#so beside the mangling of the aria

[whenyoulosesmallmind]

sam’s wip whenever part whatever comes w a decent introduction this time because this is a semi-serious snip that i’m not sure will make the cut in the final date piece, tbh - it might anyway, though, ‘cause i find mood whiplash incredibly funny but, still, we’ll see. 

little warning ahoy, tho: bullfighting is mentioned in passing, so if it’s a thing that squicks you, this is your heads up

there is actually a very serious and deep (i swear!) reasoning behind the choice of votre toast je peux vous le rendre (most known as the toreador song from carmen) as the stand in for the empyrean suite but long story short 1. i started plotting this human au before finishing mtmte and actually realising that empyrean suite is a piece without lyrics, 2. the toreador song is actually a banger of an aria if you even wanted to commit murder to a song, imho, 3. fits the vibes of grandeur tarn worked hard to give the djd - also imho.

When facing the mirror, putting back on the pieces of his own image, he found some pride in the efficiency with which he was able to build his reputation upwards.

He accompanied the turning of his face with fingers propped under his chin and observed one profile first – ordinary and tidy (never enough to glimpse, under the marks time had left, another softer, not-to-be-named, creature); Glitch, outlier, student at Jhiaxus Academy – then the other – twisted and disfigured, a vitreous eye and lips bisected diagonally; Damus, (almost) phase sixer and Warden of Grindcore – before allowing himself a last view of the finished puzzle. He didn't think it was a pleasant one but, as he repeated himself, there was no need for it to be, and he closed his eyes before lowering the mask on his face. Tarn, Commander of the Justice Division, stared back at him when he opened them again.

The Traitors’ Toreador, whispered the troops behind his back, and behind his mask he smiled condescendingly at the mangling of his favourite aria, knowing no one would dare repeat it in his presence in fear of receiving the judgement on the tip of his tongue. Let them whine and tremble, their cowardice the symbol of corruption Tarn was called to eradicate.

Right profile and then left again, the reflection was the same violet mark that was branded in fire on the body of every single Decepticon.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Answers Found in Silence

Vincent licked his lips.

The blood tasted like iron, but the vision of the masterful painting before him absorbed his entire attention.

He loved paintings. He loved living vicariously through them. The rush it filled him with whenever his eyes followed every stroke of the brush, paint layered as passionate memories upon canvas, the sheer essence that the artist channeled into creating such masterpieces.

Seeing what they saw. Breathing what they breathed. Imagining what they must have heard at the time. Tasting what they sampled upon their tongues.

Absentmindedly, he licked his lips again, only now realizing how much blood must have sprayed his face upon bludgeoning a man to death. It took him out of his revelry. That taste of iron prevented him from embarking on another journey through the lens of the painting.

Vincent dabbed his lower lip, then inspected his fingertips, ensuring with a glance that it was indeed another man's blood.

He turned to the corpse splayed out on the marble floor behind him, in the middle of a pool of his own bodily fluids. Vincent scanned the dead body with silent contempt. His lip curled into a sneer. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Philistine," he muttered.

The knife that Sir Dorsey Dwyer had held now lay on the shiny floor beside him, underneath a reflective surface comprised of his own spilled lifeblood, pumped out to completion by his heart's merciless beating, throbbing until he had exhaled his last breath.

Dwyer had threatened to do harm with that knife. Not harm to Vincent—but to the painting. An act of aggression he could not tolerate. An act of spite which he would not suffer.

That they would not suffer.

"Yes," whispered his favorite voice. That sweetest voice. "You did well, my love. Revenge for a loved one he had lost, I can always fathom, but what he would have done to the painting never would have—"

"Brought him back," said Vincent, Lord of the Bailyview, seemingly to himself.

Nobody but him could hear the phantasmal companion whose sentence he had finished. He stood alone in that spacious hall, company only to his late colleague's corpse growing cold. Sparing little glance to the bent candelabra which had caved in Dwyer's skull, he turned to gaze at the painting again.

He said, "It is a bit of a bother though. I need to figure out how to get his sorry carcass out of here without getting caught red-handed, or our time together may just be spent in a cell in the Tower."

She stayed silent.

He rubbed thumb and bloodstained fingers together, marveling at the sensation of that warm slick fluid trapped between them. Though rare for him to take another person's life, he rarely felt anything even remotely related to remorse.

Like this painting.

A beautiful portrait of a quaintly handsome man. Staring off to the side through hazel eyes, head crowned by messy hair, garbed in a fancy dress likely donned just for the portrait's painter—or imagined, as it contrasted the rest of his appearance so.

The painter had clearly seen something in the motif of his masterpiece. Felt something for the man depicted on the canvas.

And the painter had been nobody less than the infamous Outer Wall Reaper. The murderer who had kept the city locked in a breathless fear, rendered masses afraid of the killer who stalked its streets by night, picking off people and making them disappear until only mangled bodies surfaced in the slums, organs missing.

And now, Vincent owned this painting, stolen from the Reaper's vandalized home by looters before an angry mob fully thrashed it. The piece of art had found its way into the private collection of this rich and handsome playboy.

"So fascinating," said she.

Orinrya.

"The painter? Or the subject?" he asked.

She rendered a whole aria, carried in the singsong of a single word as she replied, "Both."

He chuckled.

"So rare for us to glimpse what such a pure soul saw as attractive," she added.

"Pure soul?" scoffed Vincent. But he smiled.

"Yes. Just look at the way he painted every single hair on his head. What little attention he paid to the shirt's collar or the bow, while having slaved over the sheen he had seen on this man's skin. The hand that guided that brush also guided the needles and scalpels that took all those lives, in all those cold and dreary nights. The warmth of their blood, steaming in the snow—"

"You're right."

"Hm?"

"I see it," breathed Vincent.

He sighed. Shot another glance at the dead man on the floor, repeating his oath, "Philistine. To think—you almost robbed our world of this masterpiece. The single only painting the Reaper may have ever made."

Dwyer had been out of line; he had had no right to destroy it. Nobody did. The stupid fop had foolishly tried to put knife to the canvas, to slice it to ribbons in a fit of rage upon hearing who had painted the portrait. A petty act of revenge, as if it would have brought back his slain brother, the only wealthy victim whose life the Reaper claimed in his rampage through the slums. Caught with a night worker, no less, adding insult to injury.

And to imagine that a simple painting could have been the object of his impotent rage—no, they would never have suffered such petty revenge. After all, it was not the artwork that had taken his brother's life.

Snatching a gas lantern from the table, Vincent raised it in front of the painting and frowned. Though perfect for the simple sandalwood frame, this artificial light did not do the artwork itself any justice. The long, foggy night had swallowed the sun, and Vincent could not wait to behold the Reaper's artistry again in broad daylight.

In a way, the Outer Wall Reaper had just claimed another life. Even if only indirectly. Vincent smiled at that thought. That he had accidentally become the murderer's own instrument.

Almost as if on cue to disrupt his morbid amusement, someone knocked on the door.

Muffled through the entrance still closed, the butler spoke, "Milord, I heard—"

"It's fine, Perry. Brace yourself as you enter. Sir Dwyer had a," Vincent's words trailed off like these thoughts. He smiled again to himself before he finally finished the sentence. "He had an unfortunate accident."

He never turned around. The doors to the gallery opened and Perry entered. His shoes squeaked as he swiveled and froze in place, staring at the corpse.

"An accident with a candelabra, I see," said the butler with his usual measure of dripping sarcasm. "Looks like the poor chap fell backwards into it. Repeatedly."

Vincent chortled, still admiring the painting. He never understood how Perry found it in him to deliver such deadpan remarks without breaking out into laughter himself.

Their gazes met for a second, and as always, Vincent read no fear in Perry's eyes. They would never harm a hair on each other's heads, and knowing each other's dirty secrets assured mutual silence—or mutual destruction.

"What would you have me do about this mess, sir?"

Vincent clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Pay no mind. Fetch me everything for some absinthe. I will take care of the late Sir Dwyer myself. And as you recall, he showed up here all drunk off his arse. I don't think anybody knows he even came here. And someone in the constabulary... still owes me a favor. I'll have it all sorted out soon, no worries."

"Despite the recent disaster at your party?"

"Oh, let them all talk. I love being the center of attention. Next thing you know, I'll be the headline of another lurid article," Vincent said, painting a picture in the air with a hand, fingers splayed as he envisioned the printed piece. "Painting me as the Outer Wall Reaper himself, while others rush to defend my name and trip over themselves in fabricating all the reasons why I would never harm a fly."

Vincent arched his brow as he flashed his loyal butler a twisted smile. The same involuntary expression to mark his face whenever he felt like he was winning a game. And he always won the games that people played in the rumor mill.

"I am less concerned about them, milord. And more about how difficult it will be to clean after the constabulary concludes their investigation." Perry raised his nose and stared down at it, gray cheeks reddening.

"Hm. I am terribly sorry about all that, Perry. You have my word; I'll hire someone to take care of it. Now—how about that absinthe?"

The butler emitted a grunt in recognition, bowed, and backed out of the gallery hall again, leaving Vincent alone with the corpse.

And Orinrya.

The door clicked as it shut completely.

"He's such a good friend of the family," she said. "Three generations, and now the old codger's stuck with handling your caprice."

She smiled through Vincent's own lips. He smiled to himself, as well.

"I'm sure he has his own share of amusements," he said. Focusing on the painting again, he asked, "Now, where do you think this one leads? It's just blank around the subject. Well, not entirely blank. There's some color, some suggestion of gloom. I'd wager he painted it just this same winter. But without background—no context. A blind journey. We've never done that before."

"And that's why we will, darling. You cannot resist."

He smiled even wider.

Orinrya was right. She knew his thoughts, reading them as clearly as if he had spoken them out loud, giving them air. She knew his capricious nature as well as he did, or perhaps even better. Knew he could not pass up on any opportunity to explore the unknown. He bored quickly of things familiar and always sought to visit a new horizon whenever it presented itself.

He flopped down onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, his velvety upholstered oasis in the middle of this opulent marble gallery. Surrounded by alabaster statues of ancient deities, and arrays of exquisite paintings that his family had amassed over all these years to plaster the high walls. The lights from gaslit lanterns cast pockets of eerie glow throughout the gigantic hall.

Vincent tapped his chiseled blood-splattered chin as he once more marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into painting this portrait.

"What do think is his name? Or was?" he asked.

"Eric," she said. Giggled. "He looks like an Eric to me. And still alive, I feel."

Vincent chuckled.

"So, you're picking up on a name with an 'E'. Perhaps Egon? Egon. Hm. What a funny name," he mused.

"Edward. That must be it, for sure."

"How would you know?"

"Call it—intuition," she cooed.

"Or should I call it whispers? The things you hear from the beyond? You never answered, love. You never told me where you came from."

"And perhaps I never will," she breathed with melody, drawing out another smile from him.

The set of double doors opened into the gallery. The butler entered. Empty glasses and sugar cubes in a small metal cup tinkled and clattered until he arrived by the sofa's side. He set the contents of his tray down onto the table by the sofa, one by one, preparing everything for Vincent's ritual.

