#crimson stigmata

[zaruba-needslove]

heh... so immediately after the Lake Astine incident, I can see the party stats all reflect the current plot. Save for Eonis. I guess Eonis was that cool...

Sweet Azel worrying about Calintz ❤️❤️

[umbral-stigmata-unbound]

After some enjoyable fan talking and debating with some brilliant fan minds, I'll admit, I'm now absolutely on board with headcanon'ing the Cerberus Insignia as a a Valentine Family Crest fffffff I love it. The greek mythology vibe, @getvalentined's brilliant point that hadn't sunk in for me (probably so obvious but my brain takes in info in a special way lmao), that a three headed beast being left to guard the gates of hell fits so well for his own fate and story to a degree, so on.

Why in Rebirth (other than it just being a change Devs added in) he had it on his coffin, I'm open to a lot of concepts of why. It was made via Hojo being petty and cruel and enjoying literally putting the Valentine line I will lean towards is just because I like to make things sad; Lucrecia, in her private grief, had it comissioned symbolically for Grimoire. Yes, he faded during and after death, there were no remains. Yes, she didn't plan to use it traditionally. But perhaps it was something to take time alone with, to miss him, to mourn, to reflect. To put away precious things regarding their work, like storage. Like old clothes.

But then everything happens to Vincent, and with her new grief and despair after giving birth to Sephiroth and being denied him for years, after fighting so hard to save Vincent AND prove her theory by using him, before she left, she had to leave him with the memories she'd been holding on to. She dresses him/leaves him his fathers clothes, and leaves him to rest in the coffin made for his father.

Vincent had many assumptions as to why his family insignia was on the coffin lid, and his suspicions would certainly lean towards the worst scenarios instead, like Hojo taunting him. Perhaps he almost considers Lucrecia to blame, but he can never wonder on it long, not worth the despair.

[juliakristeva]

Kinda want to get into horror and erotism. Do you have any essays, film, or book recs?

some very quick and dirty suggestions, certainly by no means comprehensive, and i highly encourage people to make recommendations in the comments/rbs:

non-fiction books:

erotism by georges bataille

literature and evil by georges bataille

powers of horror: an essay on abjection by julia kristeva

stigmata: escaping texts by helene cixous

the pleasures of the text by roland barthes

theology and horror: explorations of the dark religious imagination by brandon r. grafius & john w. morehead

gothic by fred botting

our vampires, ourselves by nina auerbach

dangerous bodies: historicising the gothic corporeal by marie mulvey-roberts

pretty much all of the non-fiction books on this list

essays:

the horrors of catholicism: religion and sexuality in gothic fiction by george haggerty

gothic and horror heroinism in the age of feminism by xavier reyes

gothic mirrors and feminine identity by claire kahane

beast's triumph over beauty in gothic film by kathy justice gentile

a turn to the center: the gothic spinster and erotic solitude by emily banks

the aesthetics of fear by joyce carol oates

from bluebeard's bloody chamber to demonic stigmatic by marie mulvey-roberts

women in the cut of danger by christopher yiannitsaros

mothers and other lovers: gothic fiction and the erotics of loss by ge haggerty

fiction:

the bloody chamber and other stories by angela carter

the letters of mina harker by dodie bellamy

varieties of female gothic edited by gary kelly

wuthering heights by emily bronte

frankenstein, or the modern prometheus by mary shelley

dracula by bram stoker

the vampyre by john polidori

carmilla by joseph sheridan le fanu

the hellbound heart by clive barker

our wives under the sea by julia armfield

salt slow by julia armfield

piercing by ryu murakami

film/tv:

interview with the vampire (series)

penny dreadful

bram stoker's dracula

suspiria (both original and remake)

the first omen

lisa frankenstein

possessor

the witch

the silence of the lambs

stigma (1977)

house (1977)

rosemary's baby

blood on satan's claw

crimson peak

hellraiser

possession

candyman

[loreleiskeletal]

Look into your crimson orifice

[hiislegacy]

Starter | Muse: Cloud | v: Corrupted

There was not much that bothered him anymore, not since he was the one to put to end the life of one he had cherished. Her crimson stained all of his clothes, deep down into his very soul, whenever he had come to, and realized the mistake. Along with hers, were the bodies of several from their company, and even his childhood friend was not spared that grim fate. Sephiroth had gotten too far into his head, long enough for him to lose all sense of control, and seeing their lifeless forms simply broke him.

There was only a small glimmer of hope, as he seen such visions from the likes of Sephiroth's power, or what must've been; the form of Aerith, and all the other's may still yet live. He had just to find them, and eliminate all the rest. The fakers. The liars. These were what he would remind himself of, as he hunted down each and every one, from various timelines and realities.

