#both will use you as a weapon reforged in their own kilns; fired with their own visions of sanctity; drenched in their own blood

[saferincages]

monsters are always hungry, darling, and they’re only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren’t stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right through if the skin wasn’t trying to keep them out - Richard Siken

Dean as a myth, an aberration, a whisper in the dark. ~ for @celebratingdean, and week one’s theme of vampirism ♥

(“The Dean Winchester? Aren’t you dead?...” “It didn’t take.”)

The first time the idea of vampires as a threat is introduced to the Winchesters’ story, they practically scoff in their disbelief. Of all the supernatural entities they’d already encountered, vampires are the first ones that, if not entirely imaginary, certainly were thought to be extinct. There's a fascination to it - how could these things be real? - that is interestingly reflected in what Dean himself has become. His very name transcends reality when he crosses certain paths. He is alternately envied and coveted by those he confronts. A legend only confirmed to exist in small circles, a figure who endures as both hunter and prey, dancing in the margins of the living and the dead.

In a haze of grief and survivor’s guilt, vampires begin to represent growing shades of gray, that a story may not always be what it seems, that the brutality of human beings can out-monster the monsters themselves, that morality is infinitely complex. Later, when Dean is briefly turned, the horror is very pointed, cast in mirrors, in silhouettes, in betrayals.

“The vampire is an outsider. He’s the perfect metaphor for those things...someone who doesn’t belong anywhere, yet longs to be part of something and gravitates to other outcasts of his own kind.” (x)

Though vampires are outsiders, they often have the gift of disguise, easily blending in, having no choice but to eternally adapt, to shift and adjust to mortal change, much like Dean is able to rearrange himself for a given situation, to fit himself into essential molds only to break out of them again. It’s a talent, never quite conforming, yet possessing awareness and empathy that allows you to slip in and out of society, of time. An outsider that can easily transfigure to fit in is brilliant and terrifying, seductive and ambiguous. Dean is positioned as bait on more than one occasion (not only with vampires), and there’s a lot that could be unpacked in those instances about his agency and his relation to himself as an entity, but use of his body isn’t always a negative connotation. Dean physically becomes a vessel to lift a vampire out of purgatory, and Benny becomes a friend and confidant, someone he knows he can rely on because they understand one another on a fundamental level, because they’ve experienced loss and subsisted on the fringes of life in similar ways. When they meet Alex, her abuse and her complicity echoes Dean’s viscerally (x). Every vampire narrative has furthered his multifacetedness, stripping away certain masks he wears while ornamenting others, exposing where he’s ragged and worn, revealing his unexpected softness, underscoring his tenacious survival.

Emblematically, vampires are a monster that have been used in a particularly reflective way for Dean and his tumultuous relationships with both himself and with his familial dynamics. In stories, we usually think of vampires now as aesthetically beautiful, but they began as frightful anomalies, and as those cadaverous qualities have changed into attractive appeal, the stark fear has turned into an inner examination instead. SPN has created its own version of those legends, but the essence remains. The self-loathing; the insular quality of belonging in a family with a secret, trapped on the edges of the night; the lure of violence disguised as necessity, as protection, as righteousness. There's an element to him that's mythic and enigmatic in a kindred sense. Beautiful but deadly, like light glinting off the blade of a knife; capable and gifted despite hating what you are. He’s been pulled back from the maw of death so many times, but he experienced a multitude of smaller metaphorical deaths long before a grave was dug, and he continues to carry their accumulations; and when the earth briefly claimed him, he defied the natural order by clawing his way back out and into the scorching sun. 

Vampires consistently serve as a symbol of allurement and yet terrible danger, a twist in essential humanity, burdened with heightened emotions and senses that can either overwhelm or become apathy, defying death and yet forever mired in it - and there are aspects of those qualities that Dean has either been forced to assume or has taken on as transformation when necessary. Temptation and hunger, longing and absence; the penance you pay in guilt for your bloodlust, the ability to unflinchingly tear at the seams of your world while still imbuing it with devotion and love; being more alive than one should be, and yet too dead to be considered whole at the same time. There's such a wealth of parallel and paradox in those comparisons, the contrast of romanticism and terror, heroism and transgression, of what it means to make the decisions that control those urges, of the schism between the persuasive physical aspects of oneself and the hope of an immutable soul, of believing in nothing and yet still raising your voice in prayer. There’s more than one kind of vampire, and ultimately literal fangs aren’t the only way to be drained. That yearning void lurks on his heels, in his hands, caresses his shoulders, aims for his chest. How do you move forward in the world when it’s a constant fight, when even your memories have savage teeth? How do you reconcile the blood on your hands with the tender compassion of a beating heart?