Before he could seize the bottle of green liquid to pour him a glass, Vincent raised a jewelry-clad hand to stop Perry.

"That'll be all. Thank you," he told him. "I'll take it from here."

Perry nodded, bowed again, and left the gallery, shedding not even a glance in the direction of Dwyer's corpse.

The doors clicked shut again.

"You know you don't need that, right?" asked Orinrya.

"Yes. But I just—I enjoy it too much. I like the taste. I associate it with our study of these pieces. With our journeys."

He chuckled again.

Perching a sugar cube atop the glass with the ornate spoon—and his family's crest of the eagle cut into the silver piece of specialized cutlery—he poured the sweet green spirit into his clear cup. The trickle of liquid tickled his senses.

And he lived for all manner of sensations.

"It is a lovely taste, I must concede," she said. "Particularly this bottle, this make. More than mere resemblance of licorice. Mint. Thyme? And a hint of other worlds. I do understand the appeal, don't get me wrong."

A delighted sigh escaped his throat as he cradled the glass between the fingers of one hand, swirling its contents like fine wine and sampling the drink's scent.

"Other worlds indeed," he said, the smile never fading from his face.

He sipped from the glass. Heat spread over his palate with a pleasant warmth, like a beautiful wildfire consuming the countryside, burning away every hint of iron and blood. He closed his eyes as he savored the aftertaste, and took another longing sip, kissing the glass like he would his many lovers, the men and women he consorted with behind closed doors at his many lavish parties.

"Drink, sweet prince," she said. "I long to see what lies beyond. I wish to meet this man for myself. To see what the Reaper saw."

"Taste what the Reaper tasted," breathed Vincent, licking his lips again, now only tasting the sweet sting of the green fairy, any tang of blood having been relegated into memory.

He focused on the painting. Drinking in the portrait's details. Warm tones made up the complexion of the artist's subject. Streaks and dabs of gray peppered dark hair despite the youthful and symmetrical face. A faint hint of stubble around the small and tender-looking lips and a soft chin.

And such kind eyes. So utterly kind.

What had the Reaper seen? Who was this mysterious subject?

"The killer became obsessed with him," Orinrya whispered. "Watched him from afar. But not like he watched the others."

Vincent sipped more from his cup; his sights fixed on the portrait. The spirit burned his throat on the way down and blood now rushed in his ears.

"Do you think he would have kept him for last? After torching down the entire world, would he have kept him around, do you think?"

"Not for long," she said. "Those kind eyes, he would not have been able to bear them for all eternity. Those eyes, painted thus, they knew not who watched him. What watched him. What monster—"

"Oh, my dear, let us not wield that word lightly," Vincent said.

His eyes fell shut as he drank more from the cup. The cool steel framing its glass made his silky palm tingle.

"Oh, but my dear, he is one of us," she sang.

"Was," said Vincent, breaking out into another chuckle.

Opening his eyes to continue gazing into the soft amber irises of the portrait's eyes, Vincent's vision blurred.

"Yes, was," she chimed in, joining him with melodious laughter in his mind.

"And this—Edward, you say—"

"Yes. Certainly Edward. I see a room. Orderly. Well-organized. Neatly arranged instruments. Cabinets filled with... medicine."

"A doctor?" asked Vincent with a lopsided smile, arching a brow.

"A doctor."

He drank more from the cup. Lost all sense of time as his senses dulled, losing track of how often he repeated the motion—the trickle of green spirit soaked up by the sugar cube, trailing down through the family crest into the cup, and burning in his throat as he sent it to cascade past his luscious lips and tongue.

"Here, in this very city, am I right?"

"Yes, dear. He is near. I feel it."

As his vision faded, his memory soon followed into the hazy mist.

Vincent cradled the bottle. Empty, save for a few droplets. They laughed as its glass shattered somewhere on the floor, no further mind paid to its breaking after jettisoning it away in a languid arc.

"I can almost taste it."

The lingering smell of the spirit occluded his senses further, but he began to smell another sharp substance.

Rubbing alcohol.

"We're getting closer, love," she whispered.

Every time he blinked, his eyelids grew heavier. His vision of the portrait turned into a blob of warm colors in dim light. The kind eyes of the mystery man in the painting—Edward—soon peeled away from that unseen something off to the right side of the image, and the doctor in the painting turned his head to look back at his spectators.

Then he looked out a window. His motions were slow, deliberate.

They felt that he felt watched.

"A busy street by day, just outside that window," Orinrya said.

"A foggy day," Vincent ventured. "A day not long ago."

"Only days around when the Reaper started his spree."

"Oh, how he cherished knowing how this beautiful man—this oblivious doctor—was unwittingly helping him."

"Did he provide the instruments?"

"Or drugs, perhaps?"

"No, just the thing to stab. A precise thing."

"A needle," they both said in unison, their voices blending until they matched. Orinrya spoke through his mouth. "A syringe."

Two voices. Not one.

The lantern's flame flickered but stayed alight. Turned bright blue. The world began to fade.

"Inspiration."

"He inspired him. Oh, he quaffed the nectar of this man's innocence—"

"Watched from afar, even before he started claiming lives—"

"Twisted it into something darker—"

"Something fierce—"

"Oh, the delicious transgression."

The lights throughout the gallery went out, one by one, until all but the lantern sitting on the floor between sofa and the lonesome painting remained lit. An orange-hued island in the middle of a sea of darkness. On one edge, the dapper lordling lounged, limbs drooping lazily off the sides. On the other, the painting.

The handsome man had disappeared from it.

Vincent brushed over his own lips and the numbness had set in. Unable to feel his own fingers, it felt like someone else caressed him, like she had planted there a gentle kiss.

They no longer saw a portrait, but another place. A window into that other location: a doctor's practice. Vacant of people, with shadows flitting about, hints of its owner leaping from one task to another chore, as day and night cycled rapidly, bouncing back and forth.

Meticulously washing his hands in the sink. Examining a sitting patient's eyes. Carefully bringing scalpel to an exposed arm. A laugh to defuse some fear. Blood, dabbed away with cloth in slender hands. A warm and kind smile to match the gaze from the painting, a patient calmed by his gentle disposition.

Oblivious of the darkness that watched him, reaching through past and present and now seeing that darkened room. A solid night, a roiling fog outside the windows. Like one monster once watched, spying from the outside, they now peered through painting, bridging time and space.

Vincent lurched up onto his feet and stumbled halfway on the infinitely long walk towards the painting. Glass shards crunched underneath his shoe, reminiscent of the blanket of snow outside, melting into the flurries of crystallized precipitation which he saw through the painting, falling softly to cobblestone-covered streets outside the practice's window.

Though numbed by stupor, the bumps and ridges of dried paint surfaced in a texture he traced with his fingertips, exploring the picture of the painting. No longer depicting the kind-faced doctor, but his practice, blanketed entirely by night.

"Push, my love. Let us explore."

And Vincent did. Pressed his palm against the painting, and ripples exploded outwards from it, as if he had disturbed the surface of a still pond. The image swallowed his hand and he pushed deeper, until he dove into that distorted image, neither place nor person, stepping entirely through.

As he stumbled again and blinked to orient himself, he stood inside that doctor's practice.

Rocked back and forth as the absinthe did its number on his coordination, barely able to read the handwriting on letters stacked on a desk.

Orinrya whispered through Vincent's lips, "Doctor Edward—"

"Carnaby," Vincent finished himself, slurring the surname in a drunken drawl, erupting into a stupid giggle.

He slapped the paper back down onto the desk and looked about, letting his eyes adjust.

"Do we truly travel to these places, love?"

"Or is it just a jaunt of the mind?" she countered.

"A little escape that leaves the flesh behind?"

He giggled another drunken giggle as he clumsily knocked over objects on the desk, causing them to clink and clatter and a small broken vial to gurgle out liquid. Something black, likely ink.

"Oh fairy, my green fairy," he murmured with the most melody that a positively drunken man could muster.

"This is all us, darling. No fairy needed. Just some added fun for your pleasure."

He pushed through a door, stumbling down dark corridors, and registering the softness of a carpet beneath his shoes.

"But it's so much fun, love—"

Vincent froze.

Bathed in a bright sliver of silver moonlight from a crack between the curtains, a woman lay in bed. A shapely face, heavily scarred, and peacefully resting, eyes closed.

"Oh, here we go again," mused Orinrya. "Be still, your beating heart."

Arms exposed above the sheets, wreathed in bandages, leaving just enough space for Vincent to take a seat at the sleeping woman's side. The mattress and bed creaked underneath his weight.

The scars on her cheek, as disfiguring they were, he saw past them and found a beauty he would have overlooked otherwise. But it was the scarring that captured his entire attention.

"Yet another fancy for you to entertain, love?"

He shushed Orinrya.

His fingers shook with the green fairy's tremors and an enamored fascination. He traced over the lines of those scars, an uneven drawing from a cut inflicted by a blade, that wandered over cheek to nose. Crisscrossing into another scar that ran across the nose, where ridge had broken once. Gingerly exploring the uneven surface of her warm skin where a hound's claw had raked her jaw. Her soft and shallow breath, he felt even with hands so numb.

So focused, so spellbound—

"Careful now," Orinrya whispered.

Vincent whispered back, "Sound asleep—"

"Look," she said. "Look away."

"No, I shall not."

"Look beside her, I say! Look. On the bedside table," Orinrya urged him. The singsong gone, her tone had fallen deathly serious.

That was when his blurry gaze finally came to rest upon it.

A leatherbound tome. Strange glyphs carved into its face.

Another gasp escaped Vincent's throat, all attention for the beautifully scarred woman now blown away.

An authentic tome of magick. He felt it. He felt its thrum. No ordinary book he had ever seen had ever looked like that. It had to be.

The prize he had sought for so long.

"Take me," Orinrya whispered.

No—the tome had whispered that. In his mind. Like her?

Right?

"Take it," she whispered in his mind. "Take it."

His hands trembled—hovered just above the cool leather surface of the book. How he yearned to rip it open and decipher its inscriptions. But his reverence weighed so heavily, the dread of what terrible secrets it may contain, it boggled his mind. His hesitation dragged on forever, mired in a swamp of lost time and a drunken haze.

"Take it," she hissed. Commanding.

His fingers trembled even more as they crept closer towards the edges of the book, keen on flipping the lid and perusing its mysterious pages.

He hesitated for too long.

"What are you doing in here?" a man blurted out behind them.

In the door to the room stood a dark silhouette. The squeak of metal and a clicking sound preceded a lantern going on.

The doctor. This Edward Carnaby. The kind face from the painting, kindness far from its current expression. Glaring at Vincent.

"Who in the blazes are you?" asked the doctor.

Brows furrowed; the moonlight twinkled with fear in the doctor's pupils.

Vincent rose to his feet and lurched towards him, tripping over a chair's leg. He caught himself against a dresser before he could fully plummet to the floor. Laughed, drunkenly.

"Should he see your face?" Orinrya asked. Another murmur in Vincent's thoughts. "Should he remember?"

"No. Yes!" Vincent said, followed by another clipped giggle.

Alibi, he thought. So convenient. If this was even real.

