#the flesh and bones bit is supposed to be reminiscent of her half and half nature 😌

[helshound]

regarding the prayer I was talking about, let me show you the original first, so you have an idea of what I was working with:

very beautiful, very goth, flows off the lips quite nicely imo. This is the rework that I settled on, and that I think I'm quite happy with:

I pray that Helheim is protected forever. I pray its halls remain welcoming. I pray that Hel's rule will continue, unending, providing for our ancestors with grace and compassion. I pray for her flesh, I pray for her bones… I pray for the needs of the nine realms, and the people therein. I pray for Ásgarð, for Vanaheim, for Álfheim, for Miðgarð, for Jötunheim, for Múspellheim, for Svartálfaheim, and for Niflheim. I pray for Helheim, and I pray for it to be steadfast. I pray for the living and the dead, and I pray for my own life to be long and content. Let it be so.

edit: after using the prayer frequently for months, I've taken out the listing of the other realms when I say the prayer, since it improves the flow for me. the realms always made my tongue and adhd brain stumble. so now I say:

"[...] I pray for the needs of the nine realms, and the people therein. I pray for Helheim, and I pray for it to be steadfast. [...]"

Since I care for Helheim most of all, it works for me like this. just thought I'd put this as an addendum.

[shatouto]

@obiwanobi allowed me to write a sequel to this lovely raised-as-sith!anakin and jedi!obi-wan fic!! pls enjoy this tiny little 1.3k of hurt/comfort

content warning: description of injuries

capable de deux

The standard clock strikes half past midnight.

Obi-Wan sets the basin on the floor. The man who is no longer Vader sits against the wall like a broken doll, one arm bent in a sickening angle, hands lying palm-up and unclenched between half-crossed legs. He’s not uncooperative, just limp, when Obi-Wan lifts his hands or turns his shoulder to remove the broken armor pieces. He’s not unresponsive, just lackluster, when Obi-Wan decides that the clothes are too mangled to salvage anyway and announces it to him in a murmur. He’s not unfeeling, just very, very quiet. Worryingly quiet.

In the shadow of Anakin’s silence, the only light that comes through is his eyes. Obi-Wan feels Anakin’s gaze like a physical thing, following his every movement in weary wariness as the scissors slowly snips their way along the seams. It’s borderline suffocating, how the air is so thoroughly silent that Obi-Wan can hear exactly how shallow Anakin’s breathing is. He sets all of the blood-soaked scrap fabric aside and dips a cloth in lukewarm water. He meets Anakin’s eyes, before wiping a streak down his front.

Anakin’s body is littered with scars; if there is a patch of unmarred skin left amidst the glossy criss-crossing, it would be dark with bruises. So many scars for someone so young, Obi-Wan catches himself thinking, frowning deeply - because Anakin is young, younger now than any other time Obi-Wan has glimpsed him outside of his distinct helmet. Young enough to be a Padawan, even, had the Jedi found him before the Sith. Obi-Wan sighs.

A deep cauterized gash runs from the tip of Anakin’s shoulder to the middle of his chest, and a fresh burn spreads from his heart to diaphragm, all of which Obi-Wan quickly covers with bacta patches before cleaning the rest. The blaster shot wounds are a more pressing concern, as they are still bleeding. He bites his lip in commiseration, nearly holding his breath as he cleans the too-tender flesh as gently as he can. His lineage does not have a gift for the art of healing, and Anakin’s shields are still rammed up high and tight, so Obi-Wan opts to monitor Anakin’s reactions for any sign of sudden pain.

Anakin doesn’t make a single sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. If it isn’t for his breathing sometimes hitching, Obi-Wan would have thought that Anakin is entirely numb - which would have been worrying. Whenever he glances up to Anakin’s face, their gazes touch; Anakin’s eyes train on his face rather on his moving hands, not alert, but not aimless either.

Water darkens in the basin. Obi-Wan has changed it for a third time, and is on his second washcloth. There is so much blood it’s a miracle that Anakin has made it this far, has dragged himself into the Jedi Temple without getting caught. Obi-Wan works his way down to the slippery patch on Anakin’s thigh, which turns out to be a wound that he can’t - and doesn’t want to - even begin to guess the cause: Raw burnt flesh just ripe for infection on the edge of a gaping cavity still oozing blood.

He whispers an apology as he has done for every touch, dabbing the cloth at the least damaged edge of the wound. This is by far the nastiest wound he’s seen, and Obi-Wan raises his gaze, worried that this might be where Anakin breaks.

Anakin doesn’t.

And somehow it’s even more disquieting.

“You can’t feel it?” Obi-Wan breaks the silence.

Anakin finally blinks at him. Even the confusion is better than the utterly blank look he has been sporting.

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh of relief, short-lived though it is. “Your injuries?” He specifies.

Anakin cocks his head a bit - almost cute, Obi-Wan thinks in passing - but then says in a voice devoid of emotions whatsoever. “It’s not that bad.”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Anakin, there is blood and bruises everywhere on you and I think your arm is badly broken. Can you even feel it?”

Anakin shrugs with his unhurt shoulder. “No.”

“You can’t—” Cold dread bursts in Obi-Wan’s chest like a sheet of ice shattering. He places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “Anakin, you need to see a healer! Why did you let me—”

“No, I mean”—Anakin straightens up minutely—“I can’t feel it because it’s not there anymore. It’s just a mechno-arm. Dooku cut my real arm years ago.”

“…Dooku.” Obi-Wan stares at him, voice flat. “Dooku, the other Sith, who’s supposed to be your ally. He cut your arm.”

Anakin makes a vague sound of affirmation, and falls silent, letting Obi-Wan struggle to form a reply to that. Now it’s his turn to look at Anakin in the face, while those now-blue eyes turn towards the ground, lashes so long they cast shadows of their own.

“Don’t call a healer,” Anakin finally mumbles, not looking at him. “I don’t want healers. I don’t want… people. I don’t like anyone touching me.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, realizing that he still has his left hand on Anakin’s shoulder, while his right rests just over Anakin’s knee, still clutching the washcloth. He makes to pull away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Anakin’s hand flashes up in sudden, unexpected liveliness, immediately squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. His eyelashes quivers.

“You’re not ‘anyone’.”

—

The entire living room smells like bacta with a hint of blood by the time Obi-Wan is done. He locks Vader’s lightsaber with its buzzing red crystal in a drawer, and wraps away the broken prosthetic and ruined armor and shreds of clothing; it’s not safe enough to discard them conventionally, and he will have to burn them later, ideally somewhere unfrequented. Right now, there is no way Obi-Wan can leave his quarters. Not with Anakin limping out of bed at the sound of a fresher door sliding open or shut.

By all rights Anakin should have passed out from lightheaded exhaustion by now, yet he seems even more awake now than even when Obi-Wan first found him on his knees in the hallway. Anakin pauses at the sight of him and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He fixes Obi-Wan with the gaze of a Loth-wolf.

Obi-Wan lets out a sigh, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He takes a seat beside the former Sith. “Anakin,” he enunciates each syllable in a lingering rhythm, “could you please stop watching me like this?”

Anakin blinks at him; so far, Anakin seems capable of two states of being: desperate, and confused. “What do you mean?” He looks deceivingly innocent, covered in bandages and wrapped in Obi-Wan’s colors - a thought that Obi-Wan, startled, quickly shuts down. “I’ve always looked at you like this.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth hangs open, his mind running the sentence through. Always? Since before? And then it occurs to him that Vader wore the helmet along with his full suit of armor every time they clashed in battle. The few rare times they crossed paths outside of combat were all hair-thin ceasefires, too tense, too charged with fragile hope for him to notice. It dawns on Obi-Wan that Anakin has no concept of what is an appropriate amount of looking, of staring at someone.

“...Should I not?” Anakin ducks his head a little, and reaches for Obi-Wan’s hand.

By Force, this is a man who demanded surrender from Jedi only to open fire on them, who killed hundreds with just his hands and a lightsaber, who led operations that burn cities of civilians, who scorched the earth of whole planets and poisoned whole systems. This is a man who has done enough evil to make the core of a kyber mountain shudder. He has no rights looking like this, lamb-like in both colors and manners.

But could a child weaned on blood and brought up on broken bones know any better?

“Go to bed, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, in a tone distinctly reminiscent of that which he used with a younger Ahsoka in her rebellious day. (Not that she has gotten any less rebellious; she only moved on to matters more significant than bedtime.) He squeezes Anakin’s hand, and eases him down onto the pillow, and watches Anakin until Anakin can’t watch him back anymore.

And like all infants who fall asleep with a hand in their own, Anakin holds on tight.

[indiavolowetrust]

The Obey Me Boys as RPG Bosses: Frostheart

CHAPTERS: Prologue + Beelzebub and Belphegor (YOU ARE HERE), Asmodeus, Satan, Leviathan, Mammon, Lucifer, ???, ???, Endings

You are one of many hunters in a land cursed with everlasting winter. You yourself have become rime-touched after an attack by your fellow corrupted hunter, an incident that left you traumatized and lame. Even your hunter’s guild has resigned you to a life of mere cleaning and upkeep duties, and you have spent the last seven years in the depths of your guild’s archives.

Then the White Witch spirits your little brother away into her castle, taking with her the only family you have ever known. Armed with your trusty hunting knife and bow -- and aided by your senior hunter, Simeon -- you set off into the rime-cursed lands to find Luke and end the White Witch’s reign once and for all.

**Very loosely based on The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen.

Word Count: 2,160 words

TW: Blood, Violence, Gore

PROLOGUE

It is said that the rime draws beasts out of the hearts of men. The hoarfrost came, cursed as the land was by the White Witch, and then came the famine. The beasts came, corrupted and twisted beyond measure by the curse, and then came the slaughter. And so came the Frost Blades: a group of hunters trained to slay the rime-touched beasts, cull the spread of the curse, and bring glory to King Diavolo’s wondrous kingdom. It is said that a hunter of the Frost Blades is destined to die a hero’s death, whether it be by jaws of a wolf-beast or some other monstrosity.

You know better, of course. The pure never stay pure for long. Those whose hearts are touched by the rime eventually lose themselves, body and soul, and the symptoms only worsen the further one traverses into the cursed hinterlands. Dizziness, fatigue, and nausea. The piercing of one’s flesh by ice crystals that seem to have grown from within, the loss of one’s extremities to the frost, and the forced expulsion of bodily fluids. Hallucinations and madness. At the heart of glacial rift -- where the White Witch and her subjects are said to reside -- it is said that there exists a barrier no human can pass. Not without losing themselves completely to the rime, that is. The few that had passed the barrier and returned had … they had …

The memory is there before you know it, raw and frostbitten. The bow you’ve been cleaning nearly clatters to the floor, but you manage to hold onto it with trembling fingers.

You can only remember skewered limbs and bestial screams. One hand pressed to your ruined eye, the other shakily holding a blade that you knew would not save you. One of your legs was beyond repair. The creature that had once been Agathe had stalked closer with its segmented, crystalline body, that hunter’s caution still present, and you were too petrified to do anything but gaze upon the bringer of your own death. Too young, too inexperienced, and too unskilled to face off against a rime-touched beast of her caliber. And in her eyes -- Gods, in her eyes, you could have sworn that you saw something not quite bestial staring back at you. Someone.

The journey to the heart of the glacial rift is said to be unbound by any law of space or time, as expected of a realm created by the White Witch. Despite its eldritch properties, you’ve decided to take at least enough supplies for a dozen or so leagues. Elk jerky, dried fruits and nuts, and sizable canteens of water. Rolls of twine, bandages, and tins of Old Gytha’s medicine. Your whitewood bow and arrows sit at the ready of your back. Your fur-lined cloak and boots weigh heavily upon you when you limp past the Frost Blades’ garrison, although perhaps that is to be expected. You were born in this town, and you had fully expected to die in it. If Luke hadn’t been spirited away by the White Witch, you’re not sure if you would even have the heart to step out of its walls. You certainly lack the strength.

A hand plates itself on your shoulder when you stand before gates of the town, firm and unyielding. Simeon.

What did you expect? you berate yourself, a sigh escaping your mouth. He’s probably known all along. You’re as transparent as glass.

Luke’s gone, you tell him. You shift against your walking cane as you do so, not quite prepared to meet his gaze. Not yet, anyway. Even now, you’re too much of a coward. Regardless, he can’t stop you. Your mind and heart is already set on the quest.

“I know.”