Dean bears those aspects of himself as he bears the weight of everything, with a blend of enticing ferocity and stoic grace; brightly burning and alive, yet hollowed and haunted by the shadow of death.

[aleornheirofcinder-blog]

Post 2: A New Tale Begins

Aleorn rose, ash streaming from his body, heart dark and cold as the ruined world around him. Grooves in the stained iron of his armour wept tears of soot, the remains of his dearest friend now as lost as everything else that once gave Aleorn joy.

“Keeper?” He spoke more to break the silence than anything else, knowing that she would hear him whether his words were conveyed upon breath or thought.

I never meant for this to happen. Never did I think my selfishness would end his life, ruin yours. The Keeper’s voice was frail with sorrow, its soft tones sounding a fractured plate appeared: weak and trembling, on the verge of irreversible ruin. She was in many ways as broken as he, distraught for she felt his anguish as her own, and knew that her own avarice, her blindness had destroyed that which she sought only to preserve.

“Now is not the time for sorrow,” Aleorn rasped. “Only vengeance.” Or’do crumbled away beneath his touch, ashes swirling into a small almond shaped orb of soft, pale light. This Aleorn took in reverent hands, casting it into the vast reservoir where his armory dwelt, its glow ebbing like frail breath, its dim moonlight fading to nothing between his dark, ironclad fingers.

You cannot remake him; death is permanent for those who lack Signs

“Or’do cared not for this world’s rules.”

But he is bound by them all the same.

“When blades shatter, where are they taken?”

Andre?

Aleorn snorted, envisioning Or’do lying upon Andre’s anvil as the confused blacksmith stared on as if his lap had caught fire or his legs had turned to writhing tentacles.

“He would not appreciate that.” A flash of embarrassment emanated from the Keeper’s presence.

What were you expecting?

“’Forge’, I was expecting you to say forge.” Aleorn chuckled. “Take fractured steel to the proper flame and it can be restored.

Or’do is not steel. She said flatly.

“No, yet Flame restores us, and the First is mightiest even among these.”

Us perhaps, but not him.

“Light collects in the Kiln, Dark in the Deep Sea, and Void at the fringe where worlds fray. If I seek the world’s end, the Dreg Heap and the squalor beyond, I shall find the Void’s last wisp, and from its ruin dredge life.”

You will find only pain in those foul places.

“Pain is the price of redemption.” He turned, striding into the bleak night. “And it is one I will gladly pay.”

A new world lay before him, its scent a cloying mixture of steel and blood. The Lords had crumbled before him like sculptures of sand built too close to the shore, each branded with the Voidsign, ending not only their lives, but those of every copy across every world. Now - in astonishingly quick fashion - he stood before the Gate to Pontiff Sulyvahn‘s domain.

It was here that he froze, remembering the first time Or’do spoke.

“You’re shaking, dear Host.” Or’do observed. The pair stood before Pontiff Sulyvahn’s domain, Aleorn regarding the gate of fog with no meager amount of trepidation. “Of what could you possibly be afraid?”

“Death is not permanent, yet pain, pain lingers.” Aleorn murmured. “So many times have I fallen.” He turned, his features grey and gaunt, nearly hollow. “I cannot summon the courage to face him again.” Behind those dark eyes a deep, horrible pain gleamed. “You might as well be on your way, Phantom Or’do. There is no victory to be had this day.”

“Well there is where you are wrong.” Or’do said with his characteristic mirth. He smiled, eyes two almonds of glittering amber beneath his gold tinged helm. “But there is more to life than conquest; you are neither the first nor last to seek another path when the one ahead is too much to bear.”