Doctor Carnaby cried, "Get out! Before I fetch a constable!"

The good doctor threatened, yet he took a timid step backwards, back into the hallway behind him. Frightened by the nightly invader in his home.

"Sorry good, sir," Vincent's words lurched as much as he did with his drunken gait. "I must have been confused. Long night—o-out drinking, you see."

"Get out!" repeated the doctor with more force. His voice trembled with terror.

Leaning against the dresser, sliding, and almost slipping as he propped himself up, Vincent eked out a theatrical gesture with his arm and bowed, nearly toppling over in the process. "I'm Lord Vincent Va—"

"I don't care who in the devil's name you are, you are bothering my patient, you drunken lout! Get! Out! " The doctor's fear audibly subsided. He cleared his throat and pointed a finger down the hallway, directing Vincent to leave that way.

He stepped aside demonstratively and waited for Vincent to follow his instructions.

"Yes, yes, yes. As I was saying, good sir, I must have taken the wrong turn—wrong door, you know, it happens," he said with a smile, growing aware of how much less charming he was whenever he was this heavily intoxicated. "Vincent Vance is the name, Lord of Bailyview. Terribly sorry if I broke anything on the way in—"

Doctor Carnaby's face fell through different stages. The dread dropped into fury, and the fury made way for confusion and mild annoyance, with a dash of pity.

"Just leave, please."

"Right," Vincent said, covering his mouth and feigning the urge to throw up, replete with a retching sound.

Carnaby waited patiently for him to step outside, and Vincent obliged. Stared over his shoulder as he turned into the hallway and stopped there—the scarred woman stirred, and more importantly, that leatherbound tome eyelessly stared back at him.

Beckoning him.

He wanted it so badly. Had to peel his gaze from the book. Had to tell himself he'd be back for it. Flashed a stupid grin at the doctor and stumbled forth.

The glow from the doctor's lantern made it easier to navigate the dark hallway, and in the blurry haze where time and space melted into one misty soup, he braced himself against a wall on the way until he pushed through a door that should have led outside. He slammed it shut behind him, more fiercely than he had intended.

But he did not find himself outside on the street, in the cold, where his breath condensed before his mouth, standing in the pale moonlight as it pierced a ring of clouds—but back in the gallery in front of the living painting of Doctor Edward Carnaby.

The doctor glared into the night outside his front door. Poked his head outside to see where his nightly intruder had staggered off to but paid it no more mind. Did not notice a lack of footprints in the thin layer of snow. He shut the door. The lock loudly fell into place.

Vincent leaned against the wall, watching through the painting.

The snowfall of flurries gently drifting down onto the cobblestone-covered streets made him sway again, made Vincent's legs buckle. Hypnotic as it was, it almost fully robbed him of his senses.

He crashed back down onto that comfortable sofa inside his opulent gallery.

"A fascinating jaunt, darling," said Orinrya.

"And a convenient alibi," he replied, shooting another glance at Sir Dwyer's body.

They laughed at the dead philistine.

The blur continued, as Vincent did not recall how he had gotten from the Reaper's painting of Doctor Carnaby in the main hall—to his private parlor.

Slumped into a different sofa, he peered up at the gigantic portrait of himself.

The renowned painter Léon Choffard had spent months completing this masterpiece. A stylized depiction of Vincent's likeness. Though already statuesque in the flesh, Choffard's artistry had lent the portrait a special something that portrayed Vincent as even more attractive than humanly possible—which Vincent regularly and smirkingly attributed to their brief and romantic tryst.

"It truly captures your pleasant face," Orinrya said.

"Thank you, dear."

Silence.

A large clock tick-tocked away from the edge of the room, with everything around him swamped in shadows, two lanterns shedding just enough light that he could study the rendition of his own portrait.

"I wonder," he suddenly said. "What would happen if we entered that picture? Where would it take us?"

Silence.

Orinrya stayed silent.

"Hm, I like that answer. It is intriguing, love. So mysterious. You say so much by saying nothing, you know that?"

She laughed inside his head. A sweet and seductive laugh. He smiled in response.

"Will you ever tell me what you are? Or is that destined to be our perpetual dance?"

She laughed more.

"In due time," she said.

"Like getting our hands on that book."

"Yes, in due time, darling."

"And the woman."

"The scarred one?"

"No. Yes. Her too," he said. He bit his lip, clamped his eyes shut and sighed. "I meant the lady from the new world, that witch-doctor. And all the others in her company. That bandaged inquisitor—oh, how I would like to peel his bandages away and hear all his stories. It's brilliant how all these fascinating people—and things—are all coming together here, all at once."

"Yes. You feel it," Orinrya said.

"Feel what?"

"The quickening."

"What do you mean?"

"Something new being born. Old dreams that are dying, and a new world being birthed before our eyes," she breathed.

Vincent shuddered with a chill running down his spine.

"And what is this new world you speak? You must know. You know so much. I know you know," Vincent whispered, erupting into a crazed cackle over how silly he found his own words.

She smiled. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as a soft breeze swept through his parlor like a ghostly presence. Like soft fingertips that brushed against his lips, not his own. Or perhaps his own, just numbed from the excess of strong spirits only slowly wearing off.

"The real question, darling—what will you do when you bear witness to the reckoning? Will you hold the reins? Or will you pass them off to see what spectacle others may unfold?" Orinrya asked.

The corners of his lips twitched. Both he and she, they smiled simultaneously.

Not gracing her questions with any straight answer, he only returned more questions.

"Are you angel? Or devil?"

Silence.

"Good answer."

He laughed a hollow laugh, eventually mounting into a long and wistful sigh.

Vincent drifted off into a dreamless sleep. And he never yearned for such, as he lived his dreams in every waking moment.

A lingering thought that swam atop the sea of oblivion.

Sputtering awake, the lanterns were no longer lit. Daylight flooded through open doors into the parlor. He still rested in the sofa, sprawled out across it like his own likeness in the gigantic portrait towering over him.

The air was cold and had left him with a painfully stiff neck.

As he shuffled lazily across shiny marble floors, he surveyed the damage he had wrought the night before. The glass shards scattered across the gallery, and the dead body of Sir Dwyer, still left in his own pool of blood.

Work to do. A body to be rid of. A chief to blackmail. A new slew of rumors to seed.

The rich lord took a deep breath and sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.

He smiled.

"Oh, the woes of pleasure before business," he reckoned.

They both laughed at the thought.

"But that book—"

"Will be ours."

"Its magick—"

"We will wield it," they sang together, dulcet syllables spilling from Vincent's lips.

"Or will you be wielding it, while I soar to incredible heights on your back?" he asked.

And there was silence.

—Submitted by Wratts

[revasnaslan]

1, 5, 9, 12?

anyway i can't figure out how to do a readmore on mobile so you get the whole post in all its glory. i apologize in advance i wrote a lot 😭😭

1. Which plotline or mission in the series do you feel had the most wasted potential?

anything having to do with cerberus is the first that comes to mind tbh. like making the protagonist join them in 2 was a very interesting choice, and i think the game tries to humanize them because of this, and i think in certain aspects it does this well... but then when 3 rolls around they made them cackling bad guys with absolutely zero nuance who seem to actively be working against everybody else because?? reasons i guess??

and i think that this had potential because i do think there is a way to make them being secondary antagonists in 3 work... like there could have been an implication or an outright statement that the alliance has fractured because of the reapers and the war and a lot of soldiers were going over to cerberus because they seemed like the best option. it would explain how cerberus (which was a spliter cell iirc) suddenly has all this manpower despite only six months passing between 2 and 3.

5. What's a scene you would have liked to see in the series?

i would have liked to see shepard actually acknowledge that their autonomy was taken from them when they were forcibly brought back from the dead in 2, and i just do not understand how people gloss over it a lot of the time. now granted i don't think the devs really thought about it hard but like shepard was stone cold dead, the comic implies their body was so mangled you wouldn't even be able to recognize them, and yet they were brought back because only they could do the job or something??

it's very weak justification for a) keeping shepard as the protagonist and b) having a reason for shepard to be aligned with cerberus despite everything cerberus has done in the past possibly including being the reason they're the sole survivor of their unit on akuze. and i'm not saying it isn't an interesting choice to be forced into that position because they're the only ones who seem to realize what's going on, but i do wish it had been in anyway acknowledged by the text.

i think that's why i'm so fixated on the idea mr illusive is shepard's father, and why i used it as the backstory for my sheps. because he is definitely the type of asshole who would disregard his child's autonomy for the greater good or to keep the humanity saving in the family, as it were.

9. Which NPCs would you have most liked to have as squadmates?

i have multiple answers for this one actually, but the context for them are very different!!

so i adore kolyat, anybody who has spoken to me for more than five seconds know that he's my boy, i'm Very Attached To Him. that being said, i can acknowledge that he probably shouldn't be an actual squadmate in 3 considering he's a whole eighteen-to-nineteen year old who really shouldn't be running around in the middle of a goddamn war. however i do think it would have been very fun to have him as one of the squadmates you could take in that arcade shooter minigame from the citadel dlc!!

there's also feron!! i'm really intrigued by him as a drell who is seemingly not connected to the compact at all and as an information broker with a very firm code of ethics he adheres to. he has a lot of potential to be an interesting character but both the writers and the fandom totally sleep on him. i think he gets all of three mentions in 3 despite being a major supporting character in lair of the shadow broker (who is kind of the reason that dlc happens at all), and the wealth of potential he has was completely overlooked. i would have even taken him being a guest squadmate in the same way as aria and nyreen in the omega dlc.

a very self indulgent answer is probably irikah. like if she had lived i could see it being so interesting to explore drell culture through someone else besides thane, and she is implied to have a very strong code of ethics she holds to that seem to run counter to a typical character in an action rpg. her reactions to events during the games would have been fascinating to see imo. i do have an au where she's alive but i haven't worked out how she fits into the squad dynamic yet or if she is even a squadmate in 2, but her being a squadmate in 3 could be an interesting direction to take it.

..... to the surprise of no one, all my choices are drell 😔😔

12. How happy are you with your ME3 ending of choice? What would you change about it, if anything?

personally, i don't really care for any of the endings and have been kind of poking at writing one of my own entirely from scratch that completely reworks the catalyst and the goddamn starchild sequence because i think it would have been a lot more poignant if the people who had died along your journey were the ones talking to you (i.e., default it switches between like thane, mordin, and ashley/kaidan) because the entire point of the starchild was to be invoking a form shepard would be comfortable with?? okay so lean into that manipulation of that, have the catalyst take the form of people shepard "failed" and invoke a guilt response.

now that being said, i usually take the destroy ending because i loathe the implications of synthesis and the non-consensual body modification therein, but i also kind of hate control because their own narrative shows how futile it is through mr illusive?? destroy has the least amount of holes in it imo.

but the narrative decision to make the destroy ending affect all synthetic life is beyond stupid because a whole theme in these games is whether or not synthetics are sentient people or not. and we know they are, because we see it in legion and edi throughout the games. which is why it's uh... kind of uncomfortable because what the game is having shepard do, with the knowledge that synthetic life are people, is committing mass genocide on an intergalactic scale?? and like that could be interesting, if there was some acknowledgement within the text that what shepard did was essentially doing to synthetics what the reapers have been doing to them... but frankly i wouldn't trust the devs to write that considering they wrote the whole arrival dlc with about as much delicacy as a 2x4 to the face so 🙃🙃

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 24- Let Them Come

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 3134

Warnings: Corpse burning.