You don’t care if they kick you out of the Frost Blades for defying orders. Luke is -- you made a promise to him. He’s the only family you have.

“I know.”

Then why --

His glove-laden hand turns you gently to face him, cutting you short. Your eyes widen at the sight of hunting gear, his own whitewood bow strapped to his back, and he gives you a smile that is only the slightest bit wolfish. A part of you relaxes at that. Despite his straight-laced behavior in the garrison, it would appear that Simeon is still Simeon, the boy that used to defend you and Luke against the older kids in town. Simeon, the baker’s son who stole loaves of bread to feed you and Luke on unbearable nights. Simeon, the greatest and most elite hunter of his party once he enlisted into the Frost Blades.

Simeon, the one who hadn’t quite been there in time. Even Old Gytha had trouble stitching what remained of you back together.

“The Frost Blades have us make an oath to protect our subordinates,” he says in the way of an explanation, leaving the rest unsaid. He walks past you to push aside a patch of brambles, revealing a weathered wooden door. An unused exit. A corner of his mouth quirks upwards when he catches you staring, and he arches a brow at you. “You didn’t really think I’d let you go by yourself, did you?”

[BEELZEBUB AND BELPHEGOR, GUARDIANS OF THE BOREAL FOREST]

It is difficult to believe anyone has ever lived here before. The uneven terrain is stricken with permafrost, rendering the ground slippery and unforgiving, and the boughs of the trees stretch far into the sky. Like nearly everything else in the boreal forest, they are barren, crystalline, and completely incapable of being burned. Yet the ruins here are massive. You and Simeon sit in the belly of a keep -- or what remains of it, anyway -- as the bones of some unfortunate animal crackle and wither away before you in a blue blaze. They lend little warmth, but you dare not speak a word on the matter. Simeon had supported you when your limp worsened, your cane relaying itself to your side, and when your lame legs could no longer support your weight, he carried you. He had not complained or minded, and so you would not either.

Or perhaps he had and he was too kind to tell you otherwise.

Useless, you think to yourself. Useless, useless, useless. No wonder the Frost Blades had difficulty deciding to spare you. A rime-touched whelp has no place in --

“Are you cold?”

You blink to see Simeon staring intently at you, which he evidently has been for a while. Your legs hurt from walking, and you tell him as much. Working with the Frost Blades’ records is a much different experience than traveling. It’s been a long time.

Seven years, you almost say. It’s been seven years.

“I suppose it has,” he hums, and he resumes stoking the fire with a crystalline branch. It only flickers weakly in response.

Despite being certain that you and Simeon have been traveling for only several hours -- meaning that it should only be midday -- night had already long fallen by the time you reached the ruins. Another oddity of exploring the lands near the White Witch’s realm, it would seem. You and Simeon had passed what should have been leagues in a matter of minutes, whereas what had seemed like a minuscule hill had taken an hour to pass. Streams babbled in some places and nearly stood still in others. Despite the high walls of the ruins here, you can feel the wind blowing through at too fast a pace. Simeon struggles to keep the blaze alive.

And so when you stumble upon a massive, free-standing stone gate in the middle of a frozen clearing, you can’t say you’re completely surprised.

Instead, it is the pair of statues before it that draws your attention. While both of them wield a massive battle axe, the creatures depicted in the sculptures seem to be of two different species. The slightly smaller one reminds you of the oxen tended to by the township: cloven legs, curved horns, and thick fur. Its eyes are half-lidded, as if it were on the brink of falling asleep. The other one stands some two or three heads taller than the oxen-like one, bearing features that you would not expect of a creature acclimated to the ice. Its face is dotted with multitudinous eyes, its massive maw is inset with sharp, wicked teeth, and four insectoid wings sprout from its back.

Stranger yet, the statues have been carved with an impeccable eye for detail -- enough that you had nearly mistaken them for another rime-touched beast. The glacial wind whips back and forth across clearing, making them appear to move. To breathe.

Almost as if they were.

“Halt!” booms a voice across the clearing, forcing you to stumble backwards. Simeon all but drags you behind a tree.

“Who goes there?” demands another voice, lower and more gruff than the first.

One hand clamped over your mouth, the other pressed to the hilt of his blade. His eyes meet yours only after a moment, and you see within them the question that plagues your own thoughts. The bearers of these voices, whomever they may be, should not be here.

“This land belongs to Her Ladyship! Speak, or begone with ye!”

There is the sound of cracking, much like porcelain falling apart. Or perhaps it is more reminiscent of ice shattering, like a mirror bursting into shards after being struck. Simeon’s gaze only narrows as he takes another glance over the side of the tree, still holding you close to him. He begins to slowly draw his blade out from its sheath. The boreal winds begin to howl even greater than before, masking the noise.

Simeon unceremoniously flings you in the direction of the clearing. Your shoulder crashes into the permafrost just as the blade of an axe crashes into the tree, cleaving it in two. Simeon is barely able to draw his sword before the axe meets it -- and then he, too, is sent flying. He pierces the ground with his sword before he can completely clear the open space, stopping just short in front of you. Two figures -- one bearing curved horns, the other bearing insectoid wings -- clamber out of the edge of the forest, the larger of the two hefting the oversized axe over his back.

It is only then that you see the symbols carved into the statues, each circling their wrists and ankles like manacles.

Golems.

“What have we here, brother?” says the ox-like golem, gazing upon you with interest. “It would appear Her Ladyship’s doll has arrived sooner than we thought. Shall we deliver this human to her?”

“We shall.”

The ox-like golem strides forward. “How convenient that you’ve brought the human to us -- and in such good condition, might I add? Her Ladyship will be in good spirits to see her dear prince and her doll reunited.” He offers his hand to you, much to your surprise. “Come with me, human. There’s no need to be accompanied by this charlatan any longer.”

Charlatan? You can only stare at the ox-like golem’s hand in bewilderment, shaking your head. Whatever reason the White Witch may have to declare you as her doll -- whatever that means -- you will not abandon Simeon. You have no reason to comply with their wishes.

“You heard the hunter.” Simeon brings his sword before him again, creating a barrier between you and the golems. “We’re not going anywhere. If you want to separate us, you’ll have to go through me.”

“More’s the pity. And here we thought Her Ladyship gave us an easy task for once.” The ox-like golem yawns, gesturing to the other, and it is but a moment before the two cross blades. A dueling stance. “Name’s Belphegor. Beelzebub and I will take the pleasure of beheading you today.”

“Last chance,” warns the winged golem. “Surrender now, and we shall forgive you for your transgressions.”

Tip: Staggering one of the golems will force the other to its aid. As Beelzebub is faster and stronger than his counterpart, it is advised to incapacitate Belphegor first.

[NEXT: ASMODEUS, HER LADYSHIP’S ROSE-KEEPER]

[brooklynislandgirl]

🌡- Do they get sick often? Is if a trait of their species or unique to them?

Your Faith For Bricks || Accepting

She cradles his head in her lap. Carefully brushes away a stray damp golden curl from his brow, which is darker now that it is drenched. The shivers that wrack his body are painful for both of them, and for entirely different reasons. His because they make him ache, and likely send wild nerve impulses down as far as the organic half will allow and into the sensors of the metal and wiring. Or maybe it’s the other way around, but regardless, the sharp stabbing agony can’t be doing him any good. And it pains her because... he’s too thin. For the last maybe six or seven years now, ever since he’d shot up and surpassed her in height, he’d been lean, angularity visible in his long limbs and compact muscle, reminiscent of cats, and she convinced herself that it is merely his somatotype. But no matter how much or how little he eats, not a thing really changes. He burns it all up like the fuel that powers his fighter, then he cannibalises himself in bits and pieces, using up all that he can to keep going. And when even his reserve has become threadbare and moth-eaten? The sickness pours into him and takes roots where there are already holes. She can hear it in each rattling breath so shallowly taken. Can all but taste it in the sourness of the sweat pouring off of him. Feels it in each wracking cough that threatens to shake him apart until he is utterly unfixable. It is a wan smile she offers to his briefly staying glass-eyed gaze before they fall away again to something beyond her own capability to sense. She does not know if it is something in the Force that is so far out of her grasp by virtue of how it is him and he is it, or if it is ghosts from the past that rarely come to life on his lips.

She prays by the four moons that he finds his way back as the administered medicine winds its way through his fevered flesh, something she really hasn’t done since she was very little, long before she knew of the Jedi and a sad eyed boy and all the wonders and terrors that have since been made manifest. She leans up against the wall so very careful not to dislodge him and drags the blankets up around his shoulders. There is little else to do but try to hold him in place beyond the twitching and the shaking not of his own volition, and wearily she closes her eyes. She can pull only so much energy from herself and from the grace of the Force, and even that is drying up but she won’t sleep. Not until this sickness has broken, or he surrenders to it. Either way, he will have peace. “So many years ago...”

Her voice frangible to her own ears, she doesn’t expect him to follow along. But she keeps her tone low and warm. Reaches back through the time at the Temple to her less than distinct memories of early childhood.

“I suppose it happened when we were attending Father’s business in the Capital. Normally during trips like that he would go alone, you see, and Dad and I would stay on the estate. The tutors would come, some of the wives and husbands would visit, it wasn’t as isolated as it sounds, but one thing I wasn’t very exposed to were other children. But it was a warm spring, and they ~being as in love as they are~ wanted to take some extra time. See the sights, dine out together, and Dad was planning a trip of his own. One of the kind we never really spoke about.  “So off we went together. And the state apartments for each family had a huge garden in the centre of this U shaped complex. And I begged and begged Dad to let me go and play in the sunshine and the fresh air, and so down we went. And of course there were other children and we played as all kids do. Shambling dead, siege hooks, force-open-the-city-gates, and so on. The running. The screaming and laughing, the pride when you proved to be the better tactician or the better general ~and we all fought over who got to be the general~ I tell you, it felt absolutely magickal. And then, like all things must, it ended, and we went home at the end of those couple of weeks.” Her fingers slow in the way they card through his hair then stop. Her teeth grit together until they feel like they will break as she shifts gingerly beneath him, not wishing to dislodge or discomfort Anakin in any way, though she knows in a moment she must. Even with her lean she has to stretch out her fingers, feeling the strain through delicate muscle, and a judicious application of the Force is used in order to take the bota of water in hand.

She takes a quick drink, the water is tepid. Still, it’s a dozen times cooler than he is and he needs the fluids before he dehydrates himself into a hospital stay.

She ignores any weakly groaned protest and leverages him upward so that he won’t choke, insists that he needs this and she won’t have it any other way. Her tone is firm and tinged with worry, but long in its affection, her love of him. She presses it against his perfect lips, dry and chapped as they are, and only allows the smallest sips at a time. She doesn’t mind the run off that slides down from the corner of his mouth to soak into her tunic. Another wracking cough shudders through him, threatening to spill what little he’s taken. She makes slow, ever widening concentric circles against his back until he’s calmer, until he’s slid back down into her lap and tries to curl up in the smallest ball that is possible. “Where were we? Oh. Yes.”

She waits another moment, until she’s sure he’s settled again.

“It all started the third night after we got home. I remember feeling vaguely queasy and the thought of food made me want to wretch, so I refused it. My body and head ached something fierce, paired with a lingering sense of malaise. Within a few hours I was burning up but...it felt more like a chill, the kind that bites into the bone and refuses to let go. My fathers would not let me out of bed, and in truth, I didn’t really want to leave it.

“Within twelve hours, the first signs of blisters occurred between my fingers and toes before spreading outward. Then the crooks of my knees and elbows, along my neck and chest. It was hideous and kind of gross, gonna be truthful with you, but such is the Green Flu. Phlox is what we call it, colloquially. The worst of it is the rash....from which it gets its name. Scaly patches that resemble lichen. The itch is so bad you want to claw your own skin off. And they appear everywhere. Even your palms, the soles of your feet, your private places. “Of course, my fathers were visibly terrified, and sent for Dr Thripshaw straight away. She came and confirmed what they suspected, and that I must have been exposed by one of the other children. I’ve never really been sick before that, and certainly not after. In less than a year and a half I was brought to the Temple. And while I have had a chance to treat many a sick or wounded sentient, none of the illnesses that seem to spread amongst humans like wildfire can find real purchase in my kind. I think it’s just a case of incompatibility to sustain a virus or bacteria in our bodies.

“Funny, isn’t it?” She again smiled, this time not just for Anakin but also for having recalled such an old memory, and tasting the bitter-sweetness of missing her fathers, their affection and worry for her. She returns to running her fingers through his curls.