Now, returning through one of the portals, having escaped a terrible blow from the likes of a Red XIII, he came limping into the spaces that Sephiroth did allow him to roam. It was a kind of strange area he had gotten used to fairly quickly, where the need to eat and drink were lessened, but still there. The surrounding 'room' was like that of any seemingly normal one, except the windows would showcase the vast array of stars outside, and rainbows to accentuate that he was on no earthly plane.

"Shit..."

Wincing, he sat down on one of the long couches, fireplace already going, always permanently on, and blood stained the cushion below him. He had failed, this time, to wipe out a certain timeline of their's, and the anger he had almost outweighed the tiniest bit of dread. Still, he tried to ignore that, and held onto his injury. The gash was quite deep on his side, and he was too stubborn to call for help, right away, trying to catch his bearings.

@umbral-stigmata-unbound

[hrtvampires]

IN A CRUCIFIXATION ECSTACY

I lay cross checked in agony

Stigmata bleed continuously

Holes in hands and feet and weep for me

Stigmata oh you sordid sight

Stigmata in your splintered plight

Look to your crimson orifice

In holy rememberence

In scarlet bliss

[cherrylng]

100 Albums To Understand Muse - Part 2 [STYLE Series #004 - Muse (August 2010)]

ASIA Asia (1982) The first album by the supergroup that brought together ex-King Crimson's John Wetton, ex-Yes' Steve Howe & Jeffrey Downes and ex-ELP's Carl Palmer. The band's catchy melodies and dense sound were more important than their progressive experimentalism and grandeur. ‘Heat of the Moment’ was a big hit. -S

ASTOR PIAZZOLLA Tango: Zero Hour (1986) Produced by the brilliant Kip Hanrahan, the world's greatest bandoneon player and the most important figure who changed tango history with his unique compositions that added elements of classical and jazz. In the early days Matthew spoke of tango influences, but if you want to hear tango purely as music, start with this masterpiece. It is a whirlwind of intense sensuality and emotion. -S

BAUHAUS In The Flat Field (1979) The first masterpiece from Bauhaus, led by New Wave/Gothic Rock legend Peter Murphy. The band's songs such as the hauntingly intense ‘Double Dare’ and ‘Stigmata Mater’, with Daniel Ash's guitar sharply driving, do not sound old even today. Peter's ever-changing vocals are also a charm. -S

BIFFY CLYRO Only Revolutions (2009) The fifth album from the Scottish trio, two of the three brothers, who have often fronted Muse for their heavy guitars, emotional melodies and playing ability. Uplifting songs such as ‘Mountains’, with its piano intro and intense development, and ‘Many of Horror’, with its beautiful strings, shine. -S

BLACK SABBATH Paranoid (1970) I've never heard the Muse guys mention Sabbath directly as an influence, but for Matthew, who grew up on 90s grunge, it's a huge indirect influence. It's a great foundation for musicians who aspire to heavier music beyond the categories of hard rock and metal. The groove created by the throbbing bass riffs heard in the songs on this second album is similar to Matthew's music… -J

COLDPLAY A Rush Of Blood To The Head (2002) Matthew and Chris Martin are said to be friends, although both have been aware of each other since they were expected to be Radiohead's successor bands. It is clear that they have at least been checking each other and inspiring each other. The solemn, classical influences of this album give the impression of a worldview more in tune with Muse's. -H

THE CLASH London Calling (1979) The quartet at the heart of the London punk movement that erupted at the end of the 1970s broke down the framework of the formalised punk sound and expanded their musical range considerably by incorporating ska, dub/reggae rock ‘n’ roll, calypso and more on this eclectic third album. Tight, hard-hitting, yet catchy, this album is renowned as a masterpiece of 80s UK rock. -I

THE COOPER TEMPLE CLAUSE See This Through And Leave (2002) The first album from this talented multi-instrumentalist UK band, which split up in 2007. Loud guitars, bold synths and masculine vocals are fresh even today. Includes the exhilarating ‘Let's Kill Music’, reminiscent of Mansun, and ‘Been Training Dogs’ with its impressive three-beat riff. They also accompanied Muse on their ‘01 tour. -S

Translator's Note: I couldn't find the full album playlist for The Cooper Temple Clause's debut album on YouTube at all. Out of 11 songs, only 2 are available as music videos but the rest are hidden. So the Spotify link is my compromise. For what can be said, the debut album isn't available in my region on iTunes Store too.

[beevean]

I noticed that the tracks of Order of Ecclesia were named very differently from Japanese to English, most famously the boss themes that reference past games in the series. Some of the original names are quite interesting: there are plenty of reference to obscure musical instruments and compositional techniques.