AN: I found this GIF a long time ago on tumblr and I have no idea who made, but credit to them.

23- Silver Fox

... The makeshift pyre was constructed in a matter of hours. Dabria was secured tightly against the wood with mountains of hay surrounding her corpse. Artemis's eyes followed the dancing flames as they licked at the dead woman's feet.

She stood beside Ivar and all the people behind them, to watch her burn. The colorful flames illuminated the night sky and the smell of scorching flesh lingered in the air.

Dabria's face was a mangled mess of loose beating red flesh. Her skull was visible under all the flapping skin, cracked and deformed. It did not bother Artemis in the least, not as it would have before. She assumed her heart would ache, or at the very least, grieve the death of a misfortunate woman. But she didn't. Her heart hardened and her eyes were blank. Perhaps it was because the woman was not alive, but merely a corpse. The dead could not feel anymore pain.

Ivar looked dissatisfied, almost disappointed, at the lack of torture and pain. He would have preferred the woman alive, begging and screaming for her life for daring to hurt his wife. Instead he watched a lifeless body become cinders. To him, it was a dull affair, but it was enough to send a message.

He turns to look at Artemis. Even with the hood of her cloak on he could still make out her expression in the night. Apathetic. It made him smile. She was becoming stronger.

"Let the people watch if they wish," She tells him, her voice low, "I tire of watching her burn." She absentmindedly places her hand on her wounded shoulder, the wrappings easily felt through the fabric of her cloak. Ivar nods, bringing her hand to his lips and placing a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

"As you wish, baby bird." The king raises a hand, signaling the guard of their departure. Walking away from the docks, Artemis takes one last look at the pyre. She was happy to see her burn.

...

"Strike me." Artemis raises a brow at Ivar, looking down at the sword in her hands. It was Hvitserk's, one of his prized possessions. She's worked on it more than a few times, the handle already familiar in her hands.

It had been decided that she should receive training in self defense. So far, she had done well on her own, but it had been sheer luck, likely divine intervention from the gods.

"Well?" Ivar smirks. He sat upon the tree stump located in the old training grounds of his youth. He held a blue shield covering his left side and his favored axe held in his right. He sat perfectly still, resembling a statue, legs bound together as he had no need for his metal cages.

"Do you think it wise...?" She begins to ask, and Hvitserk laughs, crossing his arms.

"My brother deserves a beating, use that strength," Ivar scowls at his older brother before smacking his axe against his shield.

"Come now, wife." Ivar calls out to her. Artemis was some distance away, but not far enough to ignore her husband's taunting smile. He wanted to raise an anger out of her, make her attack him like some kind of berserker.

She takes a cautious step forward, and then another before running at full speed in the way Hvitserk had taught her. She intended a quick strike, though she knew Ivar would block it with ease. Raising the large sword, she brings it down with all her might. It was an attempt at a slash, and just as she predicted, Ivar deflected the blow with his shield. The wood splintered slightly at the pressure of her force, and Ivar used his shield to smack it from her hands.

With a quickness he swings his axe, to which Artemis blocks with her own shield, pushing at him. She was heaving, chest rising and falling under her leather vest. Raising her shield, she attempts to strike him with it, but he was much faster, embedding his axe into the wood, successfully lodging it in deeply.

He pulls with all his might, bringing her forward with his brute strength. She lets out a yelp, body colliding atop of his, dropping her now useless shield.

"So, this is what you prefer, hmm?" Ivar says from under her, looking up at her with his infuriating smirk and sparkling eyes. He drops his weapons in favor of placing his large hands on her waist, using his thumbs to stroke her sides under her training tunic.

"Shut up," She retorts, pushing his face away from her own. She rolls off of him comically, body softly landing on the  grass. Hvitserk laughs something fierce, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

Training would prove to be difficult.

...

The days began to shorten and the nights grew long. The cold swept over Kattegat unmercifully, changing its leaves into different shades of red, yellow, and brown until there was nothing left but thin branches.

Then autumn was set aside for winter, its icy grip coating every inch of the town in snow. Trade had decreased for the time being, children played about less frequently, and families remained inside their homes where their hearth would keep them warm against the harsh elements.

That did not stop their Queen from stepping out to speak with the people. Though she was never an admirer of Kattegat's winters, she was slowly learning to embrace her new home and culture.

Artemis shivers from the cold despite wearing her warmest fur lined cloak, a luxury she was grateful for. Her newest guard Tordis, a shieldmaiden, follows behind her. Tordis was stoic, tall and brooding just like Heahmund, with dark eyes and thin lips set in a tight line. She wasn't the best company as Dafi had been, but Ivar trusted her enough to be Artemis's new shadow.

The marketplace buzzed with activity despite the slow oncoming snowstorm. Light flurries fell from the sky, a welcomed distraction from the noisy docks. The people crowded by the pier, all pushing at each other to take a look at the ship nearing their harbor.

"My Queen," Tordis says to her, "I think it's best we head back to the hall." Artemis had just finished speaking with an elderly woman, the wife of a farmer.

"I haven't finished making my rounds," Artemis tells her, smiling in farewell to the old woman before peeking up at the tall shieldmaiden, "I haven't even spoken to the fishermen yet. One of the wives is with child, you know." Tordis sighs.

"But the ship, my Queen."

"Ship?" It was only then that she noticed the people rushing towards their small dock. She whips around to get a glance herself, but she was far too short to see over the others.

"The King would want you with him in the hall. The people can wait." Tordis urges. Artemis sighs but nods, walking the familiar path towards the hall.

Already Aria comes skittering out from the kitchens once she is informed of the Queen's arrival. The redhead seemed nervous, wasting no time in removing the snow covered cloak from Artemis's shoulders.

"What's wrong?" She asks Aria immediately, already sensing the girls discomfort. Before she can answer, Heahmund hurriedly rushes over to them, his steps matching a soldier's march.

"Queen Artemis," Heahmund greets her, the sound of his voice clashing with that of yelling in the background, "Perhaps we should take a walk together?"

"Bishop. I've just come from outside." She says to him with a roll of her eyes, but stops short after hearing more yelling. The recognizable tone was unmistakably Ivar.

"Why is he in a rage?" She attempts to walk towards the sound of her angry husband, but Heahmund blocks her way.

"Heahmund," She huffs out, "Move."

"He's merely having a discussion with Hvitserk." Something shatters.

"That's a discussion to you?" She raises a brow and makes to walk around him but again he blocks her.

"He is angry."

"Oh? I haven't noticed!"

"Hvitserk will deal with him."

"But there is a ship intending to dock soon." Artemis says exasperated.

"He knows. That is why he is in a rage."

"I did not see their banners, are they friend or foe?" She asks worriedly, turning to look towards Tordis.

"I could not tell, my Queen." The shieldmaiden says to her. Artemis sighs but dismisses her before turning to Heahmund.

"What are you not telling me?" She switches to her native tongue, in case he was worried about others hearing. Heahmund scratches at his cropped hair before dropping his hand atop the pommel of his notorious sword out of habit.

"His brothers are due to dock by tonight." The shouting continues, Ivar's and Hvitserk’s voices seeming to come from deep within the hall, perhaps from the council chambers.

"His brothers?" She asks in disbelief, "Are they a threat?"

"They come with one ship. A messenger was sent ahead. They wish to discuss things peacefully."

"Peacefully? The last time they all saw each other was during war!"

"Which is why your husband is in a rage." With a sigh, Artemis walks towards the council chambers, but Heahmund reaches out to grab her arm, halting her movements. She shakes his grip off and he rolls his eyes.

One could not miss the yelling that threatened to knock down the chamber doors. Thralls scurried about, frightened, just as Aria had been. Artemis knocks on the door before opening it slowly. Hvitserk rushes forward, attempting to close it back.

"Hvitserk, let me in."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Artemis." He says hastily through the crack of the door.

"Artemis?" She hears Ivar question, already sensing his frustrations from the other side.

"I'm here, let me see you." She calls out to him, and after a whispered back and forth between him and Hvitserk, the elder brother reluctantly opens the door. He lets her and Heahmund through before softly shutting it.

The chamber was a complete mess. Parchments and maps strewn about and shattered pieces of things she could not identify littered the floor. The table was in disarray, with the candles used for nightly reading rolling off the surface. And in the center of it all was a very angry Ivar. He sat leaning over the table, body in a defensive mode, jaw clenched.

"Ivar," She begins softly, slowly making her way towards him as if he were a wounded animal. She carefully steps over the broken things that covered the floor, leaning up against him with a gentle hand on his back. This already seemed to calm him, though there was still a fire blazing in his eyes.

"They dare come to Kattegat!" He seethes for a moment, straightening his back to look her in the eyes, "They dare come here demanding peace?" His voice rose octaves, booming something fierce. Artemis quickly kneels to be at level with him.

"Do not strain yourself." She says, knowing fully well that he'd end up hurting his bones somehow. She places her cold hands on his heated face in an attempt to smooth out the angry lines, and for a moment it seemed to work. He then breathes out harshly, brows refusing to smooth over. He grits his teeth before speaking.

"You do not understand, wife." He was holding himself back, she could tell, from saying something offensive.

"I understand that you are angry, but your fury will cloud your judgement."

"I should execute them." He says suddenly, head raised as if he thought of the most brilliant plan.

"Ivar-" Hvitserk speaks up.

"I should have them executed the moment their feet touch the sand."

"They are our brothers!" Hvitserk roars, slamming both hands atop the wooden table.

"Yet they betrayed us, their kin!" Ivar roars back lurching forward, forgetting his own disability. The movement causes Artemis to step back with a frown. He turns to look at her, his wild eyes dimming at the sight of her. He plops back against his seat.

"I do not care for Ironside," He mutters, looking down for a moment towards the small dagger strapped to his side, "But perhaps I'll spare Ubbe." His tone was nonchalant.

"My king," Heahmund speaks up, "I believe you have a right to be suspicious," Hvitserk immediately turns to glare at the Bishop. Heahmund ignored him and continues, "But perhaps you should hear them out."

"And if it is a trap?" Ivar urges.

"We have the means to protect ourselves." Was the simple reply.

"They must be in dire need if they risk coming back to Kattegat," Artemis comments, flipping over a chair that was knocked over in Ivar's anger. She takes a seat beside him, grabbing his hand gently, making him look at her.

"Let them come," She tells them, "We shall then judge whether they come in pretense. What do you say?" She turns to look at Hvitserk, then Heahmund, who both look at each other, unsure.

"We can ready a few men," Hvitserk says after a moment, "And we meet them at shore."

"I will have your men at the ready, my King," Says Heahmund, "If you command it." Ivar drums his thick fingers against the table, his other hand in Artemis's grip. He then turns to look at her, as if searching her eyes for something.

"You need to be protected." He states.