“The good news is...I think this is just the flu, Za’lali. You shouldn’t break into new and unusual spots, and you cannot have contracted Phlox. The worst should pass in a few days, and I will be here with you, for you, the whole time.”

[duraxxor]

What’s the last thing you remember before death?

“ So, it has come to this? You wish to recall the memory of what the very last moments where I drew the air in my lungs, do you? “ Duraxxor took a moment of silence, bowing his head respectfully in consideration of what it was he was truly undertaking at this time. His claws reaching forth to unclasping a section of his torso leathers before digging in to tear them wide open, revealing severely scarred pectorals. Such skin pigmentation was a plethora of ash and stone colorations that not the only reason that she would identify which scar was the one that did him in was the sheer fact that his left section possessed a horrid, darkly veined scar that seeped with the gaseous smog that was his aura. Ironically, this scar was neighboring another that held a great meaning to another soul. And so, without further interruption, Daevara’s tale began to erupt into a remorseless winter. “ It was that fateful day within the frozen peaks of Icecrown. The Sin’dorei were readying their weaponry and charging their mana streams. The winds howled the coming of the Damned. We were to believe that by stopping Arthas that we would wreak vengeance upon him. We were quite wrong... “ 

A vision began to play out within the mind of the nymph as she felt the frozen chill of Northrend settle into her bones. The Faceless man she was speaking with had time reversed upon him, taking on the form of a heavily shrouded Sin’dorei who possessed the fel taint within his eyes and a sun-kissed skin that was practically frostbitten. Eyes peering to the surrounding unit of soldiers as they were given orders. However, his sights were flickering towards the ridge that lead further towards the south. Worry that his family had not made it back with the expedition that had chosen to retreat before the battle had even started. The wails and groans of the restless dead were in symphony with the cries and screams of those the living that were falling. Elven and Undead corpses lay upon the bloodsoaked landscapes at more continued to fight mercilessly. The war, however, was seven to one. For every creature that was to fall, another would take it’s place amongst the ranks of the Scourge. Alphus Durand Daevara and a group of four Sin’dorei were faced with one of the harshest realities. Surrounded. Bloodied. Frightened for their lives.

“ No... This can’t be the end. I was destined for greatness... my family name was suppose to live on! “ A shivering magister with a seeping wound on his arm spoke with such pride for only himself. “ We were suppose to win... “ There he stood, coughing up his own blood whilst amongst the party for survival. 

A protector in the front continued bashing his shield across the ravenous ghouls that were attempting to cut directly into their small point, hungering for the taste of flesh. “ At least fall with some dignity, magister! “ The spellbreaker chided the weakened magi. Much like the groveling caster of magic, he was beaten and his shield was breaking bit by bit, much like the bones in one’s body. 

Another spellcaster of the arcane arts was running herself ragged with a consistant volley of magic, not even bothering to pay the fool any mind as she typically kept to herself. Whilst a blood knight was also attempting to keep the undead masses from flanking them from another angle. “ Incoming! Abomination! “ The magics within his mace began to sizzle with the heat of the Light. 

“ Son of a bitch... “ Dura cursed under his breath as he saw the lumbering behemoth darting directly towards them. 

Belching gaseous substances while gurgling with the intent to murder and devour. He was even trampling his own just for the sole purpose of reaping the living from this world. Each step shook the earth beneath the elven group as they saw themselves being charged at by this monstrosity. “ Rend! “ A word that was spewed out with such a disgusting undertone that was reminiscent of an orc vomiting his own innards out. The meat hook came flying towards the group like a ballistic force to be reckoned with. The four whom were able to fight managed to dodge this attack by whatever means necessary. Yet, the lowly magister wasn’t so lucky.

“ Gahhh! Help! NOOOOOOOooooooo!... “ The hook had lodged itself perfectly into his ribcage, ripping through him as the chain reeled him in much like a sea bass. That is, if a sea bass rained blood across the fields as it screamed bloody murder. This abomination had managed to earn himself a meal as quieted the noisy creature by shoving finishing the job with his other two mighty arms, tearing the noble two halves. The sound of bone and flesh severing was followed with the sounds of a gluttonous behemoth shoving his upper half deep within whatever one could consider a throat. 

“ Heeeeeyah! “ The blood knight cried out as he launched his own attack while the abomination was distracted with a meal. A light-infused hammer struck against one of the stump-like feet with the remaining might he possessed. The strike severed this stitched limb whilst burning the flesh, earning the paladin a brief moment of glory as he squealed much similarly like a swine in a slaughterhouse. “ Take that you filthy bast-arrrgh! “ The larger of the three arms struck the paladin with enough strength to send the knight flying about several yards into the crowds of ravenous undead, sealing his own fate. Cursed words were uttered as the Light had forsaken him in such a humiliating moment. 

“ Gods be damned! They are cutting us to pieces! “ The warrior continued to swing his shield at whatever was coming his way, forming a triangular formation with the mage and the dual wielding assassin who were cutting down just as much of them as he was. “ Sorceress, aim for it’s head before that monstrosity gets back up! “ 

Enchanted words were uttered by the female as she fired off a volley of arcane barrages directly towards the abominations head, causing the pile of flesh to explode into bits of gore while the former magister’s upper half was expelled onto the tainted snow. “ My mana is running down... We can’t hold on like this... Wait. Their numbers are thinning? “

“ You’re right. We may yet have a chance! “ The warrior sighed in some sort of a relief as the numbers began to thin more and more against the tides of undead who were targeting them with bloodlust. Yet, Dura had other thoughts as he began to notice that the snowstorm was beginning to pick up in volume, shrouding the air as all who were lowly minions of the damned lay upon the ground in shambles. 

“ Something isn’t right... “ Alphus growled lightly within the back of his hoarse throat, eyes narrowing to the foggy horizons as he felt as though they were being watched. His own senses were running wild at the moment. The scent of blood seeming to thicken along with the a trembling within his left arm. His daggers began to cloak themselves with the magics of shadow as if instinct was kicking in. “ We’re still being hunted, but for what purpose?.. “

“ Daevara, was it? Perhaps your fatigue is playing tricks. This is just a snowstorm, something very common in the heart of Northrend. We need to move and see if there are any ships left to depart to the south. Or at least get to shelter so that the sorceress can regain her mana along with our stamina. “ The protector had turned himself towards Dura and the sorceress peered to him as she too sensed something was amiss. A crackle of frost echoed a few yards as figure began to materialize in the wintery shroud. 

“ Head’s up! “ Alphus Daevara instinctively shoved to two out of harm’s way whilst raising his own blades to cross. Ting! This movement immediately collided with the incoming blade, runes crackled with intense magics as they licked across Daevara’s blades as if tasting the very shadows that his blades spewed. Azure eyes gleamed beneath the hooded figure of death as a soulless expression came into perfect view for the assassin to see. 

“ Your sorrow tastes so bittersweet. Yet, your soul is as mighty as a beast... The master will be most pleased... “ 

This knight of death was like no other. Rather than being infected with plague or rotting to the very heart, this feminine creature was preserved. Wielding a runeblade along with the shroud of a reaper, this being possessed great strength as Alphus was forced to pry himself from the blade and disengage with this monster. “ Watch yourself, this is a Death Knight! “ 

“ I don’t care, I’ll take her down like the rest! “ The protector shouted as he was attempting to stand with his shield at the ready, going in for a bash of his shield. “ For the glory of Quel’thalas! Yaaaaaaaaah! “ Adrenaline guided his numbing legs directly towards the Death Knight with every intent to trample her much like the abomination earlier was attempting to do to them. Whatever strength he had left, he would master over all fears and prepare his defenses as her runeblade was raised, preparing for a parry of weaponry. Another collision resonated in a muffled volume as winter’s embrace overshadowed all else, as did the knight. The parry was met with the shattering of his mighty barricade, falling to pieces as the protector grunted as fear began to consume his very mind. Not even a few seconds would pass as the knight’s blade was impaled into his chest directly. 

“ No! “ The sorceress cried out as her fingertips began to smolder with the abuse of magic that was rejecting her flesh by searing her from the lack of mana. Yet, the knight of death refused to take any chances and launched a tendril of dark magic directly towards this spellcaster, strangling her from even uttering a single word or spell. This spell would be forever known as Asphyxiation, an ability that lived up to it’s name by tearing the life directly from her lungs. The knight cast the suffocating woman directly into the chilled stone with a loud crash, continuing to drain the soul of the protector that foolishly charged against a force that was out of his league, leaving Daevara and herself in a stare down. The eyes of a beast of old versus the soulless gaze of a harbinger of death.

“ How does it feel? You let your comrades die by my hands so quickly. “ The knight mocked this man who she referred to as the master’s prize, attempting to provoke him the best she could. It was as if this knight took great pleasure in exposing one’s flaws, something that Dura had become a master of. 

“ Just shut the hell up and draw your sword. Or maybe... “ Alphus began to fade into the very fog she had chosen to surprise them with. The knight raised her blade and had chosen to remain on some sort of a guarding position. Within an instant, a knife was thrown directly behind her, immediately deflected by the sword on reflex. Not even two seconds had passed before another had took flight, aiming directly for the woman’s ribs, causing her to focus once more. But this time, as she turned her head to face the incoming weapon, her nasal cavity found itself bombarded with an incoming blunt object:  His right fist. The blow may have not done much in terms of incapacitating the dead, but it at least knocked her off her feet. “ … for once I will be taking my leave. You won’t be killing me like you did them. I can’t save them but I can save myself. “ But Dura and the Knight were no longer alone. In fact, the entrance of another foe was quite eventful. To the point that the excitement left Alphus’ own heart bursting through his chest. Literally. Daevara blood was spat onto the field from his ragged cough. Blurry vision gazed downward to watch as another sword had made it’s mark directly through his chest cavity. As if it wasn’t enough that his own fatigue had hindered him, but to obliterate his own heart was completely unreal. “ By all that is... unholy... damn... you... “ The White Lynx cursed the Scourge as he fell forward, onto his knees before he found himself landing flat upon his own stomach. His consciousness no longer to grasp onto the reality of life as the light in his eyes began to dim. The hell was over, or at least, so he thought... 

The vision was consumed by another figure whose eyes were as soulless as the knights, but possessed far greater intensity as well as a hunger for blood within them. This imagery dispersed perfectly to reveal the singular, crimson eye of the Faceless peering back at the one who requested a tale of his passing. Ending it with nothing more than respectful silence.

[ @snowfallen-nymph I hope you enjoy this piece of Dura’s history that was reforged! ]

[fsouth-park-is-imaginative]

The angels are watching

Yandere Kenny chapter 1.

The cafeteria was loud. The people around us didn’t see her. They didn’t care, they went on with their day, their simple routine, their lives unchanged. It was as if my mother had died and I was faced with the realization that the world around me did not stop.

The world around us will stop for nothing as simple as death or murder or love. The world will not end with something as simple as the whims of one person. One person, that holds myself in their hands. The people surrounding us did not see the angel at the far table, face buried between the pages of a book.

Her eyes dance lovingly run over the pages of whatever she decided to read today. It was different each day, she read quickly and got over the stories. I don’t know if they held meaning to her, as they hold meaning to others. I don’t know if these books are ones she’ll remember forever or toss aside in favor of a new story. It’s her one night stand with a book, fingers caressing the pages as she turns the paper, face gazing intensely, extreme focus on something other than her. Her face is obscured between the pages of books like I want my face buried between her thighs. I want to be her one night stand, I want to wake up and have coffee with her while she learns me as keenly as if I had words printed on my skin of every thought I have ever had. Maybe I’ll tell her that I’ve put more thought into her than I have any book that has ever been published. Maybe she’ll run her hands over me as if I’m made of paper and cannot harm her. Maybe she’ll let me fuck her and marry her. And we can live happy ever after with our half intelligent children amid the woods in solitude.

It took her all of five seconds to put her book down when I sat across from her.

“So, I guess it’s not a page turner?” I asked sheepishly, head tilting briefly towards the book on the table. Her paper coffee cup seemed so cute next to it, like something out of a cheesy instagram post. I hated it.

“What makes you say that?” She quirks and eyebrow. Her whole face seemed larger than life, larger than me, larger than anything I could possibly understand.

“You aren’t reading it now.”

“No, but that’s not indicative of the actual novel. If anything, it means I find it odd that a complete stranger is intruding on my reading time.” She said it fast. Damn, see? Smart. I laugh, trying to put her at ease.