An Empty Tome: Twilight Stigmata (黄昏の聖痕)

Oncoming Dread: Testudo for the Repose of a Soul (鎮魂テストゥード)

Heroic Dawning: Dicantos of Daybreak (黎明ディカントス)

I honestly don't know what "dicantos" means, or if indeed it's the correct spelling.

Ecclesia: Ecclesia - Introduction (エクレシア・序章)

Vanishing: Elegance -Dash- (雅-疾走-)

Sapphire Elegy: Elegy of a Crimson Pearl (紅珠エレジー)

Destiny's Stage: Harp of Beginning (萌芽の竪琴)

Chapel Hidden in Smoke: Tormented Refuge (燻しの隠れ家)

the verb 燻す means both "to smoke something" (like food, not like tobacco) and "to oxidize", but according to Wiktionary and Goo, it can also mean "to torment".

Serenade of the Hearth: Serenade of the Mallow (葵セレナーデ)

Yamane called this track "Serenade of Healing" in her piano cover

Symphony of Battle: Rhapsody of the Fighting Spirit (闘魂狂詩曲)

A Clashing of Waves: Sea Route Cut Through Waves (波断の海路)

断 can mean anything from "cutting" to "decision" to "refusal".

Rhapsody of the Forsaken: Rhapsody of Indigo Lament (藍愁ラプソディ)

Interestingly, in Symphony of Battle "rhapsody" is written in kanji, while here it's written in English through katakana.

Jaws of a Scorched Earth: Giant Cliff of Scorched Earth (焦土の大巌)

Unholy Vespers: Cathedral of Holy Husks (聖骸カテドラル)

Wandering the Crystal Blue: Wandering into the Deep Blue (紺碧の彷徨)

Dissonant Courage: Distorted Black Shivers (歪みの黒凛)

Edge of the Sky: Azure Virginal (瑠璃色ヴァージナル)

Tragedy's Pulse: Beat of the Wild String (荒絃鼓動)

荒 can mean "wild" or "desolate", 絃 is the string of a bowed instrument, and 鼓動 means "beat" in the sense of palpitation

Hard Won Nobility: Virtuous Variation (高潔なる変奏曲)

Trace of Rage: Trace of Rage - Conversation (激昂の軌跡～会話～)

激昂 could also be "excitement", or generally strong emotions

Sorrow's Distortion: Binding Spell of Sorrow (悲哀の呪縛)

Lament to the Master: Trace of Rage (激昂の軌跡)

In Japanese, the connection between this track and the one above, that plays when Shanoa is communicating with Albus's soul, is more obvious.

Stones Hold a Grudge: Old Grudge of a Feudal Castle (宿怨の居城)

Welcome to Legend: Waltz of the Evening Moon (宵月のワルツ)

Passing into the Night: Fantasia of a Lovely Dream (麗夢幻想曲)

Chamber of Ruin: Expectation of Madness (狂気の思惑)

The Colossus: Gargantuan (ガルガンチュア)

Order of the Demon: Evil Symphonic Poem of Silk Gauze (繻紗魔交響詩)

Rituals: Ricercare (リチェルカーレ)

Consummation: Time of Demise (終焉のとき)

Armory Arabesque: Arabesque Canon (唐草カノン)

[herrscherofmagic]

A Home Lost, A Home Found

I just made a post with this idea, and thought "wait I can just write the story right now", so I did ^.^

Since I put this up on AO3 I figured I'd share it here, too!

Crimson eyes met azure eyes once more. For a split second, the figure wondered if the child before it could hear the fear in its voice.

“Listen to me very carefully, and I promise that you and Natasha will not die today.”

.

One era ends, a new era begins. A certain special someone is left behind with nothing but her precious memories, and she must find new meaning in this long and empty life of hers.

When the Herrscher of Finality descended upon Earth, it took merely hours for nearly everything Seele loved to be seized away from her. But in those final moments, she still had her other self, and together they made a great sacrifice to give humanity one final chance.

As she collapsed against her comrade, Seele’s hand slipped off the handle of the Abyss Flower and fell onto the broken ground. In those final moments, she could hear a voice cry out to her before being consumed by the violent cracks and rumbles of earth-shattering lighting, before the sound faded away into silence.

The light in those azure eyes peacefully dimmed to nothing, another life lost to this sudden and tragic end of the Current Era. But in a small room suspended in the void, a pair of crimson eyes frantically looked around and loud cries were left unanswered. In those final moments, Seele realized she was alone.

.

.

.

“The Stigma Awakened holds remarkable value, but they’re only the intersection of stigmata and humans, and the most primitive guarantee of Project Stigma.”

When she first heard these words Seele thought nothing of them- pointless philosophy, disconnected from reality and a waste of her time. How cruel it was that these words would replay in her mind over and over like a broken record, Seele now understanding the true meaning behind them.