"I need to be by your side, you mean," She counters, "I do not wish to appear weak."

"You are no warrior." His tone was finally softening, but there was still enough edge to understand that his decision would be final.

"I should be by your side to greet them!"

"Artemis is right," Hvitserk says, "If they do not see the Queen beside you, they will take it as a threat." Artemis smirks at Ivar's frown.

"She always gets in the way of danger," Ivar argues, "And it'll be more than an arrow to the ear or a slice to the shoulder. Lagertha's supporters rally with them."

"Tordis will be by my side," Artemis pleads, already setting that particular look she gave when she wanted something, "You trust her don't you?" Ivar huffs, sucking his teeth and ripping his hand away from her own to set it under his chin in thought.

"You are to come straight back to the hall with Tordis if danger does arise." Artemis nods her head enthusiastically and Ivar sighs.

"Very well," The king says, "Let them come."

...

The ship arrived late into the evening, just as the snow began to stick.

Ivar stood tall and proud, his eyes never leaving the sight of his brothers disembarking their ship. His jaw was clenched tight, his posture rigid and knuckles white from the tight grip on his crutch buried within the snow and through the sand.

Artemis shifts under the weight of her furs, the pelt of soft wolf hair heavy on her small shoulders. It was by far one of the most sumptuous articles of clothing that she had received. Ivar had made it a point that they were to be dressed in fine garments to display their wealth and power. It made her want to roll her eyes, as none of it was hers truly, but still, she indulged him. She stood to Ivar's right, the very vision of a beautiful queen with her dog beside her. Tordis stood behind her as agreed, one of the few things that eased Ivar's mind.

Hvitserk and Heahmund were on Ivar's left. Both were armed and ready incase of attack, though Hvitserk was far more apprehensive. He did not want to face his brothers in battle again. 20 armored men were lined up across the beach to protect their king. Some of the people stayed to watch while others scurried off home to avoid any potential conflict.

Torches were blazing along the edges of the docks to combat against the darkness. Only shadows could be seen disembarking the ship, one by one.

The tallest figure was Bjorn, who strides towards them with measured steps and a hand resting on his sword. He too was ready for any possible threat. He had hate emanating from his person, eyes a dead blue and lips tightly formed into a frown. He replaced his rope like hair with that of a shorter look, shaved down to his scalp. He looked frightening, as large as a bear standing on its hind legs. He quickly makes eye contact with Artemis, blue and grey clashing in an intense stare. Although his features did not betray him, there was a twinkle in his eye. He was surprised to see her.

Ubbe was behind him, hair as long as Bjorn's before he cut it, and a sadness in his eyes. Surely he missed his brothers. His eyes land on Ivar, though it was only for a fraction of a moment before he moves them to Hvitserk. They stared each other down for a few seconds, as if exchanging memories of their youth. Ubbe was not at all surprised by Artemis's appearance as Bjorn had been. Her cloak was finer than anything he'd ever seen her in. He knew she would elevate to her current position.

Behind him was Torvi the shieldmaiden and her children. She had a determination in her kohl lined eyes, a fire that could burn through all of them. Artemis focused her eyes on Torvi's children, afraid and gripping their mothers skirts. They had no fault in this.

"Brothers," Bjorn greets, crossing his hands over his front, "I see you've made the blacksmith a Queen." Bjorn's lips form a smirk, shifting his eyes to Heahmund, "And you've kept the bishop." Ivar snorts.

"Observant. Welcome back to Kattegat, brothers," Ivar's eyes land on the flaxen haired shieldmaiden, "And Torvi." The shieldmaiden glares, but does nothing more.

"To what do we owe...the pleasure of such a visit? Hmm?"

"Pleasantries." Says Bjorn, almost jokingly. If it weren't for the breeze and the loud crackling of the fires, anyone would have heard Ivar intake a breath of annoyance. He was certainly not amused.

"What do you want?" Ivar says, voice sharp as a whip.

"An alliance."

"I have enough of those. I don't need you."

"May we continue this inside? My children are cold." Ivar sucks his teeth, eyes shifting to the children in between Torvi's skirts. He feels Artemis tug on the sleeve of his tunic to get his attention.

"Don't turn the children away," She says to him, "They are innocent. Let them inside the hall." Ivar's nose flares, the furs wrapped around his shoulders making him look almost frightening. He licks his lips but nods reluctantly.

"You may enter my hall, but you must leave your weapons with my men."

Bjorn stares him down, before grunting and nodding his head.

"Agreed."

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @leilabeaux​ @jzr201​ @inforapound​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @rastakami23 @ostra814​ @zumzum96​

[antihero-writings]

The Only Fight--Young Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Star Wars Sequel Trilogy fic, Chapter 2 (full chapter!)

Fic Title: The Only Fight

Fic Synopsis: Waking or sleeping, Ben Solo has been fighting the darkness within him ever since he was a child

Chapter 2:

All he knows is he has to kill.   The young man’s breathing is tempered, the cold threatening to bite into him, but he fends it off. Doesn’t falter. The darkness around him is his ally, cloaking him from the light and all things within it which would expose his faceless appearance.   He does not know how long he has been in this snowy woods, searching, hunting. All that is real is this dark intent consuming him, and the blacker faith that set in there.   He is not a patient person. He will not wait for his prey to come to him. He stalks it from shadow to shadow.   Finally, he hears it: breathing. 

The short, frantic gasps of his prey, as if the thing is pleading with the air to rescue him, begging for some coin of relief from this cold, this endless winter chase.

The sound is so small, so pitiful, shallow and without real resolve or reprieve...just the act of inhaling, exhaling, nothing entering his lungs.    And then the breathing collapses, falls into the snow, crashing like a tree wondering if it made a sound when there was only the night to hear it.

The night did hear it.   Now, now that his prey is within is grasp, now that his prey is heaving defenseless on the ground, now the shadow makes his move, stepping before him as if from behind the curtain of this grand show.    His prey is a little boy, feeble and shaking on the ground. His form is so clear; the only thing in this blurred universe that is completely real. His black hair playing monkey in the middle before his eyes, infected with fear, tears tugging his lips.   Hatred surges like a squall. His mind foggy, his reasons clouded behind a wall called yesterday. But when that hatred shoots through him and he knows it is real, even if nothing else is.   This boy is nothing. Nothing. Nothing to him. Nothing at all. Young, afraid, powerless. He could destroy him now, and he would never become anything. Just a broken puppet of fear twisted and mangled on the playroom floor.    But, try as he might to deny it, he isn’tnothing. To the host of darkness he means too much. This is more of a feeling than a knowing too. His presence makes him so angry, so disgusted, so…

So lost. So afraid. So alone. As if this wretched thing’s emotions are ebbing and flowing into his own mind.

Ben Solo.   Just the thought of that name makes his hands curl into gloved fists, his jaw clench behind the mask. He hates the faceless name as much as he hates the face that goes with it, a tag team of disdain and contempt.   He will destroy this boy. That name. He must. If he doesn’t, Ben Solo will surely destroy him.   The darkness stands at his side like soldiers awaiting his command, a finely tuned blade.   He ignites his real blade, the sound of the lightsaber rending the silence like a piece of paper. The red crackles, as if it too is unsure, as if it’s angry like its master is, scared like Ben is, singing a cracked, unfinished aria about lonely heroes falling to the dark, princes chained to thrones, scoundrels saving the day in war-struck empires, all hoping they’ll see light again.   Black. White. Red. The only colors he knows now.

There was a time when he could see other colors. He named them, scribbled them messily on tablets and pages, along with stick-figure drawings of a mommy and daddy who weren’t there for him anymore.

He’s forgotten the hues now.    He could ask Ben how and why he found himself in this snowy woods, he could demand that he leave him alone. He could leave him in the snow to freeze him out. But that wouldn’t be enough. He’s come to break his fragile heart while he still has a chance, in attempts to harden his own. It’s all he must do to become what he is meant to be, all he can do to free himself from the torment in Ben’s eyes.

It’s simple enough.   Ben shuts those eyes, tight, doesn’t let go of the breath he’s holding, as if his own lungs are capable of keeping it safe from the fire.   But after everything, the resolve strumming his heart, the shadows humming beside him, the saber singing sweetly...he finds he can’t just…do it. He can’t just raise the lightsaber and strike him down. Staring at his pitiful face, hatred piercing through him, even so, pity, empathy, and something… else, something like memory, keep him from his goal.

No. That’s not it. It can’t be it. No, it’s just too…easy. That’s all. He’s going to play with his catch before devouring it. Killing him right away is no fun.   “Ben,” he taunts, trying to make the word contain all his hatred, sound as ugly as it tastes. and Ben is so small, so young…or maybe he is just too old, “Oh poor little Ben,” the words drip with a mocking pity, “who will save you now?”   The shadow watches, watches the boy as he rifles in his mind for something to save him.   “My father will come. H-He’ll come to save me.”   The feeble words thrown into the snow catch the shadow by surprise.   He laughs at how ridiculous, how childish, such an answer it is.   And the answer he did provide…well, it’s a child’s answer, to be sure. Still. As much as he tries to deny it something pangs in the back of his chest.   The hatred and resolve redoubles itself. There it is again; this boy’s ability to rummage around in the depths of his soul and bring out the parts of himself he thought he’d disposed of long ago. 

He wants to take this boy and make him feel all the pain he causes him before running him through. Some call it revenge. He calls it destiny.   He powers down his saber now, the red, commanding glow dissipating from the air.

The shadows around demand why? He tells them it won’t be long.   He puts his hand on the boy’s cheek, as if checking he’s real, checking for a pulse, as if checking that he is the thing he was looking for. He doesn’t want to pollute himself with the boy’s fragility, yet he must, he must do this, must hang horror over his head like hypnosis.

There is something barely noticeable that does contaminate the sting in his words, gets in to the gaps in his mask, when he says;   “Poor little Ben…all alone in the world.”   He can see the boy’s adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a game at at the fair— this may be a game, but I’ll never let you back up for air—   And at last he can no longer take the feeling of touching this thing    “You think Han Solo will come to your rescue?” He tries to make the name as venomous as when he spoke Ben’s name, and this time he feels he accomplished that. “You think that arrogant wretch will be your savior?” he laughs, a silly notion after all, the smuggler coming to save this pitiful thing—

—Well, is it funny at all a father would save his son? …Or at least try—

“I am sorry to say”—and he isn’t sorry at all—“he will leave you on your own…everyone will. Han Solo can’t save you.” The words are an echo of something he said once.   The boy’s hands are trembling in their fists, his nails digging into his palm, and the shadow feels a shot of anger go through him at the cry “N-No! NO!” the resolve in his voice almost mirroring his own.    —(If that means he barely has resolve at all.)—   “You’re so sure…why?” and this is the first question he’s actually curious to hear the answer to. Because why would this boy, all alone in these dark and snowy woods, powerless before a monster, hold on so tightly to something so breakable as the light?   “Because…Because he’s my father—”   He instantly regrets the question. He’d been hoping for some real, interesting answer, not some circular, childish reasoning. He snuffs out the conversation before he can continue.   “And that’s what fathers do? Just because he is your father doesn’t mean he’ll always be there. There are some darknesses we must face alone. Best to realize this earlier on…it’ll save you the pain of betrayal later.”   Sometimes he wishes someone had warned him. That he knew what was coming to him. That even those he held most dear would never regard him as something human, rather as a monster to be tamed, appeased, dealt with, sacrificed to. Then again, if someone had told him at Ben’s age…he probably wouldn’t have believed them anyway.   Ben is still shivering, but he knows now the cold and the fear have nothing to do with it. That anger is so familiar to him he almost doesn’t recognize how overwhelming it must feel in the boy’s small frame.   He reaches back and tilts Ben’s chin up, trying to make him feel as weak and powerless as possible.    “You cling so tightly to the light. Wouldn’t it be easier to just give in?”   “U-Uncle Luke says—”   He wants to hit him and say strike two. To wring his neck for even speaking that name in his presence.   “Skywalker.” The last thread in his venomous chord. “I should have known…Did he ever tell you of your grandfather?”   Because that’s who matters in all this, the only one who really matters.              Ben’s silence betrays him.    “What if even your uncle Luke”—there’s that venom again—“isn’t the perfect hero everyone claims he is? If even he were to turn against you one day…what would you do?”   “No…NO! Uncle Luke would never do that!”   Ben is wrong. So very wrong.    But that isn’t what matters anymore, because the shadow’s indecision may have led him to folly. He thought he was alone with Ben in these woods and all the time in the world, but now he feels another presence.