“If I do not fight, I do not live.” Aleorn’s voice was troubled, his warring emotions clear in the tremor of his breath, the fragility of his words. “My purpose is slaying Lords and Linking Flames. Without those things my life has no meaning.”

“An absence of detection is not an absence of condition." Or'do said, chuckling at Aleorn’s confused expression. “Just because you fail to notice something does not mean it does not exist.” He paused, contemplative. “Look not on my, not on the world, but on your own heart, and you will discover your purpose.”

“It is not that simple.” Aleorn’s voice was bleak, empty.

“Oh it is.” Or’do said conversationally, striding through the veil of mist and thereby casually defying this realm’s most basic rules. “Pain is worse than death, my friend. If you fear it, you are not weak but sane. Think on that a moment, you will see its soothing truth in time. Meanwhile, I shall crush the Pontiff. No one can hurt my friends without swift, relentless retribution, and from the sound of it, his is long overdue.”

Or’do had followed through on that threat, caving Sulyvahn‘s chest with a single, barehanded blow. Perhaps it was his kind words, or merely the allure of his awesome power that had shown Aleorn his purpose. It mattered little. From that day forth he fought at Or’do’s side, and for the first time in his long life, he had lived.

The familiar mists parted around him, whispering incoherently as in long ,vaporous serpents they slid across his battered armor.

This world is not like those before it. The Keeper warned. As you near the Origin, foes of ever mightier caliber will seek to stop you.

“Let them try.” He felt the Bleak Blade Lacrimosa straining within him, a palpable energy arcing along his arm, distorting the air like sun baked pavement. Rows of ornately carved pews stretched out to either side, ranks bracketing the path to Sulyvahn, who stood with blades of shadow and flame crossed over his chest, a foul eagerness glinting in his merciless eyes.

Aleorn rested a hand upon the ashes of his dearest friend, their cold stillness filling his veins with dangerous heat. He stalked forward, and in a swift, fluid motion drew Lacrimosa, its slim form broadening as he fixed an image in mind, its length splitting in two and widening still, forming two rough hewn greatswords that despite their size, weighed no more than Lacrimosa. Flame wept from its edge like worms shaken from soil, splattering in writhing heaps upon the tiles as he brandished both, fury turning his muscles to steel and his eyes to cold, hard frost.

He charged, tears of hate trailing like falling stars, their light a stark contrast to the darkness that filled his breast.

Steel clashed with steel, the fury of their union nearly jolting Lacrimosa’s left half from Aleorn’s grasp, his arm falling limp and numb at his side. At once, the blade crumbled back into marbles of shadow that evaporated before they struck the floor.

Before his eyes could register the flash of descending steel, a deadening impact crushed his ribs to dust, tearing muscle and doing far worse to the bones beneath. His Unkindled flesh reforged itself swiftly, but not swiftly enough.

Relentless, merciless, the blows rang against his ironclad body, stripping muscle from bone, smashing organs apart. Aleorn’s vision flickered and he fell to his knees as if genuflecting in solemn reverence. Blood gushed between his lips, trickled from the cracks in his armor which while battered was sufficiently intact to hide the ruin beneath.

Not here. Aleorn’s arm blurred as it arched overhead, and upon his forearm he caught the Pontiff’s flaming blade; sparks rippling over his buckling plate, rivers of metal branding themselves into his flesh.

Not like this. Tattered and worn, his muscles screamed in protest as he heaved and strained, throwing the immense weapon aside, wrenching Sulyvahn‘s arm from its socket with a sharp, sickening crack.

Or’do dodging between blows, graceful and swift as wind. Perspiration beaded upon his brow like globes of glass, yet upon his lips was a broad grin, in his eyes a strange, soothing light.

Is this hope? Aleorn had wondered. How have I lived so long without this? His iron fingers creaked as he curled them against his palm. And what will I do when it is gone?