“Yeah, that makes sense. I just want you to know that I think you are absolutely stunning.” I say to her. She does a double take

“What?” Both eyebrows raised, she looks reminiscent of a headshot, the way models do.

“Yeah. Too bad I can hardly see you with that book in front of your face all the time.” I joke.

“What, this?” She picks up her book to show me the cover. It sounds like a porn genre.

“Yeah. What’s that, Lo-lee-tah?” I ask, sounding out the foreign word. She looks down and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yes, um. It’s a classic.” She says finally. I can barely hear her, with her voice aimed down at the floor like that.

“A classic? What’s so classic about it?”

“Well, classics are books that are popular with many people and have stayed in popularity for many years.” She answers. How unsatisfying. It must be porn, she keeps dodging the question.

“I know what classics are. What’s Lolita about?” I try to be civil.

“It’s a love story.” She says simply.

“Ah. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a hopeless romantic,” I smile “Hey, this is a coffee shop meet cute isn’t it?” I’m flirting. She blushes slightly. Not many people blush when I flirt with them.

“Hopefully, uh, you don’t have me pegged for anything yet. You don’t know anything about me.” She’s not wrong. I don’t know anything about her. But I know that she reads and she likes coffee. I see her every other day, she picks up books like a player picks up girls. She wears modest black clothes, either because of self esteem issues or maybe because she’s part of a subculture. She reeks of danger with her five-foot-tall-in-socks frame and scowly eyes. Her deep set eyes are rimmed with lack of sleep that she wears like a Tammy Faye does eyeliner. It’s nice, and I like the way they discriminate.

“Hello?” She asks. I snap out of my obsessive reverie.

“Oh, hey, yeah sorry. Kinda wandered away there for a moment. Anyway, uh, so Lolita, huh? That’s the one about the English teacher, right?” She blinked.

“Yes. It’s truly beautiful, it just… it’s so, so disturbing. Its gimmick is that the reader is supposed to sympathise with the main character, whos a pedophile. But it’s a horror novel, you know? But regardless of original intent, it seems so creepy to me!” She stopped. “Sorry, uh, I probably sound really stupid to you.”

“No, no. Not at all. Tell me more, why is it so creepy to you? You say its the gimmick, shouldn’t this make you less creeped out?”

“Well… yeah, I guess so. But it’s more than that its… I can’t help but feel like the people that are supposed to enjoy the novel are part of the problem. I don’t know if it’s okay to enjoy something that’s awful just because it isn’t reality. I don’t know if it’s okay to idolize awful characters just because you’re aware that they’re flawed. After a while, their flaws become easier to apologize for, the forbidden fruit becomes less forbidden in your mind because only you have been forcing yourself away from it.” She isn’t looking at me now. I want her to look at me.

“But, maybe it’s just a story.” I reply.

“Yeah, but… it can’t be just a story. It’s got to mean something bigger to you, otherwise they aren’t stories. They’re words on a page. Writing has to speak to a deeper part of the soul…”

“I think… that either you’re a hidden pedophile, or that rant wasn’t about the book.” I say with a smile I hope is reassuring. “But yeah, I get the idea about stories.” Did I just make it awkward?

“Yeah, well um, whoops.” She says softly. “I’ve been angry lately, at certain things.”

“I can tell.” I try to match her soft tone. She looks up and I trap her in my gaze, sleep smudged eyes meeting intense dark blue. Her pupils dance around as much as they can without tugging her head along with it.

“I can leave, if you want. I was just about to go anyway.” Wrong. Her book isn’t even half finished yet.

“No, no. How can you leave without giving me your name?” I ask, tilting my head to mimic her confusion.

“It’s, uh… Alice.” She says. Oh, Alice. She who fell down a rabbit hole and hit her head on all the turns. I hold out my hand.

“Kenny. Kenny McCormick.” She takes my calloused hand with hers of flesh and soft bone. Her skin is peeling a bit near the crook of the thumb. I don’t care about it. She laughs a bit.

“That’s a douche name.” She shakes my hand with a firm grip. I use my other hand to run my fingers through my hair, a move that makes all girls hot for me. I know because that’s what makes me hot for the rest of the guys.

“Yeah, I know.” I let out a dramatic sigh, using my other, now free hand to mime a fist shake of despair. I shake the despair fist and grin. “It’s like my cousin, her name is Violet Divine. Total stripper name if I’ve ever heard one.” White trash begets douches and strippers.

“No, violet Divine? That’s pretty. I wish my name was pretty like that.” Alice says. I shake my head.

“Nah, your name is so pretty it shows on your face every time you say it. Your sheer beauty could not be contained in one form, so it leaked out into your name!” I joke with her. Her breast swells. “Alice.” I say, leaning back. I maintain eye contact, so she knows I meant it.

“I… I’m sorry fro calling your name a douche name. Because either you’re very good at smoothtalking people, or you’re a nice person. Maybe both though, you aren’t about to talk about your love for dead philosophers now, are you?”

“No, I’m not a soft boy. I’m too tough for that! Why, just the other day I listened to an Alice In Chains song.” She giggles.

“No, I guess not. Philosophy’s kind of my thing, anyway. If you were super into it, we might have problems along the road here.”

“Oh?” I joke, “Are you insinuating you want me on the road?” She looks away slightly.

“Maybe… unless you don’t want to of course. But it’s not often a cute boy knows about the book I’m reading. I’d like to make the best of it.” She says. I grin ear to ear. A real grin, not the lecherous kind I save for porno mags and back alley ladies of the night dressed in fishnet stockings and despair.

“I’ll give you my number, may I?” I gestures to her napkin. She hands me the one on the bottom, the one without coffee stains and lip prints on it. I take out my coat pen and write my cell phone number on it. I hand it back to her and she smiles again, reading it over in her mind. She mouths the numbers as she reads, it’s cute.

“Okay, well, thanks. I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t turn out to be a serial killer or something.” She’s joking, but I don’t care. She has my number, and I’ve done enough today to get her in my grasp.

“Nope. I mean, I’ve got a ton of blood in my house, but that’s just my roommate the serial killer. That won’t be a problem will it? I’ll let her know you’re off limits.” I hope that’s smooth, because to me that was pretty smooth. If it weren’t totally creepy, I’d be winking right now.

“Yeah.” She smiles. I’ve made her smile enough to sleep happy tonight.

“Yeah.” I smile. And with that, I get up to leave, pushing in my chair and giving her a salute sign with my hands.

She looks a bit sad as I walk away.

[zeciex]

Obsidian & Angelite Ch. 15

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes, Strong Language, Sex (oral and penetrative), cream pie.

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link

Stripped at the Gate and Thrown to the Fire

Michael watched her with his hands folded over his chest, leaning against the wall while his eyes followed her erratic movements. Oya paced around placing herbs and candles and stones just the right way in the mall room. At one moment she’s on her knees making sure the stones weren’t out of order so they wouldn’t screw up the ritual, the next she was at the other end of the room standing on the tip of her toes reaching to place a candle on the shelf cut into the limestone walls.

Of course none of it was needed, his ritual and magic didn’t rely on magical stones or garden herbs, his powers extended further than that. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop her, not when she felt that this would not only protect her but also lessen the blow. In reality, it was a way for her to feel in control in a situation where she’d give up any control she had to him.

And so he didn’t object but rather found amusement in it. Oya picked up chalk and began drawing symbols on the walls.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” she asked even though she already knew the answer.

“Yes,” he answered her with a chuckle. To him, the drawing she made looked like a man with a broken back yelling to the gods of his misfortune. Whatever it was supposed to help with he didn’t know. He could feel her unease, it lingered in the air around her, a nervousness and reluctance. Who could really blame her?

“I don’t like the idea of being left defenseless,” Oya grumbled kneeling on the other side of the room to draw new symbols. This time he recognized it as Scandinavian but still the meaning of it eluded him.

Michael let out a breathy laugh shaking his head full of golden strands. “I don’t think you’d ever be defenseless. It’s not in you.”

Oya wanted to answer him, to scoff a ‘you leave me defenseless’ but she was afraid they’d both puke all over the pentagram at their feet and Satan might not be as lenient to lend a hand in the future. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head quietly before returning to draw a broken circle around what looked like fucked up letters.

“Where would I go, if I died?” She asked with a morbid interest. Michael frowned behind her, finding her question worrying but also a jab towards his abilities to keep her safe. Disregarding the needles she felt picking at her back and the small silent huff Michael let out, she continued. “If I die as a human would I go to your hell or would I end up in the underworld?”

Oya turned, still crouched down to observe his face. Michaels' eyes had turned darker and more thoughtful. His arms were still folded, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up revealing the soft skin of his forearms and the shadow of veins running over them. Silence settled around them, the nervousness that wrapped around her like a veil seemingly growing.

The silence was broken by Michael drawing in a big breath, pushing off the wall and walking towards Oya’s crouched body, towering over her moments before coming down to her level to take her face in his hands, brushing stray hairs out of her face. His eyes were determined.

“If you die I’d come and get you wherever you are, be it hell or the underworld or the fucking heavens! I would come get you,” he assured her, his voice dark and rumbling with the same drawl she had grown fond of. There was a devotion to his words that she had never experienced before, one that was annoyed she’d ever think he’d leave in death but also wanted to reassure her that he was as much in this as she was. The risk was steep, hundreds of possibilities could lead to her death when she was nothing but human and that was what she was worried about, and what he was willing to put on the line.

“I think we can agree I won’t be going to heaven, but the sentiment is noted and appreciated. It’s good to know you’d walk right up and punch god in the face to get me back,” she said and flashed him a reassuring smile. The man before her shook his head at the picture she pained, the tension that had worked its way into his shoulders loosened. “I’m just curious, devil-boy. As a human were would I go?”

Michael pursed his lips in thought mirroring her mood, “Hell. You wouldn’t be touched by your magic so your soul would most likely wind up there.”

Oya turned back to her scribbles, letting Michael stand watch over her. He understood her worry, the fear of putting her life into his hands with no control left for herself. But he also felt gratified that she’d do so. There was a power in it, a rush that was undeniable. Still, all he wanted was her trust, both in him and his vision for the future.

“It’s done,” she said, placing the chalk on the floor and brushing off her hands before rising and feeling a rush of blood go to her head. Within her chest, her heart picked up speed, adrenalin beginning to tickle its way through her system. Michael took her hand and helped her into the middle of the pentagram. Caught between her teeth was her bottom lip that was ruthlessly nawled at in anticipation, worry.

With ease Oya settled down on the pentagram, opening her robe to reveal the soft skin beneath, her chest heaving with each breath she took and her nipples hardening against the cold air in the room. Beside her Michael kneeled down, eyes running over her sun touched skin, its feel familiar and reminiscent tinkering at his fingertips.

In this room where he first saw her, where he first had her, where he released her from her binding cage, would also be where he traps her once more with a cage so golden no magic of hers would be left behind.

Michael wrapped his finger around the blade, letting its cling scrape against the stone before lifting it off. Oya peeked up at him, her chest arching off the stone in deep breaths that edged out some of her bones. It made her look fragile, this thin little form placed upon a blood red pentagram, candlelights casting shadows across her skin and the herbs looking more like burial flowers than anything else.

Their eyes met and the unvoiced question was asked, was she ready? Oya nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of her robe.

The blade bit into her chest, following her chest bone from beginning to end drawing a crimson line that soon overflowed painting her skin. The cut stung but it wasn’t what brought tears to her eyes, overflowing as quickly as the wound did, carving a way over her skin to drip onto her hair.

Michaels brows knitted together in concentration, his tendrils filling to room in a suffocating way, washing over her with their burning touch and wrapping themselves around her from, digging into her skin and trailing up her spine. From his pocket, Michael produced a clear crystal, the cut fine and dignified and the stone itself as long as her palm and half as wide. It was placed upon her wound, smearing the blood onto it painting it the same crimson that flowed through her veins. It felt heavy, however small it was, it felt as heavy a boulder.

With an elegance a ballerina would envy, Michael raised his hand, sliding through the flesh of it to let his own blood drip onto her, onto the stone, onto her would, onto her unblemished skin. His eyes turned a demonic black, words she couldn’t grasp falling from his mouth, while the pain increased.

Where her mother had used serpents blood Michael used his own, her mother had held her down, Oya remained in her place of own volition and most of all where her mother had her daughter raped she was now left untouched. It was her willingness that changed the ritual, it was the trust she gave Michael rather than a betrayal.