“Quiet!” He paralyzes his prey with the Force, keeping him locked where he can still strike him down, igniting his lightsaber again, the tongues of fire licking the boy’s terrified face.   The figure steps before Ben, trying to shield him from the darkness’ offer. Their face is obscured, but their presence is familiar to him.   “You’re the one who shouldn’t be so chatty.”—And they’re probably right about that—“He’s jut a boy. What do you want with him?”   “What use would you have for him? He is just a boy.”    “Use?” they sound offended, “He’s not a tool, or a toy! He is a person!”   He twirls his lightsaber in the air as if that’s enough of a threat. “He has his grandfather’s blood in him. Someday he could become something great. But not like this; not sniveling on the ground.”   —(And that’s what he wants to kill; the part of himself that’s the thing sniveling on the ground)—   “He could be something great. He will be. But not led by you. Go. Leave him alone.”   “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

They draw their own lightsaber—such a bright song, one about heroes, and hope, and never giving up—the blades clashing, creating fireworks in the night, their sound reverberating through the silence, and when Kylo Ren feels the lightsaber drill a hole in his chest…Ben Solo falls too.   Kylo Ren awoke in his quarters, drenched in a cold sweat and heaving for breath. He tried to get up and fell off the bed to the ground.   He had forgotten about the dream.

He’d had many nightmares like this one (long ago, now), and everyone always told him they didn’t mean anything.   But he knew they were wrong.    If he had remembered the dream from back then, he would have tried to forget it, as he did everything to do with Ben Solo. To pretend he never was that little boy crying on the ground, begging his parents to save him from the monsters in his head.   And what was he now?    Thirty years old, crying on the ground. The only difference was this time he didn’t have any parents to run to anymore. He was far far away from them, a lost boy trapped behind the second star.   Rage surged like a living thing, infecting his breath, curling his fingers into fists.   He wanted so desperately to destroy Ben Solo, to eradicate the sway he had over his heart, the ability he had to make him feel lost and scared and lonely, the child’s voice inside telling him this isn’t right.   As much as he tried to block them out, deny they were ever real, fragments of memories fell apart in his head and cut his thoughts.    He had killed Han Solo. That thing that caused him so much pain, so much torment, so much guilt. That thing tying him to that boy on the ground—the boy’s hope at rescue, still aching inside him—cutting off his ties to the life boat, ensuring him that nothing and no one would take him back to shore. Assuring him that the dark, the wind, and the waves were all he was, all he could turn to.   And now guilt was an ever-present specter rotting away his chest like maggots. Memories like banshees, screaming, undead in his head.   He sat up, leaning against the bed, telling himself it was only a dream.    He didn’t believe it.   Here he was, the shining, war-struck legacy of Princess, General Leia, Han Solo, of Luke Skywalker, and Ben Kenobi, and Darth Vader…sniveling on the ground. Trying to be everything at once and failing to be one thing at all. Trying so hard to fulfill a destiny…yet coming back with the pieces of dreams. Trapped behind sheens of lies, the ones others told him, and those he told himself.

If only he’d grown up.

If only he’d stopped believing in the light.   If only he could have forgotten, destroyed that boy in the woods.   Then maybe he could convince himself he’s not still Ben.

[keeroo92]

Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch25 (V x Reader)

Chapter 25 - To Mourn is to Have Loved

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June 15th, 8:32 am

It doesn’t take you long to put two and two together when you regain consciousness to the smell of nicotine and oil, the feeling of comfortable padding beneath your body a dead giveaway. You clench your jaw and seethe in silent frustration at your failure, already making the logical assumption that V must have gotten you away from the horse and its rider.

Back in Nico’s van again… did he seriously leave me behind again?

You open your bleary eyes to ask, fully expecting to find your mechanically inclined friend working on some contraption nearby, box of cereal on hand.

Instead, a young brunette in a spare change of Nico’s clothes greets you with a wary smile, her short hair bouncing slightly as she moves closer to you. Her eyes are extraordinary, one red and the other a bluish-green shade.

“Hey, how ya feeling?” the strange woman asks kindly. You stare at her blankly for a long moment of awkward silence before her question penetrates your stupefied mind.

“Uh, okay I guess. Who, sorry, but who are you?” you ask her uncomfortably and she makes a face as she responds.

“Oh yeah, my bad. I’m Lady, good to meet you! Nico said your name is Y/N, right?”

You sit up slowly, still slightly disconcerted at the presence of a new person, after so long not seeing a new face. “Yeah, that’s right. What’s going on? Wait, the Lady? As in, Dante’s friend who faced Urizen Lady?”

 Holy shit, she’s alive?

Lady’s oddly colored eyes darken at the mention of the demon king and she looks away as she mutters a quiet yes, biting her lip anxiously. You wince in guilt and sympathy at the obvious signs of trauma she displays before her face resets into a guarded smile.

“Sorry, that’s probably not a pleasant memory,” you apologize quickly. Lady’s eyes soften slightly, and the tenseness in her body eases just as Nico tromps into the van with a sigh, smelling like she just finished a cigarette outside.

“Any word ye- oh hey you’re awake!” she blurts with a wide-eyed grin, coming to sit next to you and wrap an arm over your shoulders affectionately.

“Before ya ask, V’s fine. He and Nero went back out together after he brought ya to me. They’re in the subway now,” she informs you carefully, and your shoulders tense as frustration pools low in your belly.

 I swear, if they’re gone for three days again he won’t have to worry about merging with Urizen! I’ll kill him myself!

A familiar sound stops your furious thoughts from spiraling any further as your old phone rings from the front seat. Nico gestures at you to do the honors and you pick it up silently, still upset at both of the two men who might be on the other side.

“Is Y/N awake yet?” V’s worried voice asks impatiently. You warm with the knowledge that his first concern is you, anger at being left behind fading to a low hum in the back of your mind as you answer him.

“I don’t know, is she?”

A relieved sigh greets you, followed by a low chuckle. “When she speaks, the voice of heaven I hear,” he purrs finally, making a shiver run down your back at his playful tone. You have to clear your throat before you respond.

“Where are you guys?”

“Oh, you’re going to love this, little fox… we’re in the subway exit by the opera house,” he replies, and you can hear the amusement in his voice easily. You grin enthusiastically and try not to squeal with excitement.

“We’ll be right there!” you tell him happily, and he rewards you with another dry chuckle before saying goodbye and disconnecting.

You turn to face Nico, a glimmer in your eyes and a smirk twisting your lips as you speak.

“How fast can you get us to the opera house subway station?”

Her face splits and she cracks her neck as she stands, already striding to the driver’s seat with a confident sparkle in her gaze. You join her up front in the passenger seat and strap in hurriedly, fully expecting Nico’s unfathomable driving style to make the precaution necessary. You look back to see Lady roll her entrancing eyes and brace herself on the couch as the van lurches into motion.

 For once, I’m grateful she’s such an insane driver!

Nico takes an access tunnel to get underground, the van speeding through the darkness rapidly. She seems to naturally know how to get where she’s going, not once stopping and looking around and no map anywhere in sight. To your amazement, it only takes her five minutes to reach the two men; with a final burst of speed the van smashes through a concrete wall and comes to rest in the low lighting of a subway tunnel with a screech of rubber.

“Help has arrived! Got any cash?” Nico shouts at V from the open window, but he ignores her and instead comes to your side to open the door for you with a smirk. You unbuckle your seatbelt and take his outstretched hand, wrapping your arms around him in a hug the moment your feet touch the ground.

 He smells so good…

You tilt your neck upwards to press your lips against his briefly, all too aware of your audience as Nico wolf whistles. You shoot a glare at her as you pull away from V but she only waggles her eyebrows in return with a suggestive grin.

“Get your things, little fox. Nero’s waiting for us above,” V murmurs quietly and you beam at the thought of traveling with both of your two favorite men, and possibly being able to see the opera house again. You dash inside the van and grab your weapons and backpack excitedly, barely noticing Lady and Nico in your rush. You rummage through your suitcase for a moment, adding a few choice items to the backpack before you hug Nico goodbye, waving at Lady as you rejoin V where he waits, reading silently.

“Ready!” you announce, and he calmly closes his book, exaggerating his slowness as he tucks it away in his vest, smirking at your eagerness. Impatient, you start walking backwards away from him teasingly, his emerald eyes sparkling in amusement as he catches up to you in a few of his lengthy strides. Together, you ascend into daylight, blinking like bats at the sudden change in brightness.

For a moment you aren’t sure where you are, the landscape so heavily mangled by the Qlipoth that you don’t recognize it. Chunks of rubble are strewn everywhere, the road split into several different levels from the numerous roots making their home beneath the pavement. You pan your gaze, noting the red double decker buses and gasp as you see the buildings in the distance.

The previously flat area now features multiple levels of elevation, several structures having been forced to new heights above their foundations by several stories. Through a gap in the devastation, you can see the main structure of the Qlipoth. The way it moves slightly, as if it’s taunting you, makes your blood boil in rage.

 We’re coming for you, Urizen! You’ll pay for what you’ve done.

Then you see the opera house and your rage vanishes inside a well of sadness.

The entirety of the front entryway is gone. The wall with the mural of La Boheme, the beautifully carved columns that framed it, the gilded arches that led to the balcony stairwells. Even the damn bathrooms are gone. Where once stood the most awe-inspiring façade you’d ever seen, only empty air remains. Your entire body sags, a mournful ache settling in your gut.

“It’s… it’s gone…” you whisper, disbelief staining your voice.

 I’ll never get to see an opera there…

“Not all of it, little fox. Look down,” V tells you gently, his words a tiny puff of air that rekindles the ember of hope in your heart.