From the first moments she came into being, Seele knew she was an “other”, that this was not her life to live. But as they passed day by day in the orphanage, as they fell into the Sea of Quanta, as they fought through the Theatre of Domination, and as they faced Finality together, Seele began to believe that she belonged.

Even if it was not her reality, she could still see the world through the azure eyes of a gentle soul.

Without that fragile tether, the Stigma now found herself back where she belonged. A Stigma Space, a dream where time is distorted. The checkered floor that once served as a refuge now became a timeless prison, where this Stigma would desperately cling to her memories of Seele Vollerei.

.

.

.

When Finality brought one era to an end, it also marked the beginning of a new era. Civilization would form once more, built up by the history and knowledge of generations of humanity. Stigmata serve as records of this process, and so as humans once more walked the Earth and began telling tales, one particular Stigma once more caught glimpses of the real world.

Now that she could perceive the world as she once did, this Stigma saw just how much time had passed. She had never bothered to keep count, and she wasn’t even sure if she was isolated for a moment or an eternity.

In this new era the Stigma kept her distance, watching from afar as generation after generation passed by­— though every now and then she would appear before whichever host was alive at that time, and offer a sliver of her power. She had little interest in meddling with the messy affairs of others, so many people who bore this Stigma lived their lives without ever knowing it was there.

This was her new reality, and the Stigma told herself that she was content to live this way. Even if Finality descended once more she would simply move on to another era anyways, so she didn’t care what fate befell her hosts. They were nothing more than a convenient means by which she could eavesdrop on humanity’s progress.

So it was until the moment when she felt her own fear for the first time in this new era.

.

.

.

“Get behind me!”

The cracks of gunshots were deafening in the ears of the crying child, but they did not scare her as much as the approaching roars of Honkai beasts. As another beast cried out, she tightened her grip on the leg of her adoptive mother.

"Shit." Natasha swore under her breath again as the rifle began to click; the magazine was empty yet not a single Honkai beast fell. She backed up until she was halted by the cracked wall behind her. Before she could even turn to run the other way, yet another monster appeared.

They were trapped.

In those final moments, countless thoughts raced through Natasha’s mind. She wondered where she went wrong, she cursed her misfortune, she fervently prayed for a miracle.

In those final moments, the crying child shut her eyes as if she were tucked in bed and hiding from the monsters in her bedtime stories. With eyes closed, she did not notice a distant gaze that fell upon her.

In those final moments, the cries of beasts gave way to silence. The air grew still, and the warmth she desperately clung to had disappeared. She slowly opened her teary eyes and saw a single figure standing alone in an impossibly black darkness.

“Am I… dead?” Still dazed from the sudden sensory deprivation, the child could only muster a gentle whisper.

No reply.

With her tiny, tender hand the crying child rubbed tears from her eyes. The child blinked once, twice, and now clearly saw the face of the lone figure.

It had her face, it had her hair. But unlike her it had crimson eyes which stared at her, as if it were peering into her soul, as if it were about to devour it any moment now.

“W-w-what are you?” The child’s heartbeat grew louder and louder in the silence as she stumbled onto the ground, breaking into tears and ugly sobbing.

Tch. How obnoxious.

With crossed arms the figure closed its eyes and took one step forward.

“You are pathetic.”

Another step.

“Weak.”

Another.

“A coward that can’t do anything to protect what she loves most dearly.”

Now a mere couple of feet away, the figure towered over the child before her. Eyes still closed, it took in a deep breath. “But this time… things will be different.”

Crimson eyes met azure eyes once more. For a split second, the figure wondered if the child before it could hear the fear in its voice.

“Listen to me very carefully, and I promise that you and Natasha will not die today.”

The Honkai beast pulled back its limb; a massive lance which would pierce Natasha clean. She held her rifle up as a shield even if it’d do nothing to soften the blow. What more could she do?

As the lance flew forward towards her, Natasha shut her eyes tight. She did not notice that the child behind her let go of her leg. She did not see the smile that crept onto the child’s face, nor the blade which began to form in the child’s hand.

One second had passed and a grinding screech rang out, a noise like the scraping of a shovel against rock.

Two seconds had passed but the lance did not touch Natasha.

Three seconds had passed and she heard the shrieks of one, two, three Honkai beasts. Natasha tensed at the sound and looked up to see what was happening.

Ten seconds had passed, and then there was silence.

Natasha usually felt no fear when facing Honkai beasts, but this time was different. She felt fear for herself, but especially for the young child which was with her when the beasts attacked… but she never imagined that she would be frightened by the child herself.