Like a jagged edged spear, a scream of fury and sorrow shredded his throat, startling the wounded Pontiff, raking claws of razor frost through his ancient heart. For the briefest of moments, Sulyvahn‘s eyes showed true, primal fear: the terror of a cornered beast as its hunger descended. Then Aleorn was twisting forward, driving his fist through the man’s jaw, spraying blood and splinters of bone against the far wall. Around Aleorn’s buried wrist, a Voidsign blazed. In that instant all worlds were bound, a whole cloth woven of a thousand disparate threads. Then, Sulyvahn was slumping to the ground, flowing from his armor in long rivers of pale white ash.

[aleorntheheirofcinder-blog]

Post 2: A New Tale Begins

Aleorn rose, ash streaming from his body, heart dark and cold as the ruined world around him. Grooves in the stained iron of his armour wept tears of soot, the remains of his dearest friend now as lost as everything else that once gave Aleorn joy.

“Keeper?” He spoke more to break the silence than anything else, knowing that she would hear him whether his words were conveyed upon breath or thought.

I never meant for this to happen. Never did I think my selfishness would end his life, ruin yours. The Keeper’s voice was frail with sorrow, its soft tones sounding a fractured plate appeared: weak and trembling, on the verge of irreversible ruin. She was in many ways as broken as he, distraught for she felt his anguish as her own, and knew that her own avarice, her blindness had destroyed that which she sought only to preserve.

“Now is not the time for sorrow,” Aleorn rasped. “Only vengeance.” Or’do crumbled away beneath his touch, ashes swirling into a small almond shaped orb of soft, pale light. This Aleorn took in reverent hands, casting it into the vast reservoir where his armory dwelt, its glow ebbing like frail breath, its dim moonlight fading to nothing between his dark, ironclad fingers.

You cannot remake him; death is permanent for those who lack Signs

“Or’do cared not for this world’s rules.”

But he is bound by them all the same.

“When blades shatter, where are they taken?”

Andre?

Aleorn snorted, envisioning Or’do lying upon Andre’s anvil as the confused blacksmith stared on as if his lap had caught fire or his legs had turned to writhing tentacles.

“He would not appreciate that.” A flash of embarrassment emanated from the Keeper’s presence.

What were you expecting?

“’Forge’, I was expecting you to say forge.” Aleorn chuckled. “Take fractured steel to the proper flame and it can be restored.

Or’do is not steel. She said flatly.

“No, yet Flame restores us, and the First is mightiest even among these.”

Us perhaps, but not him.

“Light collects in the Kiln, Dark in the Deep Sea, and Void at the fringe where worlds fray. If I seek the world’s end, the Dreg Heap and the squalor beyond, I shall find the Void’s last wisp, and from its ruin dredge life.”

You will find only pain in those foul places.

“Pain is the price of redemption.” He turned, striding into the bleak night. “And it is one I will gladly pay.”

A new world lay before him, its scent a cloying mixture of steel and blood. The Lords had crumbled before him like sculptures of sand built too close to the shore, each branded with the Voidsign, ending not only their lives, but those of every copy across every world. Now - in astonishingly quick fashion - he stood before the Gate to Pontiff Sulyvahn‘s domain.

It was here that he froze, remembering the first time Or’do spoke.

“You’re shaking, dear Host.” Or’do observed. The pair stood before Pontiff Sulyvahn’s domain, Aleorn regarding the gate of fog with no meager amount of trepidation. “Of what could you possibly be afraid?”

“Death is not permanent, yet pain, pain lingers.” Aleorn murmured. “So many times have I fallen.” He turned, his features grey and gaunt, nearly hollow. “I cannot summon the courage to face him again.” Behind those dark eyes a deep, horrible pain gleamed. “You might as well be on your way, Phantom Or’do. There is no victory to be had this day.”

“Well there is where you are wrong.” Or’do said with his characteristic mirth. He smiled, eyes two almonds of glittering amber beneath his gold tinged helm. “But there is more to life than conquest; you are neither the first nor last to seek another path when the one ahead is too much to bear.”

“If I do not fight, I do not live.” Aleorn’s voice was troubled, his warring emotions clear in the tremor of his breath, the fragility of his words. “My purpose is slaying Lords and Linking Flames. Without those things my life has no meaning.”