The ember sparks a flame as your eyes drift downwards to see the performance hall mostly intact, the stage still holding set pieces from the most recent show. Decorative statues have fallen from their homes on the columns, their shining forms lying in the refuse near the lip of the stage. The balconies stand in silent judgement of the scene, their red hangings an echo of the heavy cloth that still drapes across the stage.

 At least there’s that much left.

“Would you like a closer look?” V asks you nearby. His hand finds yours, long fingers filling the gaps between your own perfectly. You give him a grateful squeeze as you take the first step downhill, following the path of the devastated roadway down as far as it will take you. Halfway down, Nero steps into view from behind a fallen column, a wry smirk adorning his features.

“Took you guys long enough… feeling alright, Y/N?” he asks you as you reach him, already pulling you into a one-armed hug. You nod against his firm shoulder before he releases you to scratch the back of his neck uncomfortably, a light stain coloring his cheeks at the obvious display of his care for you.

“We should get moving,” V states simply. Nero nods and the three of you continue on down the road toward the opera house. To your surprise, there are lit torches on the stage, the flames licking in a ghostly shade of blue. The shade reminds you of the horse and rider and you shudder uncomfortably. The sets are beautiful, painted castles and towns made of plywood. You try to imagine what it must have looked like during a performance, the singers costumed in medieval style dress powerfully singing their arias to a full crowd, the masses dressed in their finest to match the elegance of the venue.

 They’ll rebuild it. They have to.

You climb onto the stage, Nero and V beside you as your curiosity drives you forward. Even if you do manage to see an opera someday, you doubt you’ll be able to sit this close let alone have the opportunity to explore backstage. Energy surges through you at the thought, a pleased flush staining your grinning cheeks.

 I wonder what kinds of props I’ll find? Or if there are any costumes in the back?

Five loud crashes crush your dreams of exploration as a quintet of demonic knights drops down from above, swords and shields held menacingly in front of their intimidating forms. You recognize them; these are the same type of demon that sliced your hip open all too recently. You take a few fearful steps back as Nero and V advance, your stomach dancing in a ballet of terror.

“Nice! Getting the band back together, huh?” Nero quips with a taunting smirk.

“What evil lurks… I must destroy!” V intones harshly, pinching the bridge of his nose and glaring intensely at the foes. You swallow nervously and draw your sword, mentally preparing yourself to fight as defensively as you can and stay out of the two men’s way, hoping you don't get hit again.

“I thought that was the plan all along,” Nero comments dryly, drawing his own sword.

A cacophonous rumble draws your attention behind you as the heavy golden frame of the stage crashes to the ground, more stone joining it as the entire stage starts to rumble under your feet. Your eyes widen and you catch your breath as the stage moves, the structure no longer held in place and sliding downhill at a speed to rival Nico’s driving. Adrenaline pulses through you, realizing you have nowhere to run now.

 This day just keeps getting better...

V flicks his wrist and a whirlwind of black announces Griffon and Shadow’s arrival as he drops into his battle stance, eyes glued on the demons as he circles the stage gracefully. Griffon dashes forward to land a heavy blow with his talons against the center demon. It stands slightly taller than its fellows, its cape a beautiful shade of violet. Shadow shoots ahead with numerous black spikes elongating from her body, reaching out to strike the same central demon.

Nero aims his pistol one handed, squeezing the trigger repeatedly and releasing a stream of bullets on the same tall demon. He lowers the gun once it’s empty, switching to his blade and surging forward with a cry, slashing powerfully against the demon’s waist. It staggers but recovers quickly and aims at the young warrior. Your heart clenches as the sword descends, remembering how painful it was to be slice by the brutal blade, but Nero artfully dodges to the side with a laugh. He hops lightly, landing briefly on top of the neighboring demon and slashes at it as he drops down behind it, his sword leaving a nasty trail in its wake.

You’re forced to redirect your attention as one of the shielded knights advances on you, its steps slow and measured and easy to counter. For a moment your fear paralyses you, the echo of the ache in your hip reemerging in a treacherous reminder of what happens when these demons land a blow. Gathering your senses, you back away carefully, looking for an opening in its stance to exploit but the shield is too large.

“V! Nero! Can you hit it from behind while it’s focused on me?” your panicked voice shouts out to your allies, not taking your eyes off the enemy before you for an instant. You see a flash of motion behind the demon, a sound like an aluminum can being crushed, and it starts dissolving into ash before your eyes to reveal Nero already sprinting to the next foe. You scan the stage, taking stock of the battle.

V is on the other side, intense emerald gaze locked on the lead demon as he directs Griffon and Shadow’s brutal attacks. Two of the lesser knights remain, Nero engaging one nearby and the other advancing on his unprotected back. A split second of terror and hesitation hits you before you tenaciously subdue the fear and run forward, blade extended as you attack the demon sneaking up on your friend.

Your blade strikes true, piercing its upper thigh through the armor, much to your surprise. You pull the blade back, eyes wide and fear-dilated as it turns to face you, and over its silver shoulder you spot Nero finish off the other knight and turn to help you with yours. His blade flashes out, hacking the demon’s armor apart forcefully. It staggers and you step forward with a vengeful grown to land a slash of your own on its arm, your blade somehow ripping through the metal once again. With a final shout, Nero hacks at its head and the armored creature dissolves into ash.

That just leaves the tall knight. It’s still focused on V, his summoned friends having thoroughly marked it with their unforgiving blows. Its armor is dented and scratched, riven in two in some places and dripping demon blood. Nero sprints forward, but you refrain. You know the two men can finish it off easily enough.

“Slice them,” V’s dark battle tone commands, and Shadow shifts into her familiar bladed form, the sharp edge splitting the demon’s armor even further. She lands just as Nero lunges forward, his flaming blade piercing right through the creature’s gut in a death blow.

“Guys! We gotta get OFF THIS THING NOW!” Griffon cries from above. Shadow vanishes, her portion of V’s tattoos darkening to mark her return as he dashes alongside you and Nero for the edge of the stage and leaps off. The three of you land more or less gracefully on the earthen ground and turn to watch as the stage falls into a pit of darkness, a chasm opened by the Qlipoth. You choke back a sob as the last remaining portion of your beloved opera house sinks into the depths, never to be seen again.

 NOW it’s gone… gone forever. Even if it is rebuilt it won’t be the same.

It strikes you then, how odd it is that you’re as upset by the loss of this historic building as you are by the loss of thousands of the lives of your fellow citizens. Maybe because you never bonded with anyone in the city, never cared enough to try. None of them mattered to you, not really. You were upset that they were dead, enraged by the situation, yet felt almost no personal grief for them. You cared when their lives were in your hands, but that wasn’t a personal connection; more a result of your soul-crushing guilt than evidence of your humanity.

The opera house had meant something to you, had stood as a symbol of hope in a hopeless world. A beacon of the arts when you needed it most, when every day was the same as the one before and you couldn’t see a path forward that actually resulted in happiness for you.

 And now it’s gone.

The tightness in your chest intensifies, tears threatening to spill from your quivering eyes as V comes to stand beside you. His hand finds yours, fingers twining together tenderly as he speaks.

“I’m sorry, little fox. I know it meant quite a lot to you,” he murmurs softly, and you let out a shuddering breath and squeeze his hand in gratitude for his understanding.

“It… it did. But it was only a building. There are more important things to worry about,” you remind him with a sad smile.

Nero comes over to stand on V’s other side, a rueful smirk twisting his lips. “Took us long enough to get here. What, tired already?” he teases you and V, making light of the tense expressions on your faces.

“I’ve just remembered something… This town was attacked once before,” V announces with surprise coloring his tone.

“Is that so?” Nero comments.

V steps forward, pulling you with him as he approaches a small green horse mounted on a metal coil; a child’s playground toy.

“I was here… I can still see it. In fact I was playing right here,” V adds, dropping your hand to reverently touch the green horse in memory. His eyes seem haunted as he looks around, searching for something. He uses his cane to point to a house in the distance.

“That was the house,” he continues, “This is where we part ways. You go ahead.”

You and Nero both stare at the lean poet in surprise, eyes wide at his declaration.

“You’re gonna miss all the fun,” Nero teases lightly. V takes your hand again and frowns slightly, his emerald gaze darkening.

“No, I must seek the devil sword Sparda,” he rumbles, and Nero stares at him in shock.

 What the hell is he talking about? And why does Nero look so… scared?

“What? Yeah, I don’t think that’s such a good idea, trust me,” the young warrior urges the poet, worried gaze flicking to yours for some support. You have no idea what’s going on and stay silent.

“You are not the only one who thinks so. But to win this fight, we’re going to need all the help we can get,” the poet assures him, turning to walk away with you following close behind. You shoot one last concerned look at Nero before you and V leave him behind,

The two of you walk in silence for a long time, navigating a labyrinth of wreckage and devastation. Your confusion swirls in your mind as you try fruitlessly to remember something, anything, you may have heard or read about this supposedly powerful sword. Nothing comes to mind and you sigh in frustration as you give up and ask V.

“So, what’s the deal with this sword?”

The tattooed poet hums softly in acknowledgement, choosing his words carefully as he steps over a hunk of stone in his path. “It’s a blade with a complicated history. Originally it was wielded by Sparda himself, and when he sealed the Underworld off he imbued the sword with his power to strengthen the seal. To this day, it holds that power. It is most effective in the hands of Sparda’s kin, though it requires great strength of body and mind. I have a theory that Nero is a descendant of Sparda, and he may be able to wield it against Urizen,” the poet explains patiently.

 Oh, ok then. It’s just a sword that has demonic power inside it. Totally normal.

 What even is my life anymore?

A few short steps later and the two of you emerge in the remains of a graveyard, some of the graves having been shifted so far by the Qlipoth’s growth as to now be at a ninety degree angle from the ground you stand upon. V pauses at the precipice of a steep cliff, twisting his wrist to summon Griffon in a maelstrom of black shards as his arm lightens considerably. The blue demon lands on a nearby plinth with a flutter.

“What’s up, Shakespeare? Little lady,” the avian caws out, his three pronged beak splitting in a reminder of his strange origins.

“We need you to get a closer look around, the devil sword Sparda is nearby and we must find it,” V instructs him, and he lifts off with a huff.

“More scout duty… alright, be right back,” Griffon complains as he flaps away. You wait with V at the edge, glancing quickly at the crevasse below with a shudder.

 Don’t fucking fall here.

Griffon returns quickly, clearly agitated by whatever he spotted.

“Did you find it?” V inquires quietly.

“Uh, well… I don’t know what I found, but… I think I saw some demon’s dancing?” Griffon replies uneasily.

“Dancing? Are you serious?” you question the bird, and he nods seriously back at you as V speaks.

“Well, then I guess we keep going. The devil sword Sparda is nearby,” he comments with a wry smirk. He reaches out to take your hand and steps forward, eager to continue your trek.

The way forward is difficult, requiring you to scramble up over massive slabs of rocks periodically. A few Empusa rudely try to stop you, but are dealt with disdainfully by V. You enter a wide courtyard to see a few Caina and you draw your sword with a feral grin. Before you have the chance to cut them down, a low rumble sounds somewhere behind you. V roughly shoves you aside and follows quickly with a short tumble to the side as an armored Behemoth comes barreling through, turning the Caina into roadkill as it passes through the courtyard.