The child that was sobbing and clinging to Natasha merely moments ago now stood in place of the pack of Honkai beasts. Silicon carapaces lay around her, violently torn apart. In the girl’s hand was a massive scythe that was even taller than her; it was a dull metallic grey with red accents and what appeared to be a single bloodied eye glaring at Natasha. It seemed like the weight of the weapon should crush the little girl, yet she effortlessly held it.

Head still turned away from Natasha, the girl spoke. It was nearly the same voice that would meekly ask for a bedtime story or politely ask for another serving of cake. But there was no trace of her usual innocence in these words; instead they seemed to drip with venom.

“Listen closely, Natasha. Don’t take my help for granted.” The girl turned her head to the side, eyes still covered by the sides of her hair.

“Take better care of Seele. If you don’t, I will know. And if you let anyone or anything harm her…”

“… I will never forgive you.”

[fetznerdeathrecords]

Niohoggr - Unholy Redemption

Raw/Bestial Black Metal from Yauco, Puerto Rico

Niohoggr is a Black Metal band from Puerto Rico created by Memphist (vocalist/ guitarist) Carlos Conrrado Lopez arenosa "Lord Memphist" began the creation of the black metal project since 2004. Due to the lack of support on Puerto Rico;

Themes: Norse Sagas, Anti-Christianity, War, Paganism

1. Tenebris Tempus 04:03 2. Brood 08:53 3. Shadowed Goddess 10:10 4. The Blessing of Thy Mandatory Oblivion 02:04 5. The Curse of Thy Christian Phenomena 06:15 6. Dismal Sanctus (The Dawn of Damnation) 08:37 7. Fallen Stigmata 05:52 8. Graves of the Crimson Moon 09:59 9. Nastrond 07:36 10. Shadows Within 07:30 11. Uprisal of Evil (Namtaru cover) 05:43

Release date: September 21st, 2024 via @mastersofkaosrecords

[words-and-wishes]

“Can god see the way I look at you?”

Jealousy stains their eyes and collects in red pools

on their cheeks. They try to smear the crimson

to nothing, but stigmata-

quite unusual, it is a medical condition

that has not been proven to exist

but crops up in deeply religious

societies among young virgin girls

and is theorized by skeptics to be

menstrual blood, the red crying

always begins in private after all,

but dammit the girl won’t admit

to her lies can’t she see i mean her

no harm i won’t expose her to the deacon

or the Father or worse her Mother-

comes from the palms, the nails.

It drips down their neck.

It pools above the collarbone.

If they would hold still, it would

dry there, rust on pale skin.

But they can’t stop rubbing.

[zaruba-needslove]

Yanno... I just really love Magna Carta: Tears of Blood/Crimson Stigmata. Also seriously... depending on the language versions, the op song tend to give you different vibe about the game like...

The Korean OP gave the vibe of this bittersweet, tragic love story between Calintz and Reith...

The Japanese one felt a little bit positive and optimistic...

And then there's the English one, where I just... I dunno what they're trying to tell www

[infinite-orangepeel]

steddie as lamb & wolf

(an angsty excerpt from its rotten work)

Steve turns to say something more, to suggest the proposition, to bang his head against the wall in loathing of everything he lacks–but, as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, he halts. Catches a fly or two in the interlude, hangs his jaw open without much thought.

Because he’s distracted–suddenly caught in the crossfire of Eddie’s violent eyes–reaching for him over the counter, across the room, sucking the air right out of his deflated lungs.

Finds himself deeply ensnared in the wolf’s cleverly-set trap.

He, the lamb.

Symbol of atonement who’s forgotten his purpose–traveled far and terribly astray from cool innocence–binding instead to sin, heat, and lust.

Hypnotized by the snake eyed black. Redefining what it means to forgive, what it means to burn. Obsequious to the superior animal who leaves bloodied teeth marks in his side. Beneath his ribs, deadening the flesh.

Crying out for more when all the other creatures have fled to burrow, nest, and hide–afraid of the carnivorous beast. Afraid to be chewed, spat out, torn apart in his maw.

Steve is not. Could never fear that which makes him whole.

Eddie, the wolf.

Called by so many hideous names, all apart from his own–jackal, heathen, freak, monster, savage, wild–distorted and separate from true identity.

Never given the chance to show the love his canine teeth can provide, the supreme kindness he bestows upon his lamb with playful nips and careful grazes to his jugular. Giving life, feeling, sensation–never taking without equal return.

The hunters ignore his goodness–try to kill it off with rogue firearms and skinning blades. Shooting from atop their moral high-ground. Trying to save the lamb between his teeth.

Missing the point, missing the dedication, the choice in his wanton bleats and moans. Missing the fact that he’s the one who’s chosen to be here, who’s begged to be bitten in that place of highest honor. Pulse point quickening. Held, indulged by pain, kept safe under the sharp incision of his predator’s callus love.