But the pain, the pain was greater this time, physically. It felt as if she was ripped in two, every cell in her body divided and the magic taken from it. The pain was blinding, it tore through her with vicious claws, bared its teeth at her throat and dug into her heart. Every drop of magic seemed to crystallize, cutting through her veins until they reached her heart, where they gathered up until it seemed like it was about to tear within her chest. It felt like glass cutting at her heart, so ruthlessly it took her breath away and silenced her whimpers of pain.

For a moment her heart stilled and she thought it might have crystallized, hardened at the magnitude of magic to be kept there, turned to stone. And just maybe it wouldn’t start again.

And then it did. Her senses rushed back to her, drowning her while she gasped for breath. She felt weak towards this pain that had changed in an instance. Now it felt like every bone in her body had been broken thousand times over, every joint torn from its place and turned to glass. Her muscles ached in a way she had never felt before. She felt fragile and weak.

Arms wrapped around her, a hand coming to cradle the back of her head as he lifted her towards his chest. Oya gasped in pain, cries shaking from her throat, while her body almost violently shook under his touch. Tears burned in her eyes, burned down her face and dripped onto Michael’s shirt.

“Shh, you’re okay. You did well. You’re okay, Oya,” Michael hummed reassuringly in her ear, trying to calm her down enough to take her somewhere else. Her body and gone ice cold and with Michael’s hands on her, it felt like they scorch marks into her skin.

“It… H-hurts… so bad,” she coaked out, nails digging into his shirt and skin. He petted her head, trying to reassure her that she were to be okay but was hard to hear over the pain, it was hard to do anything with it. But she supposed it was better than when her mother did it because now she had someone with her, someone who actually cared for her enough to stay and make sure she’d be alright.

“It hurts, Michael,” she cried.

“I know,” he answered pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His answer irked her, it made her want to throw something at him. He had no idea what it was like, the pain she felt, how utterly powerless she was. It angered her that he would think he knew of it, the pain and emptiness that coursed through her, hollowed her out. He still had his magic, more power in his fucking pinky than she had in her whole body. He knew nothing. It might have been irrational or maybe it was rational.

“If you betray me, Michael, I will never forgive you,” she threatened against his shoulder, bearing her teeth even though he could not see. She didn’t see his expression, the soloum shadow that fell over his face, the dedication and devotion that burned in his eyes, and the vavor that tremmored through the blue. Instead, she felt his hand continue to pet her and his voice softly cooing in her ear.

In one of his hands, he held the stone that had once been clear but had now turned obsidian with blood smeared over it. The stone represented the power that was locked away in her heart if it broke the power would release and engulf her once more. It was of a bitter beauty, much like Oya herself.

She moved away from him and flinched at the pain that bloomed upon her chest, drawing a hissing breath before connecting her eyes with his. “I need you to get me to my bedroom.”

Without a second thought he lifted her up, Oya groaning at the pain making his eyes flood with sympathy. One second they were in the basement and the next she felt her soft covers brush against her as he put her down on the bed. She groaned again, lying down and welcoming the feeling of never wanting to get up again. Her fingers brushed the open wound, hissing at the sting. Michael’s eyes followed the movement.

“How does it feel?” He asked, spreading her legs so that he could stand between them, letting his hand take hers and moved it away from the wound.

“It hurts,” She breathed and watched as his finger trailed up towards the wound, warmth spring from him and electrifying her skin. Goosebumps formed, the hairs on the back of her neck standing and her heart restarting its rapid pace. “I feel weak and fragile. Empty. I absolutely hate it.”

Michael couldn’t help but smile a little at her words, letting his power course through him and into her skin. He watched as she healed, what would have taken weeks taking mere seconds until there was a fine thin scar. After healing her he walked, disappearing into the bathroom. She heard the tap run for a moment.

Oya looked down and traced the scar up between the valley of her breasts, feeling the mending skin beneath her fingers and the sticky blood. Michael reappeared between her legs with a wet towel. He looked at her before letting it brush against her skin, washing off the blood that had poured from the cut and onto her neck, slowly working his way down. His eyes were attentive and careful.

It was strange how her body reacted to him. She could feel the fight or flight instinct nibble at her, making the airs on the back of her neck stand with unease as if she was lying before a predator. In a way she was. The alarm she felt when she first saw him, when she allowed him to enter her property all those weeks ago, rushed back. Her body knew he was dangerous, knew he was powerful and not quite… right. There was something about him that lured her in as much as it made her want to flee. Michael was a beautiful snake, one made to look harmless and draw its prey in and as soon as that was done he’d strike and let his venom pour into their hearts.

He reached beneath her breasts, washing off the stain that had followed her ribs and down. Still, he watches her, watched as she tried and figure out how to react to the way her body reacted to him, even if he didn’t know about it.

“How does it feel now?” He asked, brushing off just above her navel. The heat radiated off of him, climbed along her legs, in between them and up, shooting out from his hands.

Oya frowned a little, trying to come up with the right words. “I feel like I was run over by a herd of horses.”

Entertained Michael quirked a brow, eyes gleaming in mischief and amusement, he chuckled lightly and shook his head, ruffling up his golden locks. They had grown. It made him seem older.

She drew in a deep breath that made her chest arch up, edging out her bones and prompting up her breasts. Even though she didn’t make note of it, his eyes roamed her. “It feels strange, I’m not sure how to explain it… It’s like having lost a limb or a sense. There’s something missing and that part leaves me utterly powerless, fragile. Is this how humans always feel?”

“Humans never had that extra sense or limb, they wouldn’t know why they feel so fragile and powerless, they just… do. I suppose that is why they try and make up for it in every other sense,” Michael mused in thought. He reached up to dry off the spots of blood that had landed on her breasts, the wettened towel brushing over her nipple and making it perk up.

“You’re aware what effect you have on humans,” she stated. Of course he did, he could see right through them. That was his thing, to be able to see directly into a person's soul, see what makes them tick and then use it for his benefit. What he wanted was for them to acknowledge their deepest darkest desire, expose them and exploit them. And that might just be why they were either drawn or repelled by him. The repulsion would turn into allurement eventually.

“Explain it to me.” His voice had fallen an octave, deepened by her words. Oya perked up on her elbows to better look at him.

“You see right through them, you know what they want even if they don’t know it themselves and you’ll use it against them. You trigger the fight or flight response, trust me, no matter how attracted to you they are, the response will still be there. You’re a serpent, you could strike at any moment,” she said and let her words draw a smirk upon his face, one revealing that serpent skin beneath the pale human clothing he wore. To humans, that was what he was and unless they had seen anything else, they’d never know the boy that was locked away inside.

Oya’s head tilted, her hair falling loose from the poorly made bun. “Humans are defenseless against you and they don't know it, not until it’s too late.”

“And how is your human body reacting?”

Oya smiled, one as mischievous as his because he had just proved her point. Michael always wanted one's truth, he thrived on it, desired it, to leave someone bare. “Weak. It’s reacting to your presence both with the desire to run but also with undeniable arousal. It knows you’re dangerous but it still wants you.” She took his hand that held the towel and wettened her lips before continuing. “For making me this feeble little human you should be licking the blood off of me.”

With an almost burning touch, she felt his hand come around the back of her knee before the other pulled out of her grasp, throwing the wet towel to the floor before he sank to his knee, trailing the other hand down her body to push her legs further apart. Her body reacted with a spike of adrenaline coursing through her, pulsating towards her core that was already dripping wet with arousal.

His eyes never left her, not when he traced kisses up her thighs, not when his breath hit her core and where she wanted him the most and they wouldn’t leave her, that much she knew. He’d savor every emotion, every breath, every noise she made. Oya drew in a rigged breath, biting her lip in anticipation.

“There’s a difference between them and you though,” he said, smirking like the devil while his eyes tried to remain as innocent as possible. Emphasis on tried because in this he failed, miserably. In this moment it was hard to believe he had ever been innocent, those big blue eyes of his were made of something else entirely. Michael kissed the soft flesh of her inner thigh between his teeth and nibbled.

A breathy moan left her, mind beginning to scramble together. “And what is that?”

“You’re the only one I’d touch like this,” he said so sweetly it made her mind spin. Her mouth was left open, breath stuck in her throat as he licked over her folds, all the way up, cleaning the area of the little blood that was left on her. He dived into her, tongue slowly licking its way up her slick folds before rolling over her bundle of nerves. A wave of electricity washed over her, every cell in her body reacting to his touch. She couldn’t help but moan loudly and decided she’d let him know just what his touch did to her.

With an iron grip, Michael held her to the bed, arms wrapped around her to make sure she couldn’t move an inch. It made it all the more erotic but also so much more agonizing. His licks were slow and deliberate, filled with the intent for her to wither away.

Oya fisted her hands in the fabric of the bed, arching her back with a filling breath, while her eyes fluttered with pleasure. His tongue pressed against her clit, first softly and then hard, bringing forth the most lewd sounds. The pleasure shot up through her body, coiled in her stomach and forced her heart to pump blood through her as fast as it possibly could. She wanted to move against him, to force him to pick up his pace just enough for her to fall over the edge. He didn’t budge. She could feel herself on the edge but no further, he refused her that and it made her almost whine out loud.

“Evil spawn, that is what you are!” she exclaimed, curing her fingers through his hair, soft as silk, to tug at the locks in a futile attempt to make him do her bidding. Ecstasy was right there, she basically brushed against it every time he pressed his tongue to her. But right there was just out of reach.

“I allowed you to turn me human and this is what you give me!” She complained even louder, tears stinging in her eyes out of pure frustration. Michael smirked against her, she could fucking feel it. With more force she tugged at his hair, a slight whine escaping her.

“I,” he drawled looking up at her, mouth gleaming with slick and eyes dangerously mischievous. “Want.” Slowly, two fingers entered her, shallow and cruel. She clenched around his, body begging for more while her mouth was open in breathless moans. “You.” A few more inches went inside of her, curling deliciously up. “To beg,” he finished.

Oya almost couldn't comprehend lost in the feeling of his fingers brushing against her g-spot while his thumb circled around her swollen nub. Defiance and spite welled up in her. “You fuck-Ah! Fuck-ing asshole! Ah, Shi-bal!”

What began as English turned into Korean, the languages mingling together in her mind. “Shi-bal-nom-a!”

“I’m beginning to understand what ‘shi-bal’ means,” Michael gloated like the fucker he was. If there was something heavy near her, anything, she’d have thrown it after him. But all that was were pillows that were deemed all too soft to throw at him within the second they came to mind.

“Devil boy!” She hissed at him only to see his smirk grow. He curled his fingers and ascended his mouth to her clit again.

“Beg,” he mumbled against her and let the vibrations run through her.

“Michael,” she warned and pulled his hair again with stinging force. It only made his eyes flutter at the pain. “You owe me this!”

Michael withdrew from her and an actual whine fell from her brows knitted together in disapproval. She sat up at the edge, fingers brushing over Michael's chest, only to nib at the buttons of his shirt to open it up. While she unbuttoned him, Michael ran his fingers through her hair and gently caressed the side of her head with tenderness. As soon as she had unbuttoned the shirt Michaels hand wrapped around her throat, turning her face towards him.

The first kiss was soft and chased but the next was filled with fiery passion. Michael pulled her to him, followed her onto the bed and pressed himself against her core dragging out a swallowed moan. By the feel of her lips pressed against his and her hot core beckoning against his bugle, Michaels resolve melted away.

“You owe me,” she repeated with a faint voice, pressing herself up against him, wrapping her legs around his hips in an attempt to entrap him. Michael growled and buried his face in her neck, leaving bruising kisses and bitemarks spread across her skin made to last for days, reminders of him.

Michael caved and pushed his pants down to relieve the erection that had been straining against his pants. Oya’s eyes fluttered at the sight, her core clenching around the memory of him. It was strange how aroused she was, how her blood gushed through her veins with adrenalin as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff, the danger making her heart speed up. Her body knew he was dangerous and it absolutely thrived on it.

Without further thought Michael entered her, slow and deliberate, letting her feel every inch, feel the very fine stretch that made her eyes roll. Michael groaned into her neck as she lifted her hips from the bed allowing him to deepen the slow entry. The first thrust was swallowed and scattered with light kisses. The second thrust was harder and deeper. By the third thrust Michael had decided on a quick pace knowing that Oya wouldn’t last long by the way she mewled under him.