It slams into a stone mausoleum, the structure crumbling as the creature turns to face you and V. Taking another look at the beast before you, you sheath your sword and pull out your chainsaw-bat, activating the mechanism instantly with a snarl. The Behemoth rushes at you, it’s movements so linear that you easily move out of its path and drag the spinning blades against the chains holding its armor in place. One of the sheets of metal falls to the ground as the chain breaks, revealing a section of flabby grey flesh to your vision.

A slough of lightning balls shoots straight into the exposed area and the creature growls angrily as it turns around, its grey flesh seared like a fine steak. You spot a few Caina and an Antenora scrabbling through their small portals as the Behemoth charges again, and you have no choice but to dodge directly into the attack range of one of the Caina. You bring the bat up as you streak past it, blocking its scythe attack hastily. Adrenaline surges through your body as you shift the bat into a one-handed grip and draw your sword, slashing it against the Caina as its only weapon is locked against yours. The Caina disintegrates and you turn your attention back to the Behemoth.

V has managed to get another chunk of armor off, and the second Caina is already gone. Only the Antenora and the Behemoth remain. The Antenora is closer to you and you drop the bat as you prepare to face it. It rages toward you, a berserker-esque charge if ever you’d seen one, and you dodge yet again. Its swinging arms manage to strike you as you move, throwing you off balance and forcing your body to the ground. Your forehead strikes a rock as you fall and blood runs in rivulets down one side of your face as you scramble to your feet, desperate to put some distance between yourself and the Antenora.

 Assess the damage.

Other than the stream of crimson tinting your vision, everything looks as it should. No dizziness and you’re still able to think normally.

 No concussion, then. Just a cut.

You wipe the blood away with an irritated growl and turn to ace the Antenora again. Just as you’re about to attack it, Shadow races over and shifts, several black tendrils reaching out from her body to deliver a series of blows to the demon. You move in and stab your sword through its chest and it disintegrates.

You glace back to the Behemoth to see V landing on the back of its neck, sinking his silver cane deep into its face as he croons to it.

“Resist all you want…”

He gives his cane a sharp twist, his body following the motion into a flawless pirouette as he looks it in the eye in its final moments.

“What a pitiful sight,” he snarls and the Behemoth turns to ash, blowing away in the soft breeze.

His emerald eyes find your in the next instant, lips twisting in concern at the amount of blood on your face as he strides over to you.

“Are you alright?” he asks worriedly.

“Yeah, just a small scratch. Head wounds always bleed a lot,” you assure him and he smirks, leaning down to kiss you briefly before you sit down to press some gauze to the wound, helping slow the bleeding enough that it actually clots. Once you have a respectable scab formed, you stand and take V's hand, setting off again.

V is unusually quiet as you descend into a dark cave, a lake of filthy water shining in the low light. It’s difficult to tell what the structures here were before the Qlipoth, their forms so abused and broken as to be unrecognizable. Griffon has to help in a few spots, but overall traversing it isn’t difficult.

“You’re awfully quiet, V. Thinking about mommy dearest?” Griffon pipes up suddenly.

 His mother? Griffon makes it sound like something important…

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But the past is… a bitter place for me,” V answers distractedly.

 Definitely something important.

“V, did something happen to your mother?” you ask him as gently as you can, but he still tenses. His expression is agonized as he turns to face you.

“She… she died many years ago. I saw it happen. She saved my brother but left me behind,” he tells you mournfully, a lost and hurt sheen on his piercing gaze. He bites his lower lip and you step forward to wrap him in your arms, hoping you can ease his pain even by a fraction even as your mind swirls at the implications.

“I’m so sorry, my poet… I had no idea. Is that why you hate Dante so much?” you prod carefully.

“It… it is a factor, yes. We didn’t get along well as children, too different but alike in our stubbornness. Eva, my mother… she tried to keep the peace, tried to treat us fairly. But even her kind heart couldn’t bridge the gap,” he answers slowly. You take his hand and lead him to a chunk of rubble to sit down for a moment.

“Do you want to tell me what happened, V?”

 Please tell me…

He tenses at the idea, going rigid as he wrestles internally with his own personal demons. He clenches his jaw and swallows heavily before meeting your sympathetic gaze.

“I… I’ll try,” he responds, his tattooed fingers clinging to you like a lifeline in a stormy sea. You sit in silence, waiting as he collects himself and prepares to speak about what must have been one of the worst days of his life.

[rpgmgames]

January’s Featured Game: WISHBONE

GENRE: Western, Drama, Farming Simulation SUMMARY: Wishbone is a character drama-slash-farming sim game that takes place in a wild west-inspired setting. The player takes the role of a farmer, fresh off the wagon in a new town and tasked with building a successful ranch. Wishbone might seem sleepy and mundane at first, but there’s trouble brewing on the horizon: a fierce, prolonged standoff between the lawmen and the outlaws that will decide the fate of the town itself. Check out the dev blog here!

February’s Featured Game: ARIA'S STORY

GENRE: Horror, Puzzle, Exploration WARNINGS: Blood, minor jumpscares SUMMARY: Aria is a bookworm who loves adventure stories and always spends her free time in the library. One day she falls asleep while reading a book and when she wakes up the library is closed. Believing that they forgot to wake her up, she tries to find a way out… In that moment she becomes the protagonist of her own story. Play the game here!

March’s Featured Game: JIMMY AND THE PULSATING MASS

GENRE: RPG, Exploration, Comedy WARNINGS: Blood SUMMARY: Jimmy dreams of the most fantastic things. He dreams of big yellow fields of sunflowers. He dreams of living woodwinds and talking mice. He dreams of his mom. He dreams of his dad. He dreams of all the video games he’s played with his uncle. He dreams of his brother standing beside him like a ten-foot giant. Sometimes he has nightmares, too. Jimmy’s about to go on the adventure of his lifetime - and no one’s going to know about it but him. Check out the dev blog here!

April’s Featured Game: ARCADEA

GENRE: Fantasy, Adventure, Puzzle SUMMARY: In the world of Arcadea, people can accomplish their dreams. How? Through video games of course! Everybody who lives in Arcadea has a special arcade machine they can visit in their dreams that lets them fulfill their strongest wishes. Whether it’s to go on an adventure, or make friends, or fall in love, or solve a mystery, or completely start a new life, there’s a game made just for them.. The game follows Maisie, a new arrival to Arcadea. She’s not very interested in all this gaming stuff; her only goal is to find an important person. But along the way, she can’t help but be roped into other people’s problems. She also can’t help that the arcade machines seem to glitch around her. A lot. Check out the dev blog here!

May’s Featured Game: TRÄUMEREI

GENRE: Horror, Exploration WARNINGS: Suicide SUMMARY: One day, a young boy wanders into the woods with only the twisted, mangled remnants of dreary branches obscuring the bleak horizon. As the sun starts to set beneath ruby-red clouds, the boy, Noël, happens upon a desolate cross-bridge atop a river of blood. Upon crossing over it, he finds himself standing by a gate wrought from stone. Confronted by the fantasies his beloved grandmother read to him as a child, the boy finds himself lost in a dark ‘Wonderland.’ However, all is not that it seems. While exploring, Noël must gather the memories of those forsaken souls who roam lest their hearts shatter. Check out the dev blog here!

June’s Featured Game: LIVING PLAYGROUND: THE WITCH'S PUPPETS

GENRE: Supernatural, Puzzle WARNINGS: Both implied and shown violence to the children, Emotional Abuse, Blood SUMMARY: With what starts as a simple day at the park, siblings Tony, Pablo, and Octavio are once again caught up in a series of strange circumstances such as strange pocket dimensions, coordinated monsters, and more geese than anyone could ever want to see in their lives. Stranded with them are Haze and Seal, two witches who seem to be connected with whatever nonsense is going down. As witches tend to be.In the simplest of terms, this game is about friendship and relating to others, both the good and the bad. With an unfortunate focus on the bad. It will be mostly straightforward with only one ending. Check out the dev blog here!

July’s Featured Game: SLARPG

GENRE: RPG, Fantasy SUMMARY: SLARPG is a short, turn-based RPG following the story of Melody Amaranth, a kindhearted but meek transgender fox who’s decided to learn healing magic and become a paladin. She’s joined by her adventurous girlfriend Allison, as well as their friends Claire (a sarcastic, rule-bending witch)(she is also trans) and Jodie (a dependable, somewhat motherly knight). Over the course of the story, our inexperienced heroes will meddle with forces beyond their control and find themselves responsible for the fate of their quaint little hometown. They’ll also fight some spherical frogs, travel to a forgotten land in the sky, befriend a robot or two, and anger the local librarian. But that should go without saying. Check out the dev blog here!

August’s Featured Game: LAND, SEA, ENTROPY

GENRE: RPG, Fantasy, Adventure SUMMARY: Land, Sea, Entropy, is a story-heavy action role-playing game with elements of mystery and horror. You live beneath the sea in a small village called Tidemoor. To the North is a labyrinth inhabited by strange monsters… and their numbers are only growing. So as one of Tidemoor’s warriors, your job is to thin the beast’s numbers and protect your town. But you get too greedy, go too far, and reach a point of no return. You find yourself in a world far different from your own, but it isn’t all full of monsters. There are peaceful places too, areas that are completely safe and untouched by any beasts. As you come to meet the inhabitants of this new land, and seek to return to your own, strange phenomena begins to occur and a mystery surrounding the unknown world unfolds. Check out the dev blog here!

September’s Featured Game: AKADEMIA

GENRE: Horror, Exploration, Puzzle SUMMARY: Akademia is a 2D horror RPG currently being developed in RPG Maker VX Ace. In the province of British Columbia, Canada, there exists a private school in the woods, Rayfair Academy, that is known for its wealth and ambition. The academy follows the motto, “Pearls are worthless in the pursuit of gold,” and it has a reputation for producing highly motivated and overachieving students. However, in a bout of curiosity late at night, six students uncover a secret, and the story of the school’s origin–and the being responsible for it–begins to unravel. Check out the dev blog here!

October’s Featured Game: KONSTANDIN

GENRE: Horror, Exploration, Romance, Mystery, Drama SUMMARY: One year has passed since the 26 year old Rinor Avdiu and his wife Aulona moved to a village called Buroja. The couple tends to live a relatively happy marital life, though the village seems to have an old eerie legend in which Rinor is unconsciously taking part in. The legend of a cursed knight, called Konstandin. The story revolves around Rinor who tries to find the meaning behind it, while he faces deep mental and horrific challenges. Check out the dev blog here!

November’s Featured Game: LUX (DREAM.GIRL)

GENRE: Psychological Horror, Exploration SUMMARY: lux (dream.girl) is a surreal psychological horror game created in RPG Maker 2003 where you play as Benjamin, a socially inept teenage writer who struggles with depression, loneliness, and writer’s block. When he decides to try lucid dreaming to figure out how to push his story forward, he meets new friends, new enemies, and his literal dream girl. Making certain choices will either help or hurt his relationships, and the outcome of his story. Check out the dev blog here!