Steve smiles, touches two fingers to the violet bite Eddie made flourish on his neck only hours before, pokes at the ache.

Eddie watches, blows him a fluttering kiss, flushes crimson–revealing the gentle, soft underbelly of the beast–and then, after a moment, returns to teaching Dustin how to flip dollops of whipped cream like coins on the back of his hand.

inspired by this quote (from: Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from ‘Love of the Wolf’, tr. Keith Cohen)

taglist (always feel free to message me if you’d like to added or removed): @asbealthgn, @madigoround, @carlyv, @gay-little-bitch, @the-redthread, @shrimply-a-menace, @jjoesjonas, @ilovecupcakesandtea, @estrellami-1

[danascullysjournal]

If You Will Let Me

X-Files Post-Milagro fanfic

TW: horror, demonic activity, demonic possession, near death experience, mild blood

Chapter 15: Martyr

File Artifact: the old farmhouse.

____________________

Mulder had known this darkness since his sister disappeared, in the way a patient knows a disease.

He had seen it in his periphery, on sleepless nights with sweat dampened sheets, looming in the shadows of his wounded memories. Insatiable. Relentless, but never fully visible… an elusive, malignant force. Certainly nothing he could control.

But how he had fought.

And recently, he really thought he had been winning.

Over the past year- even the past week- his hope had grown. The shadows had receded. He had finally, blissfully discovered how much he meant to Scully. He had held her… comforted her… kissed her.

There had been tangible hope for a future.

But the darkness found him. Again.

You are not enough. The voices lilted in his brain, louder, falling over themselves in a mocking, twisted, tuneless round as they traversed his neural networks and rooted deep into the panicked flesh of his amygdala. Not enough… never enough. Their relentless, dripping ridicule wrapped round and round his mind as the ghostly black tendrils slithered round his body, pulling him down. Burying him under masses of leaden smoke.

He saw nothing, anymore. The rods and cones of his eyes had been rendered impotent, his visual receptors overrun by an emptiness stitched tightly through each neuron by the fingers of darkness. But he felt not-Samantha watching, with her white eyes burning and small chin held high, gloating over her catch. Heard her laugh, airy, but somehow sinister… almost her. But not quite.

He wondered, as he sank into an icy, painful oblivion, if his real sister blamed him. If she hated him as much as this facsimile.

And as the darkness engulfed him, mind and body, he began to let go. Of Scully. Of Samantha. Of the prospects of a future with and for someone besides himself. He was so cold. It crystalized across his skin, slowing the life inside his veins, pressing itself into his pores and digging through. Running his nerves like currents, beginning to feed.

The bitter, icy sadness permeated him. But if Scully could escape, he bartered, he would take his place with the countless others collected in this hell scape.

A soul for a soul.

It was the only gift he could give to her, now. His breath faltered, his pulse slowed, and he hoped. For her sake alone.

____________________

Mulder’s body lay across the threshold of the broken door, motionless.

The sunlight glowed golden around him, outlining him in gilding, a martyr of illuminated scripts from ages past.

Scully wanted to run to him.

And she wanted to crumble. To hide her face from what she feared most, and sink into oblivion. For all she knew, this was another lie… or worse. That possibility, she could not consider. She tried not to recount the bodies of coded patients and autopsied victims, summoned up from her locked subconscious by the apparition of Philip Padgett. They had all lain eerily still. Just like this.

He can’t be dead. He can’t.

The last shreds of hope she possessed pulled her forward. Though the summer heat was pressing in from the gaping door, she felt the temperature dropping at her back. They didn’t have much time.

“Mulder?”

No response.

The last two steps were leaden, and her brow knotted tight as she took him in. His forehead was pricked by dozens of miniature scrapes, open and oozing crimson. The cartilage of his ear, torn and mangled, was matched by the deep, dirt-crusted gash in his palm. In the radiant summer sunlight he seemed perfect, and broken, an almost-saint with half of the stigmata vouching for his worth. His eyes were closed. His chest, agonizingly still.

“Oh, Mulder, no.”

Before she fully registered what her body was doing, she was kneeling over him, frantically feeling his cold neck for a pulse with her own bloodied fingers. Tracing between slack neck tendons, locating proof of life in his veins.

It was faint. But it was there.

“Mulder?” Her hands traveled from his jugular to his sternum, resting there. Willing his chest to rise. Nothing. Scully felt her own throat constricting, tight from tears threatening to surface.

“Mulder, we have to go.” Her trembling hands went back to his neck, ready to position him for breaths. She couldn’t give up on him. She wouldn’t. “You have to breathe. Please?”

As if in response, she felt his lungs expand. He drew in a shallow, shaking gasp of air, and began to cough weakly.

