#i nearly lost the entire text for this bcs the post editor crashed HALP

[beholdenning]

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

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

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

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

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

The ball approaches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but i do not know how to do this.

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

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

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