Her nails raked over the skin of his back, drawing angry red lines on pale fine skin. She sucked on his neck and lifted her hips to meet his, earning a string of moans and broken curses. The only thing that made Oya break her string of kisses was when he repeatedly hit that one spot that made stars fall from the sky and her toes curl. “Fuck! Baby!”

His breath was rigged, sweat pearling at his temples and curls bouncing around his flushed face. Like this, he was human, with a human flutter, with blood rushing beneath his skin, with breaths stuck in his throat. In this pleasure, he was just as human as she was.

Her climax came like a sudden wave, washing over her with an electric touch that painted her eyelids white. She clenched around him bringing him with her into ecstasy, a bliss pure and simple.

Michael fell against her chest with a long dragged out moan, wrapping his arms around her waist. Oya couldn’t help but curl her fingers through his hair, feeling the strands stick to her skin. Like that they lay, breaths being drawn in while they calmed their hearts and let the temperature fall. For the first time that day her mind was completely quiet, not a single worry left after the tidal wave of pleasure. For a moment all worries were forgotten.

“Michael,” she spoke with a gentle voice, hesitant as to how to continue. “I…” Her voice died out, unable to finish the sentence because of how colossal the admittance was. It would sollify it -make it reality. And that is what frightened her because it was also something very small and fragile.

“I know,” Michael answered with just as gentle voice, listening to her heartbeat. It didn’t surprise her, to him she was an open book. Sometimes he knew her better than herself.

[ausp-ice]

Snakes That Bind, Part Three

I have neglected to post oops But here is part three of four! It is a long one.

Words: 1822 Part One | Two

Wraith/Wren: Me  Waylyn: @unluckiest-black-cat​

Waylyn opened his eyes. Breathed. Blinked.

He felt...

He felt powerful, brimming with energy. A coldness seeping into his blood, his bones, sapping not his strength, but his weakness.

He sat up, inadvertently using his his right arm, which twinged with phantom pain but felt more like an iciness sunken deep where his flesh one used to be.

He lifted it to inspect it. It was a smooth black, with a stripe as black as void twisting around his forearm before it disappeared into his bloodied sleeve. A crest of something like horns sprang from the back of his wrist.

He ran his flesh hand across his new one. He could feel sensations from it just as if it were his own arm.

A shift, and a line appeared on the side of his hand, before it widened, revealing the glowing yellow eyes that were now so familiar to him.

“Kese...?”

Y̸͈͖͙͙͎̼̎ę̵͇̯͇͉̥̭̄ṣ̸̡̩̗͇̭̬̏͒̏̐͋.̵̢̒̂̚

Its voice was all staticky again.

Waylyn looked around, eyeing the skeletal remains nearby. It sparked the ugly feeling that plagued him every time he saw them.

He started laughing. First an unsuppressed giggle, soon an unbearable cackling clawing at his lungs.

Once he calmed down and the grin fell from his face, he looked down at his new hand.

“You’re all I can trust.”

—

“Mmm... hmm...” Waylyn was sitting in the dying light of his campfire, humming a random little tune to himself.

Well, not just to himself. To Kese, as well. To Them. These days, They never attacked him. They just lingered around him, flitting at the corners of his vision, whispering to him.

Kese talked. Some days, Waylyn could understand. Other days, everything was just a mess of static in his mind.

Today, Everyone was almost silent. The whispers seemed less communicating to him and more murmuring amongst Themselves.

Waylyn looked up at the dying light of the sky, seeing the pale moon rise. It looks like it might be a full moon tonight. Has it only been a month?

He suddenly felt tired. Hungry. He just wanted some peace, some rest, some reprieve. But wasn’t he happier like this? Well, he was still tired.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed as he watched the fire at last burn out, leaving the moon his only source of light. But slowly, a clicking sound grew in volume, echoing in his mind. As if someone was approaching.

A black flame sprouted before him, growing into a tower of darkness. From within it, a form emerged. He first saw the heels, tapping against the solid shadow spread across the ground. His gaze rose, and he saw the billowing coat of darkness, the glint of claws in the moonlight. A trail of black flame lined with white, twisting around, leading to a crown of insubstantial hair framing a face cast in shadow.

Their eyes opened, revealing an eerie yellow. The same yellow as Kese’s eyes. (The same yellow his eyes were turning, when he saw his reflection in a pond.)

A grin split their face, an array of sharpened, white teeth. “Waylyn. How good it is to see you.”

As the portal disappeared behind them, the light of the moon exposed their face, and Waylyn’s eyes widened in shock.

“Wren? We all thought... We all thought you were gone for good.”

Their grin simply grew wider. “In some manner, that is the case. Call me Wraith.”

Waylyn’s gaze shuttered. “Where did you go? What did you do?” You left me with everyone that betrayed me, he didn’t say.

Wraith turned their gaze to the shadows. “I found a way to fulfill my wishes. And to fulfill those of others. But there was a... transition period. And there are rules to follow.”

Once again, Wraith turned their gaze to Waylyn. “But now, They are mine. The Throne,” they paused for effect, “is mine. They are your friends, yes? As is Kese here.” They gestured toward Waylyn’s arm.

Waylyn glared at them suspiciously. “You know Kese?”

Wraith cackled. “Kese was my closest friend for years. We, too, can be—if you so desire. You and I knew each other quite well, once. Now then, Waylyn.” Wraith walked closer and bent down, offering a hand. “Come with me. A night of food and rest is yours for the taking.”

He peered suspiciously at the clawed hand. “What’s the catch?”

The smile carved itself back on Wraith’s face. “Company, nothing more. You’ve suffered much, haven’t you? This is your reward.” They locked eyes with Waylyn.

“Trust me.”

Waylyn reached out his hand.

—

It was the best he’d eaten since... since Before, probably. Waylyn sat next to Wraith, who sat at the head of the table.

He started digging in as soon as the food materialized before him. Wraith laughed a little helplessly.

Once Waylyn had satiated himself to some extent, he noticed Wraith wasn’t eating. “Aren’t you eating anything?” He said around a mouth full of the juiciest meat he’s ever eaten.

Wraith shook their head, still smiling. “No, no, I am sustained by Their power, nothing more. This isn’t even my real body, though it is a construct that holds my consciousness.” Their gaze grew distant. “My real body is... elsewhere.”

They blinked a bit. “Ah, nevermind that. Now let’s see...” Reaching out, their hand hovered near Waylyn’s arm. Waylyn paused eating, confused.

The stripe of pure darkness shifted on his arm, uncoiling and reshaping to form a familiar shape that then wound around Wraith’s arm, though the tail was still attached to Waylyn.

“It is good to see you again, my friend. Be good to Waylyn, will you?” Kese flicked out its tongue, retreating back to Waylyn in mere moments. At Waylyn’s look, Wraith gave a carefree shrug. “I wanted to say hello.”

“I... didn’t know Kese could do that.”

“Ah, that was with my power. Usually, this would not be possible.”

“Oh.”

They continued to converse about random topics, until they arrived at the one that made Waylyn’s blood boil.

“I just... I can’t believe they would betray me like that! I thought they would understand. I thought that they understood me.”

Wraith gave a light pat on Waylyn’s shoulder. “They simply cared more for their own wellbeing than your happiness with Kese. There will always be people who do not understand.”

“Gh...” Waylyn clenched his teeth. “I can’t help but feel like things would have been better if you were there.”

“Oh?”

“You did always listen to what I had to say, even when I could see that displeased look on your face.”

“Perhaps. I’m certain things would have different, at least, if Wren was there.” Wraith sat back in their seat. “But I am here now. And I will listen to what you say.”

A choked laugh escaped from Waylyn. “Better late than never, I guess.”

Eventually, the soporific effect of being well-fed began to weigh on his eyes.

“Ah, I suppose that’s enough talk. Come now, Waylyn. I’ll take you to where you can rest.”

He had a vague sensation of being half-carried to a room, where he was lowered to the softest bedsheets he’d ever felt in his life. He was enveloped in warmth, slipping into oblivion.

“Rest well, Waylyn. We’ll see each other again.”

—

When Waylyn opened his eyes again, he was back at his camp.

He sat up, looking around. “Was that a dream...?”

He inspected himself, and to his surprise, his clothes were cleaned and mended. He felt... He hardly felt hungry at all—compared to the ceaseless gnawing he had since coming here—and he hasn’t felt this energized in ages.

“I guess... it wasn’t a dream, Kese?”

Ņ̸̳̲̟̖̗͎̼͗̏͆̍̄̀̈́̄o̶̧̧̲̭̻̦͈͌̋̀̽̿̕ͅ

Waylyn stretched and got up.

—

The next time Wraith came to visit, Waylyn was curled up on his side, nursing his DragonFly-inflicted burns. The gems were worth it, though. Stolen from right under her nose!

She wasn’t happy when she spotted him as he was leaving, though. The burns spoke for themselves. Kese wasn’t very happy, either.

“Tsk, tsk, you don't seem to be doing so well tonight.”

Waylyn cracked open an eye, shooting a glare at the current lord of shadows. “You think?”

“My apologies I did not visit sooner. There are certain requirements.” Wraith came closer, bending over him.

“Ah, that does not look good.” They waved a hand over him, shadows rippling, and the pain faded to a dull ache.

“I can heal you. Come with me.” A hand, held out.

“Yeah, fine.” He took it, and shadows enveloped him both.

—

When he opened his eyes, he was seated at the table again. His body was completely healed, clothes without a single tear or stain.

“Welcome back to the world of the living. Actually... perhaps that is,” Wraith coughs, “not quite accurate. But welcome back to my palace!”

Waylyn raised an eyebrow. “How did you do that all so fast?”

They waved a hand. “Oh, it was only a few minutes. A little infusion of shadow magic. It helps that you're so compatible with the darkness.” Sharp teeth flash in a grin.

Compatible, huh.

Kese’s whispers echoed in his mind.

Once again, Waylyn ate and conversed with Wraith. And when sleepiness once again weighed upon his eyes, they led him to his bedroom to sleep.

—

Wraith started visiting more often.

“The closer you are to the shadows, the easier it is for me to come.”

They exchanged words, stole a few platonic touches. Pats, a hand on a shoulder. Reminiscent of an age ago, without the taint of shadows.

Wraith would carry him to bed sometimes, when he was feeling particularly tired.

“How the heck... can you carry me so easily?” Face muffled against a coat smooth as shadow.

A laugh vibrating through him. “Construct, remember? I can do what I want.”

Waylyn pulling clawed hands to him, inspecting them, running his fingers across the tips. The same hands that helped him an age ago, or not?

Wraith running their hand across Kese, pulled from Waylyn’s arm.

Wraith sticking a hand in his hair, their marvel at its voluminous softness unchanged from when their eyes and hands were softer.

S̴͉̐ẖ̷̒a̶͓̓d̸̯͝õ̵͔w̵̠̾s̵̞̿,̶͓́ ̴̣̊s̵̡͊t̵̨͋ă̸̙i̴͓̽n̵̦͘ḯ̴̜n̴̼͐g̵͈͗ ̶̯̃h̵̟́i̵͙̽s̵͇̕ ̶̠̄ś̵̺ò̷̗u̷̙͛l̴̡͗.̴̩̆ ̶̹̏S̷̮̈́h̴̗̓a̷̺̒d̸̢͝o̸͚̚w̵̗͘s̴̤̓ ̸͈͌ţ̷͘h̶̞͊a̴̜͐ṭ̶̅ ̵̠̓h̴̰̿à̵̙v̴͔̕ë̶̯́ ̶̻̿s̶̅͜t̷̨͗á̶̭i̷͈͂n̵͉̕e̵̖̔d̸͓͌ ̶̲̂Ẃ̷̗ř̶̜e̸̱͒n̵̩͊’̵̡̎s̴̩̓ ̸͇̄s̴̡̀o̸̦͌u̷̦̍l̷̦̐.̴̛͈ ̸̱̕I̴͓̚t̷̡́'̶͉̂s̸̤̓ ̸̖͆w̸͖͐h̴̥̃ȃ̶̹t̶̨̑ ̸͌ͅỷ̷͓o̸͈͐u̶̙͒ ̶̞͂ẃ̷̗a̷̙͘ń̶̮t̵̬̏è̷̜d̷̞͘,̶̯̉ ̴̟͋i̴̹̐s̷̤͋ń̷̪'̴͓͋ẗ̵̢́ ̴̻͊i̸͌ͅt̸̩̎?̷̧̋ ̵̳̌T̵̩̑h̶̲̑ǐ̸͍š̸͇ ̷̼̍i̸̘͋s̵̖͗ ̷̼́a̴̙̐ ̶̟̇s̷̜͐ḿ̸̱a̵͔̒ḽ̴̈l̸͈̊ ̸̘͘p̶̼̀r̵͔͑ì̸͎c̷̝͛ë̸̢́ ̵̭͂t̵͙̍o̷̯̚ ̸̻̑p̷̠̔ã̸̤y̵̅ͅ ̸̨̕f̶̰͛ȯ̸͓r̵̮̎ ̸̘̓ȳ̸̖ơ̴̳u̴̽ͅr̵̩͗ ̷͕́w̷͍̓i̶̠̊s̵̪͐h̸͇́ḛ̴̌s̴̢͛.̸̹̋

Smiles less sharp. Shadowed eyes more open. Wraith would stay with him, sometimes, as he fell asleep, and sometimes when he woke up in the morning on the Surface. Before vanishing in flames of shadow.