“Oh, thank God. Keep breathing… I know you can.” She propped herself up on one hand, using the other to wipe the blood from his forehead.

Mulder drew in more air, and shuddered.

The ambient air was cold, Scully realized. Clouds of black began to fill the entryway, all too familiar to her now, darkening the doorway that had been brilliant with summer sun minutes before. Murmurs, soft and dreamlike in a thousand voices and tongues, began calling to her. Hungry. Hunting. They were here for her… countless numbers of them. Her breath caught in her throat.

“S… Scully.” Mulder forced her name out in a strained whisper. “Scully. Run.”

“N-no, Mulder. I'm staying right here. With y-.”

“Scully.” His head turned slowly toward her. His eyelids cracked open, slightly. Showing an opalescent glow within.

“Mulder…?”

“I can see… Every possible… death for you.” He forced in another shallow breath, fighting the demons inside. “And you… need to run.” His fingers raised up to her clavicle blindly, searching. To the long, bloody slice that traced beneath. “I asked… just me. Not you… But I can’t… stop them.”

His fingertips slowly trailed fresh red from her incision down her pale skin, and his brow furrowed with sadness.

“Scully… I’m sorry… Go.” He splayed his fingers across her chest, pressing against her weakly in a vain attempt to push her away. Though his white, unseeing eyes pierced through her, his face was twisted in pain. Heartbreak.

She shook her head.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to... A legion, Scully… Too many.”

“I won’t.” Tears cut paths down her stained cheeks. She cupped his chin in her bloody hands, voice quivering. “You said I wasn’t a victim, Mulder, and I won’t be. You can’t be one, either.”

His eyes closed, but he pulled in another labored breath. Fighting.

“Mulder. Stay with me.” She could barely make out his face, outlined in deep gray against the stark, black forms that were enveloping them both. A sob broke over her lips. “Please keep fighting. Keep breathing. We’re gonna get out. You and me.”

Another breath.

Scully strained to move him, pulling his chilled body up to her own, ignoring the burning of the autopsy wound soiled by his dust-caked face and hair. Frantically, her eyes searched the darkness, desperately seeking an escape. She clutched him to her chest as the charcoal columns drew ever closer, white eyes fixed on her.

Whispering.

Chanting.

Constricting.

Claiming.

She could see nothing, except their countless eyes boring into her soul. Felt nothing, except the tendrils grasping her arms and body, and the chill radiating from Mulder, across her fingertips, through her hands.

“We told you. He is ours.” Through the murky smoke, Scully could make out the shell of the man she wished to never see again.

Her glare met his. Unwavering.

“You don’t get to keep him.” Her words were tempered. Her jaw clenched. “I don’t care what you are. You can’t have him.” She cradled Mulder’s face to her body, protectively.

Padgett’s ghostly white visage peered through the columns of loosely gathered, ephemeral beings, edging itself closer. It twisted, masking itself with a pathetic attempt at kindness that was a hungry, haunted grin. Nothing more.

“You can stay. With him.” The smile was forced. Empty. “We know that’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

“This is not what I want.”

Padgett’s charade of sympathy was shattered by his laugh, a sound that bellowed out from his shifting body as it was echoed by the shrouded forms surrounding them. The face of the dead man dissolved into the darkness, leaving behind the white beaded eyes inches from her own.

And she felt pinpricks of energy, like ice on her skin as they began to enter her. The tendrils around them cinched tighter. She wanted desperately to fight, but… she could feel them crawling up through her neural network. Reaching into her. Taking control.

Mulder’s breathing faltered beneath her numbing fingers, and Scully felt her stomach drop.

“Mulder- don’t go. Just… keep breathing.” There is no point in breathing now. Scully choked on the words inside her mind. What was she becoming?

They had to leave, her rational remnants knew. But the pulsing, raging shadows burrowed into them both. She felt desperately alone, clinging to Mulder like her eight year old self to a rag doll, while the demons began to feed, siphoning themselves in, or herself out. She couldn’t tell anymore.

What would they be? Just a part of this mass of souls?

“I don’t know how, Mulder.” Her whisper was stained with regret. “God, I…”

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It was the rushing of demons through her cerebrum, the pulsing of blood in her ears. It was the flood of hopelessness and acceptance.

And her eyes began to close.

____________________

“You’re tougher stuff than that, Starbuck.”

Scully felt herself pulled backward, jarred in her own skin. The voice was muted by the rushing of the black clouds, the jeering and insatiable growling of the demons, and the confusion of her own half consciousness. But it was there.

“Dad?”

Impossible.

He had been gone for years. But that voice. There was no mistaking her father’s deep, reassuring voice. So strong. Controlled. Safe. She shifted her cold body, forcing her clouding eyes to open, straining to locate the source.

