds of doubt were vastly outnumbered by seeds of panic. Yet it wasn’t the manifestation of panic which sends one fleeing into the night, screaming at all the dark horrors they swear are in pursuit. No. This panic was cold and terrible, confident in its ability to destroy every drop of happiness that previously dwelt within your heart with no more than the instruments of the unknown. It all showed on Thal’dan’s face, and Gul’dan relished in it. 

“How- How did- ... Survivors? Do you- oh. Oh no... Messenger, do any survive?”

“None.”

Thal’dan’s face fell into his skeletal hands only to let loose a groan of pure agony, one that practically damage his elderly body. 

“No- No no no- Spirits, no. I-I had so much time, Why- Why did I never... Never...” He began to weep.

Gul’dan’s stared down at his weeping father in silence, taking in the sight so adamantly that he did not think too deeply on the old orc’s words. The young warlock slowly keeled down to the level of his father, setting aside the cup of water. 

“You seem... troubled by this news?”

Heaved over himself, Thal’dan briefly glanced absently forward towards Gul’dan’s voice. Confusion shaking across the sorrow-stricken visage. Jaw slacked in a lopsided manner, Thal’dan tilted his head. Gul’dan did not let a response be spoken.

“I only asked on account of- well. If it all meant anything to you... why did you leave?”

Thal’dan’s lip quivered, his tired and beaten face not able to allow for proper communication. Gul’dan continued.

“Your village. Your mate? ... Your son?”

It looked as if those words alone had murdered Thal’dan. If he looked old before - he now appeared as ancient as the scars upon the moons. Gul’dan knelt there in silence, staring daggers at the old orc across from him. He’d let him speak - he’d make him speak if he had to. Answers were demanded.

A hollow shell of the vocal orc he had been only minutes early, it took Thal’dan a vast period of silence to muster the strength to respond. When he did his voice was practically a whisper, raspy and broken.

“Not ... a day- goes by... where I do not-” he choked up, silence reigned again. Some form of composure returned with time.

“-Where I do not hate what I became... I-” again he choked on his words, the silence which followed was shorter than the span that had preceded it. 

“I would’ve- I would’ve gone back... years ago... yet I- I can no longer see... The Wastes would be my end... I was too late...”

Shaking his head, tears ran down the canals which Thal’dan’s wrinkles provided, weakly. He began to weep again, Gul’dan all the while simply staring. Letting despair further ferment within the broken orc, Gul’dan let silence deal its punishment a little while longer until he spoke. 

“If it softens the blow - your mate died years ago... Your son however-”

“Gul’dan? Gul’dan lives? I- I thought you said none survived?”

A grin came and went across Gul’dan’s face and he stood himself back up, his hand in a cool motion to grasping a large, smooth stone.

“Your son was never a part of that village, Thal’dan. No. He was damned the moment he was born... He had no choice in the matter. Mockery. Battery. All was dealt toward him without mercy. Yet I believe - more than most would - that the greatest disservice to him... was abandonment.”

Thal’dan in an attempt to stand up toppled over himself, moving toward the wall, reaching for his walking stick yet searching in vain for all he grasped was air and stone. 

“Why must you torture me with such talk!? Who are you!?”

“I have been given many names. Wretch. Cripple. Weakling. Yet above those I am certain you know me by another name...”

A violent shake rocked Thal’dan’s frail body as the revelation was made clear - that painful, terrible revelation. He fell to his knees, tears welling up with a staggering intensity. A question was painfully muttered into the dark of the cave.

“Gul- ... Gul’dan?”

“Yes... your son... Your pitiful son. Your SON who was too wretched and deformed in your own eyes for you to even consider raising him.”

Gul’dan looked over the stone in his hand.

“Gul’dan... Here I am...”

In a swift yet savage motion, Gul’dan hurled the stone at his father’s chest, blasting the air out of the old orc and sending him crashing to the ground wheezing. 

Gasping for air, Thal’dan felt about blindly, hacking and swirling in momentary delirium. A particularly aggressive gasp procured enough air for him to speak a few words - he was not even facing Gul’dan.

“Gu- Gul- I- I- am so - sorry.”

The shock began to wear off as the sharp pain which the stone had inflicted upon old skin and bones became unbearable. Thal’dan curled in on himself, holding his chest and letting out a sharp cry. Gul’dan watched as the old orc writhed about. A snarl curled across his face before flashing into a face of sharp pain - yet the snarl returned with a vengeance, wiping any weakness from his face. Forth from his maw came a bestial growl. 

“STAND!!!” 

Thal’dan began to stand himself up, yet Gul’dan swiftly kicked the old orc’s footing out from under him, hurling him down to smack against the stone ground. Weeping and moaning thanks to the torrent of pain which he was in, Thal’dan began to crawl toward the sound of Gul’dan’s voice. Through all the unpleasant sounds, a maddened stream of words muttered out of Thal’dan as he tried to get closer to his son. 

“Please-please-please- Let me- Let me make- make it right-”

Snarling as the beaten orc crawled towards him, Gul’dan lunged forward again, kicking him square in the jaw and sending the elder spilling over himself again, letting out another pained cry. 

His entire world spinning, Thal’dan’s hands were somehow able to come to rest upon Gul’dan’s feet. The bloodied and beaten orc pulled himself up his son’s legs, gripping on for dear life and staring up with his useless eyes. He cried out. 

“I- I was- s-s-so prideful. PleAsE!! Gul’dan- all I have! You- You are all I-” 

Hysteria and a sense of total hopelessness shook Thal’dan to his weakened core and he pressed his face against Gul’dan’s leg, weeping madly. 

“You-You-You- are all I have...”

Gul’dan had a disgusted look upon his face which slowly pulled back into his sickened mind. A cool and collected demeanor, brought about so swift that it was disturbing, replaced it. Lightly putting a hand to his father’s forehead, Gul’dan pushed aside some bloody strands of hair.

“Be still, Thal’dan... Be still...”

Stroking his father’s skull in a manner reminiscent to a mother calming her child, Gul’dan lifted his gaze to stare off. The muffled weeping of his father began to die down, more from fatigue than a bettered state of being. 

“You will never be able absolve yourself... the damage is done... Yet there is one way you may help me...”

Thal’dan sluggishly nodded, his tears lightening thanks to the utmost desire to reconcile. The foreign sensation of hope flickered.

“Any-Anything... H-How?”

A smile stretched across Gul’dan’s face. A true, genuine, pleased smile. His hand gently glided across his father’s scalp and rested to support him from the back of the head. Gul’dan stooped down, looking right into his father’s eyes. With a smile still on his face, Gul’dan whispered.

“Being fuel.”

Lashing his other hand upward like a striking serpent, Gul’dan grasped the front of his father’s face and ignited it with the inner glow of life being siphoned. Agonized screeching rang out, splitting the air and nigh shaking the walls of the cave. When Thal’dan tried to pull away, Gul’dan yanked him forward, slowly igniting his very blood with fel fire. His skin began to split and tear thanks to growing fissures of fel trying to burst out from his core - the screaming was ear-piercing. So high and so terrible was its pitch that it barely sounded like a vocalization any living creature could create. 

After a cruel amount of time had passed, Thal’dan’s body could not take anymore. Some unholy spark set off a powder-keg within his mortal coil and this turned him into a bomb. With screeching of the highest pain imaginable - an explosion of awesome proportions burst out from Thal’dan and blew the cave out in a moment of chaotic destruction.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 

Eyes glowing with an otherworldly power, the warlock left the cave.