They were...

They were almost...

Happy?

H̶̙̅a̴̧͗h̶͔́a̸͈͂h̵̿͜a̸̭͂h̶̛̤â̵̫h̸͉͐ạ̷̿.̶͕͝ ̸̹̈́T̷̪͊h̶̤̅e̴͕̕ ̴͍̈́s̵̩͝ḧ̷̗a̶͇̓d̴̒͜o̶͓͋w̵̝̒s̸̫̋ ̴̜́w̸̻̉ị̷͗l̴̜̍l̶͚̈ ̸̼͘b̶̼̔i̸̓͜n̴̰̅d̷̨̄ ̴͈̾y̵̩̓ö̴̧́u̸͚͋ ̵̘̚e̸̬̐v̵̨́e̶͚̿r̵͔̾ ̵̱̏c̷̥̽l̶͍̋ò̷͉s̴͇̀e̴͍̍r̷͛ͅ.̴̰̇ ̴̙͆̈́Ì̷͇̮̩͛t̸̒ͅ'̷͍͓̆̀̇s̴̡̱̥̙͌͆ ̵̢̧̲̉͝w̶̛͖̟̗̥͒̌̔h̵̪̫̀̂̄a̶͙͋͒͆ṫ̴̙͕͐ ̸͎̓͒́y̴̼͕̝̏̋o̴̡̩͙̝͑̀ü̷͖̭̆̒ ̷̢̎̉̂̄w̵͉̦̓̀̈́ạ̵̭̫͙͝n̸͖̍͠t̷̢͙͕̓̓̊͘.̵̝̓͂̕ ̷͓̯͈̦̀W̵͉͍̭̾h̶̯͊ą̵̬͕͈̈̃̎t̸̗͕̗̥̋ ̷̞̮͈̙̋y̵̖̟̓͐̾͜o̴̝̫̊͠͝ú̶̱̰͊͝ ̴̨̙̝̲͘b̷͕̍̀̇͠ȯ̷̲̏͂̕͜t̸̫̙͌̓̔h̷̨̳̞̽̓͘ ̵̩̋̿́̉ẅ̶̡̧̻́ȃ̵̖̩͇̃͌͝ņ̵̍͝t̶͚̞͛.̶̧̥̜̦̃͊͝ ̴̝͇̭͑͐̚J̶̡͙͇̤̘̼͔̈͂͒̓u̶̪̟͓̳͇̍͐͒̎͌s̴̭̭͚̼̃̍̒͘ͅẗ̸̩͉̳̩̖͖̉̂ ̷̨̘̖̹̬͉͕͓̉ò̸̺̳̑ņ̷̬̪̙̪̥̜̣̅͑̆́̚͝ę̷̮͕͉̦͇͗́̎̌͗ ̴͇̍̑͐̆̀͗f̸͓̱̮̄ͅi̵̩̬͉͕̪͎̬͓͐̔͗̕n̵̡̢̖͚͍͍̞̠̊̆̀̄ǎ̶͖̖̠̻̮͉̫͆͐͜͠l̵̡̢̲̖̓͛̃̓̃̓̕ ̸̛͍̭̭̰͈̆̆̍̆̈́̾̍͜p̷̛̗̪̩̯̣̙͕̔̀̇̊̈́̈͜ụ̴̢̻̒̎s̶̢̼̖̬̤̝̯͗̒̕͜h̸̼̣̼̣̺̺̿̀̓̿͛̇͘͜͝.̴̧̬̥̠̥̞̥̽́͗͋̎͘

Ǫ̸̛̛̻̫̬͙̘̱͇͈͇̳̱͙͍̈̀͑̐̓̽͆̚͝͝n̵̬̳͑̃̐́͋̈́͆̐͋͑͛̈́́̚͝ͅȩ̶̨̢̠̩̮͙̝̤̭̈͗̌͆͆̔̇͠ ̵̛̞͍̋̀̒̈́̑́͊͋̽̽̕͠͝f̶̖͙̼̥̱̓̀͂͑̽̓̿̐͝͝i̴̢̨̢̠̜͓̲̞͈͔̜̣͙̰̥͛̄̄̈͛͆͂̈̽̄̓̕ņ̵̧̫̝͉̰͔̯̞̳͍̭̭̠̓́̑͐̿̂̃̓͂̑͜͝a̵̢̛̛̳̺̪͔̖͇̖̠͌̂̈̇́̊̉̄̊̓͝l̵̦͓̳̯̼͆̽͌̽̐͌̀̈́͝͝ ̵̳̼̒̍̀̀͌̋̎̔͑͘͜p̸͔̗͉͉̮̩̗͛̀͒̅͊͐́̕̕ư̶̢͕͕͚͂͛̕ͅs̵͕̲̥͝h̴̨̯͕̪͚̩̖̹̝̮̜̟̠͖̃̇͒̅̚͝ͅ,̴̧̨͎͈͈̞̼̮͑̌̇͐͜ ̸̗̙͈̹̳̮̝̣̦̣̩̣̂̃̃̔͝ă̷̡̛̩̻̙̱͍̓̓̀̽́̕͠n̶̛͔͈̘͕̻͕̼̯̘̹̰͙͒̆́̓́̽͝ḑ̸̨͎̘̼̩̣̫̰̝̜̳̼̒͊͆͐̊̓̅͛̑͐̈́ ̷͈̻̲̬̯͛̔y̶͚͆̾o̶̡̠̫͖̝͓̣͔͕̙̦͉̹̻̊̊͊͆͗̋̈́̂̾̈́̐́̂u̵̢̠̠̫͔͖͗͑̒͐̀̃̉̍̿̕ͅ ̸̧̜̝̟̟̣̣͗̎̍̃́͘͝w̷̢̨̖̼̰͖̍͜i̵̛̪̪͈͖̗͔̒́͂̽̌̏͑̇̓̑̀͘̕͝ͅl̴͍͓͉͉̠͎̱̾̔̐̎͐̇̾̓͛̒̀́̕l̶͚͔̺̯͕̥̈́̏͜͝ ̸̭̣̋b̴̢̨͎̣̥̬̗̯̤̮̰̂̇͐̀͂̈̄͗̊͋̓͘e̴͐͗̆͌̔͂́̅̂̋̽̅̎͌ͅ ̶̛̮̟̞̾͆̀̋̿̍ͅb̴͇̯͕̟̱̣̪͑̋̇͛͂̿͘͝ͅơ̴̖͙̘̥͙̘̮̜͖̮͇̳̟͍̤͊͑̎̀́̈́u̴̻̠̯͖̠̰̼͈̖̇͋̎̇͊̈̓̆̄̽̔͘͜͝n̵̨̡̜̳͎͈͇̝̲͍̾͌͋́͛́͘ď̴̢͔͎͉̾̎̍̉̀̈̾̾̀̕͠,̶̟͇͓͉̠̯̯̳̼͖̉̓́́̑̑͋̂̍ ̶̟̯͉͈̃͂́̐Ś̸̜̟̱̀̔͌h̴̢͌̃́͗͌̐̇̂̌̍̂̀͒͐͌à̸̛̹̠̣͑͑̈́̎̈̆̚̕d̷͚̳̳͈̥͍̬̃͜͜o̴̻̮̳͋̇̚͜ẁ̵̨̢̼̝̹͍͕̞̫̾̄̎̑̒̈́́̆̆͝ͅ ̵̢̧̰̝̦͚̗͋̑̎͑̍̉̓͆a̴̮̰̲̩͍̅̇̏͒́̉n̵̢̛̙̞̰̩̰͙͂̆͒̾͋͘d̶̡̦̟̼̈̇̀͂̽̓͗͘͠ ̴̡̡̡͕̣̭̥̠̭͍̠̬͌̂̐͊͌̃͑N̷̨̡̛͙̫̙̜̲̲̔̏̏̔̓͌̒̌̈͗͆͘͜͝ỉ̴̗̞̭͔͚̝͓͓̤͖͖ͅǵ̸̢̧̢͓͔̦̤͚͉̥͍͑̆̍́́͛̑̀̐͂͆̚͘͜͝h̴̠̯͎̱̗̍̓͝t̴̛̟̱̫̼͉̰͖̦̮̲͎̳̍̈̾̓̄̄͌͑̌̒̎͂͘ͅ.̵̥͚̳̯̩̘̻̪͔̲̖͇͕̦̈́́͌̓͒͐͂̚̕͠ ̶̤̰̰̤̐͗̉̉̉̈́̀̔͊̌͌̽̃͠

J̷u̸s̸t̶ ̷a̵ ̵l̶i̵t̶t̴l̵e̸,̴ ̵l̵i̸t̵t̷l̵e̴ ̸f̸u̸r̵t̴h̶e̷r̴.̴

The shadows sunk deep into his soul.

[trinity-blood-translations]

Radio Head - Chapter IV. (Trinity Blood RAM 5)

Radio Head - Prologue Radio Head - Chapter I Radio Head - Chapter II Radio Head - Chapter III Radio Head - Chapter IV Radio Head - Epilogue

    *   *   *

Chapter IV

Page 228

At first sight it looked like a steel spider crawling up clumsy from the gaping wide hole on the floor. However it was impossible that such a being in nature would exist. The colossus which revealed himself on the deck with a giant body close to 4 meters in diameter, shedding a dim light from the steel body and with a weird rotating gatling gun tower ---- was XAM. Additionally from the head of the spider were rotating cameras to see. An external speaker occasionally spat scratching noises mixed with a voice.

  〈CAN……CAN NOT die……〉

It sounded as if a dead person were sobbing while crouching at the entrance of the netherworld. At the beginning it was so  quiet, that it was hard to understand. Lament with interruptions, but it tended to become gradually stronger till it reached a level of a shrill scream.

   〈CAN NOT die, CAN NOT die, CAN NOT die, CAN NOT die, CAN NOT die, CAN NOT die, CAN NOT die, CAN NOT dieeeeeeeee!!!〉

     “Huhh?!”

The screech of the woman and the scream of the sergeant overlapped each other. Giving a roar similar to the operating noise of the machine saw the gatling gun threw gunfire. The 12,75 millimeter machine gun bullet is enough to transform an armored vehicle easely into a honeycomb. As the detonation blast sounded on the surface of the deck, the above mentioned giant sergeant who was about to lift the muzzle, and the soldiers were turned in an instant into a bloodstained lump of meat. The salty sea breeze was mixed with terrible blood smell.

Page 229

      “G…..gyaaaaaaa!!!”

The next scream came from all the passengers who stood a bit away from the place of the tragedy and saw everything with their own eyes. The iron monster that suddenly appeared and the death he has scattered seemingly made the people lose their mind. Although the soldiers tried to control the situation with warnings, but even so, everybody tried to escape by running as if they didn’t hear---- but nevertheless, the multi-legged tank turret rotated faster. Deep holes drilled into the deck, one by one, and severed the escaping people right in the middle like a devilish sword. Moreover the gunfire stretched out upwards without a pause and skewered the airship that noticed the incident and was trying to change the course straight from the front.

      “Th…this voice is Francoise?! Idiot, she is…..”

The airship with the smashed gasbag turned into a gigantic fireball accompanied by a load explosion. Claude muttered dumbfounded while he was watching the explosion lights and the blaster above his head. The soldier just like he were watching a daydream wandered his gaze around, but suddenly came to his senses and raised his gaze, besides he drew closer to Puppeteer who was holding his chin with a self-satisfied look.

        “Ex…explain it, you bastard! What on earth is that?!”