“Fight it.”

“I don’t… know how.” It was a whisper, a sob. A plea for help from the last shreds of herself.

There is no fighting it. Stay. The demonic voices whispered within her, a hissing sound that was hopeless and strangely comforting, all at once. After all, she could rest here.

“Dana, don’t listen to them. You’re a fighter.”

She had been a fighter. It felt like a lifetime ago.

A sudden lurch against her chilled, bare chest pulled pieces of herself back, momentarily. Mulder. Her hands were numb, but the vibration of his ragged body against her was violent, sending tremors through her weary muscle and bone.

Convulsions?

Her medical mind fought the battle that the rest of her rational self was losing. Mulder was dying. Now. She was his only chance. Their only chance.

“Mulder.” His name was a murmur across her lips. She fumbled with his head dumbly, unable to work with no feeling in her limbs. “We have… to go… get up.”

Through the shadows, she saw his lips part. His head lolled to the side.

Her stomach dropped.

“Dad…” Scully didn’t know if she had really heard him. The rushing whispers in her mind told her no, and she should lie down and give up. But… “Dad, I’m… scared… he’s dying… we’re… dying…” The last word tumbled off her tongue, heavy with the sentencing it carried.

“It isn’t time for you to die, Starbuck.”

The spirits began to hiss and growl at this interruption, this benevolent visitor that would dare disturb their feeding. Mulder’s body stirred, drawing in a shallow gasp of air.

It isn’t time. She could feel the demons around them, in them, enraged at the thought of losing the souls they had worked to collect. And, she thought dully, how could they survive when they were surrounded by death?

“Dana, fight. Battles have been won by outnumbered men.”

Shrieking, the demons pressed in further, in earnest. There was rage building up inside of her… and she knew it wasn’t her own.

She pulled in another choked breath, and let Mulder down to the floor gently as she could with her awkward hands, cold and clumsy.

If they were to escape… she would have to move him.

Scully worked desperately to find pieces of herself through the angry din that permeated her. She had fought. But this house, these beings… It was not rational, not logical. She had no power over something so ethereal, so beyond her understanding. But she didn’t have to understand. She just had to act.

Against their chilled skin, the black forms screamed, rising to the frantic screeching she had felt before. Their dark tempest pummeled her, and inside… she felt herself flayed. Pulled apart, as if one piece of her soul wanted to escape, while the other… the other fought to stay. She smelled the desperation of the monsters enveloping them.

It mirrored her own.

“God, please…” It was all she could manage.

It was all she needed.

The door.

She couldn’t see it, but it had to be there.

With a determined growl, she threw her shoulder onto Mulder’s side, and his body moved. His eyes flew open, glaring at her.

White. Feral.

But she could hear him breathing, shallow. Ragged. But still breathing. It wasn’t too late.

“Mulder… keep fighting.” Another shoulder on his side. Another inch moved. “Let’s go… you… and me.”

The demons screamed and clawed around them, a cacophony of rage and hunger… but weaker, somehow. The whispers inside her had waned.

“Mulder.” She pushed hard against his side. There was dull pain in her shoulder, and a welcome tingle in her fingers. “Fight it. C’mon.”

Another breath, stronger.

His frame rolled, and she found herself fumbling in the darkness.

“Mulder?”

Fingers grasped at her arm, blindly. They traveled down her forearm, to her hand.

They grasped weakly.

“Scully.”

Her heart swelled, and she breathed her relief.

The chaos around them roared, eliminating all other sounds. But nothing else needed to be said. Arm over tingling arm, they dragged their exhausted, ravaged bodies to the threshold. Pressing through clawing masses of smoke, they pulled each other forward.

Their hands broke through to the glistening sunlight.

Together. Alive.

____________________

Thank you for reading! Tagging @today-in-fic

[springbreezc]

NOEUL YOON & DANIEL SONG: an ode to to a love that burns. a love that consumes. a love that bites and bleeds. // @mysteryoflovc

( cr. ) the hand has twenty-seven bones, natalie diaz / @rbhvleo / crimson peak (2015) / planet of love, richard siken /  monster movie, nicola maye goldberg / frankenstein, mary shelley / love, gravity, & other natural forces, anita ofokansi / stigmata: escaping texts, helene cixous / the burning heart, louise glück / these violent delights, micah nemerever 

[vulpesvirtus]

In a crucifixion ecstasy

Lying cross chequed in agony

Stigmata bleed continuously

Holes in head, hands, feet, and weep for me

Stigmata oh you sordid sight

Stigmata in your splintered plight

Look into your crimson orifice

In holy remembrance

In scarlet bliss

In nomine patri et filii et spiriti sanctum

(Stigmata Martyr, Bauhaus, 1980)