“An absence of detection is not an absence of condition.“ Or'do said, chuckling at Aleorn’s confused expression. “Just because you fail to notice something does not mean it does not exist.” He paused, contemplative. “Look not on my, not on the world, but on your own heart, and you will discover your purpose.”

“It is not that simple.” Aleorn’s voice was bleak, empty.

“Oh it is.” Or’do said conversationally, striding through the veil of mist and thereby casually defying this realm’s most basic rules. “Pain is worse than death, my friend. If you fear it, you are not weak but sane. Think on that a moment, you will see its soothing truth in time. Meanwhile, I shall crush the Pontiff. No one can hurt my friends without swift, relentless retribution, and from the sound of it, his is long overdue.”

Or’do had followed through on that threat, caving Sulyvahn‘s chest with a single, barehanded blow. Perhaps it was his kind words, or merely the allure of his awesome power that had shown Aleorn his purpose. It mattered little. From that day forth he fought at Or’do’s side, and for the first time in his long life, he had lived.

The familiar mists parted around him, whispering incoherently as in long ,vaporous serpents they slid across his battered armor.

This world is not like those before it. The Keeper warned. As you near the Origin, foes of ever mightier caliber will seek to stop you.

“Let them try.” He felt the Bleak Blade Lacrimosa straining within him, a palpable energy arcing along his arm, distorting the air like sun baked pavement. Rows of ornately carved pews stretched out to either side, ranks bracketing the path to Sulyvahn, who stood with blades of shadow and flame crossed over his chest, a foul eagerness glinting in his merciless eyes.

Aleorn rested a hand upon the ashes of his dearest friend, their cold stillness filling his veins with dangerous heat. He stalked forward, and in a swift, fluid motion drew Lacrimosa, its slim form broadening as he fixed an image in mind, its length splitting in two and widening still, forming two rough hewn greatswords that despite their size, weighed no more than Lacrimosa. Flame wept from its edge like worms shaken from soil, splattering in writhing heaps upon the tiles as he brandished both, fury turning his muscles to steel and his eyes to cold, hard frost.

He charged, tears of hate trailing like falling stars, their light a stark contrast to the darkness that filled his breast.

Steel clashed with steel, the fury of their union nearly jolting Lacrimosa’s left half from Aleorn’s grasp, his arm falling limp and numb at his side. At once, the blade crumbled back into marbles of shadow that evaporated before they struck the floor.

Before his eyes could register the flash of descending steel, a deadening impact crushed his ribs to dust, tearing muscle and doing far worse to the bones beneath. His Unkindled flesh reforged itself swiftly, but not swiftly enough.

Relentless, merciless, the blows rang against his ironclad body, stripping muscle from bone, smashing organs apart. Aleorn’s vision flickered and he fell to his knees as if genuflecting in solemn reverence. Blood gushed between his lips, trickled from the cracks in his armor which while battered was sufficiently intact to hide the ruin beneath.

Not here. Aleorn’s arm blurred as it arched overhead, and upon his forearm he caught the Pontiff’s flaming blade; sparks rippling over his buckling plate, rivers of metal branding themselves into his flesh.

Not like this. Tattered and worn, his muscles screamed in protest as he heaved and strained, throwing the immense weapon aside, wrenching Sulyvahn‘s arm from its socket with a sharp, sickening crack.

Or’do dodging between blows, graceful and swift as wind. Perspiration beaded upon his brow like globes of glass, yet upon his lips was a broad grin, in his eyes a strange, soothing light.

Is this hope? Aleorn had wondered. How have I lived so long without this? His iron fingers creaked as he curled them against his palm. And what will I do when it is gone?

Like a jagged edged spear, a scream of fury and sorrow shredded his throat, startling the wounded Pontiff, raking claws of razor frost through his ancient heart. For the briefest of moments, Sulyvahn‘s eyes showed true, primal fear: the terror of a cornered beast as its hunger descended. Then Aleorn was twisting forward, driving his fist through the man’s jaw, spraying blood and splinters of bone against the far wall. Around Aleorn’s buried wrist, a Voidsign blazed. In that instant all worlds were bound, a whole cloth woven of a thousand disparate threads. Then, Sulyvahn was slumping to the ground, flowing from his armor in long rivers of pale white ash.