       “Hmm, there is a theory of mine…”

Page 230

The young man answered in a serious and disappointed tone while on his beautiful face appeared sorrow indeed, but in fact he was desperately trying to resist to the urge not to roll around on the floor laughing. He pointed his sharp chin toward the iron spider, which was going berserk among the passengers and the soldiers who were running for their life, and took its victims en masse with its fireline and gigantic body, one after another.

         “The brain of your beloved suffered by the accident an irreparable damage, isn’t that so? At the time Dr. Dupree made his wife resurrect, I guess, he gave up to restore the brain in its original state. And finally, instead, he was searching for an exterior replacement……at any rate, at that time this thing was obviously just around the corner with its high-powered electric intelligence, the computer that could be used for that purpose.”           “The control system of XAM! Really? That’s why Lois was walking around the whole time with this monster. Because Francoise was in there…”

        “Something like that. However, to be exact, most likely it’s only a part of her soul copied into the machine, because only the memory field was substituted.”

The evil speech of the young man did not seem to have reached the ears of Claude. No, even if he heard it, he probably would have ignored it. He dropped his gun and sauntered off empty handed on the shaken deck. The iron monster screaming with the voice of a woman was there still producing blood, flesh and death en masse. The man walked in front of the monster without a sign of fear.

           “Francoise…….are you suffering, aren’t you……?”

The voice of Claude was soft and sounded for an insensate military person quite strange. Putting up both hands frankly as if he was about to hug his love he kept walking toward the multi-legged tank.

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 Page 232

         “Francoise, poor……”

      〈CAN NOT die,…… CAN NOT die〉

The front camera similar to the head of a spider turned toward the approaching man. Accompanied by inorganic machine sounds the foot actuator began to operate and the colossus turned to Claude. But the man showed no sign of fear at all while he was standing in front of the approaching woman, tearfully in front of his former lover, whom he had stolen her life. He gently whispered with a solemn expression on his face as he looked up to the multi-legged tank which was moving his legs ominously smooth toward him. At this moment----- The foot of XAM stopped. Literally, the forefoot hung up in the air.

If the he would have stopped about 2 minutes later the body of Claude would have been squashed with the weight of more than 10 tons. The gigantic foot with the metal tube and the actuator implemented in it, touched even his hair but stopped in the air.

Was it because a god felt pity about the unfortunate soul or maybe an angel was emotionally touched by the love which had overcome even the fear, that it caused a miracle to happen ---- but it was such a beautiful sight completely reminiscent of a religious painting.

Page 233

In this sacred tranquility Claude reached out his hand to touch the tank and whispered to his beloved.

        “No matter what shape you have become, you are still you..... I love you. Let us go together. Somewhere at a quite place, just the two of us, let us stay together, Francoise……”

The love of the man was sincere without and if nobody interrupts this confession may last until eternity ---- if that steel foot overhead wouldn’t simply crush down onto him and smash his brain.

         “…….oops, that’s what I call instant death”

From the man whose head was easily trampled only his body was twitching on the foot of the multi-legged tank. On the other hand the tank gained again mobility. It didn't care about the man who just became a lump of meat. It lifted its leg and pulled up blood and cerebral fluid like a thread and returned to battle mode again.

       “Oh, what a heartbreaking scene…. however it was the doctor who gave her this shape but the original cause were you, Lieutenant. Being told by such guys, 'I love you!', usually makes one just angry.”

     〈kill,....me kill....kill, kiLL, kILL, KILL, KILL〉

While Puppeteer was immersed in deep emotion the multi-legged tank continued its death march. Over the armed group that have lost their will to fight and the surviving frightened passenger swirled the sword of massacre once again.

       “Oh my, ……..is it totally out of control?”

Puppeteer lamented in front of the tank, which trampled the people trying to escape or continued to mow them down with the machine-gun fire.

Page 234

But meanwhile he moved his fingers, reminiscent of a pianist, with fine movements in order to implant his “threads” into the corpses lying around. No matter how many people died, he wouldn’t care but if the ship sinks he will be in a big trouble. It’s really cold. And he really didn’t want to swim in the middle of winter.

        “I’m not supposed to have such a fight scene[1] as my hobby, ……..besides, this sort of trouble should be dealt with by “Magician”.

The young man grumbled while the “puppets” began to move.

Just a few minutes ago those lumps of meat lived, laughed, were talking about love. Now the heads were blown off by bullets, the internal organs were entirely squashed by the steel foot. But still, the muscles which were about to torn and the bones which were about to break have began to obey according to the pseudo-signal transmitted by the “threads”

and they started to deal with the requested tasks -------- the dead silently standing in the way of the multi-legged tank began to bury their claws into the monster. They used their already torn muscles to crawl up on the frame of the machine.

Of course the self-defense program of XAM bombed the opponents getting closer with a storm of bullets but as you know the dead have no fear. With half of the bodies blown off, though the strange insect-like crowd was still stuck to the frame and were trying to hook their fingernails into the tiny crevices of the armoring an tear it off. It seemed that the iron beast would be helplessly a prey of the crowd of the dead…..

      “Wow!”

Suddenly Puppeteer who was looking bored by the sight of the awful scene turned his eyes away,

Page 235

because a flickering light exploded around the XAM. The field of vision which had dyed pure white for a moment, normalized again after a few seconds. In his sight which began to regain colors again emerged shadows of the “puppets” clinging on the multi-legged tank and now they began to fall down one by one. All of them carbonized beyond all recognition.

         „Wow! That’s amazing! Was it an electromagnetic net? It was just killing more birds with one stone!”

The young man frowned by the stench of burned flesh rubbed his still unclear eyes. However as he saw that the multi-legged tank which burnt his “puppets” to ashes turned toward another direction, he couldn’t help but ducked.

           “Oops, no time to admire. Well then, should I do…?”

For implanting his “threads” into the corpses in the surroundings and make a shield of them wasn’t enough time left. Moreover all the corpses have suffered heavy damages so that they aren’t suitable for manipulation. Nevertheless he still tried hard to launch his “threads” some of the bodies, but…..

        „O-oh….don’t say it’s too late?”

The “puppets” just stood up with many trouble were trampled down easily again and the iron monster rushed over to “Puppeteer’s” direction ------- at this moment he showed an unusual serious expression.

      MPH-ARSL-GAIOL[2]、By the name and the sign of the mighty and petty Nothingness, I summon the seal of the sacrificial blood.....

This voice sounded like it wouldn’t come from here but from another world. Maybe as if it was coming from across the distance of the stars or from the deep bottom of the sea.

Page 236

Tell me, you angel, even if you has fallen. By the water of life of the innocent, I will set the seal of the contract on this pontoon. Therefore the nameless one who has many names – according to old oath – brings the extermination of our enemy ---- seal of Baphomet, come!

At this moment the huge body of XAM fleshed with red lights.

No, it wasn’t that. At the feet of the multi-legged tank which was closing in on “Puppeteer” appeared suddenly a dazzling light. The source of that glow was a strange circle which unnoticed pierced the deck. It was painted with the fresh blood of the dead who have just died in devastating death. It was as if a crimson snake wriggled drawing a complicated and mysterious magic circle ---- just like as it were a trap to catch the prey.

       〈”Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”〉

A dull scream from came from the speaker of XAM. Despite the fact that no blood was flowing in the steel body, it sounded like there were blood blister mixed in the scream.

However a further abnormal phenomenon appeared on the car body: as the magic circle emerged from the floor as if it were the deep-seated grudge of the dead and covered the body of the multi-legged tank from the feets ---- Wait, no! If you look closely, where the body of the multi-legged tank touched the deck, it looked like as if red rust would gradually devour it quickly from the soles on. Although it’s unthinkable that ordinary steel rusts that rapid like this. Not to mention for such an armour-plate made of special steel is absolutely impossible. But actually, in a matter of seconds was the huge body of XAM completely painted with the color of blood.

Page 237

As the distinctive stench of iron rust occasionally tickled the nose of “Puppeteer”, the giant completely eaten up by the red rust crushed down to the ground with a thunderous noise.

    〈”Ah, ah, die, I …..!”〉

The speaker partially buried by rust vomited the cracked noise with interruptions.

   〈”Yes…. I can die with this…..with this…..With….Th….”〉

Perhaps it was just a mere coincidence that at the same time as the voice that used up all his strength stopped  like a large animal breathes his last ---- the neck of the external camera broke off. However “Puppeteer” looked at this scene with eyes as he would see something very disgusting, he gave a deep sigh of relief in his heart.

          “This method gives evidence of bad taste….was that you, “Magician”?”

       〈” …..you always say that I have bad taste, don’t you?”〉

The sarcastic laugh resounded from under the feet’s of the young man.

As the reddish brown eyes looked down, his shadow strangely began to bent and then emerged like a thread of dripping darkness while as if somebody would pull it up.

         “My “Seal of Baphomet” is an electrolytic corrosion ---- this is surely an extremely sophisticated “magic” using the potential difference between dissimilar metals and discharge of ions. Calling it as bad taste or something like this….besides that, by all means it saved your life. Apart from what you really think, how about to show a little gratitude at least on the surface, “Puppeteer”?

Page 238

         “If you intend to make someone feel grateful take a bit better timing into consideration.”

The young man tried a meager protest against the completely black dressed gentleman who just literally gushed out from the darkness. He pointed at the bloodstain on his coat and pressed accusingly his lips together.

         “You know, this coat was pretty much my favorite one….so if you can use your magic trick to get rid of the stain, I will thank you with all my heart.”

          “Please don’t force me to something irrational like this. It bears repeating: my “Shadow”…… the wormhole isn’t available indefinitely. In the first place the wormhole is a micro-Black Hole of ultra small size. In the second place the world of quantum physics is dominated by far more troublesome principals than the macro-world…..”

          “Oh, how nice of you to say that![3] You saw me being bullied[4] and you were engrossed in your typical immoral pleasure, weren’t you? I sense a faint perversion and scent of conspiracy in your current timing.”

Puppeteer looked at his colleague who was keen at trying to justify himself and made a roguish sound with his throat. Then his gaze randomly shifted to the rusty iron lump lying on the ground.

        “Still, she was happy at the end to die, isn't that right?....Well, with this, I wonder if this story has a Happy Ending?”

       “Honestly, it sounds like you're dissatisfied that the story ended happily, isn’t that so Puppeteer”?”

There was nothing but everywhere miserable corpses of people who had enjoyed their lives without worrying until a few minutes ago:

Page 239

bodies turned into mincemeat by the bullets, burnt internal organs, besides, by the influence of the “fibers” still struggling severed arms and legs ------ The black haired gentleman pulled out somewhere a cigarillo while walking towards XAM trying not to step on the human remains scattered in the bloody mud. While he relaxed lit a fire, declared whit a deep voice:

       『Da der Tod (genau zu nehmen) der wahre Endzweck unseres Lebens ist”』[5] ----Mozart. Well, although many things happened, with this she got a rest, and even if we are bored, we will have from now on a calm journey. We all got what we were looking for. Isn’t that great? That’s right, if you like we could return to the lounge and get a drink to celebrate……..Huch ?

The sight of the “Magician” who was exhaling deep purple smoke fell unexpectedly at his feet. The eyes resembling of those of a dead fish were observing the crimson rotten scrapheap. A little while later he turned back to his travelling companion at ease.

      “Oh, this is bad, “Puppeteer”………it seems like I have to take back what I said before.”

      “He, what’s wrong?”

      “Mmh, our wish for a calm journey is seemingly fallen through. It’s because of this…..”

    〈The body damage has exceeded 90%〉

In the machine voice which interrupted the mellow voice of the “Magician”, there was no change at all since it was running wild just a while ago. However, it was neither the dead bride nor that ghost or something like this.

Page 240

The camera which should have stopped to operate rotated weakly and the lens captured the black-haired gentleman stood there very disappointed and the young man with the pretty face who was approaching from behind.

       〈From now on in order to maintain the confidentiality of the prototype this machine will switch into self-destruction mode. Persons within a radius of one hundred meters please leave this machine as soon as possible and get into guard position. I repeat: this machine…..〉

         “…..Hey Isaak, what does this mean?”

        “Oh, it seems like the body has returned to sanity ---- presumably as the pseudo-ego in the operation system disappeared, I guess the normal program started to running.”

         “No, that’s not I wanted to ask…… can you stop it? If it explodes in such a place this won’t this ship possibly sink?”

          “I quite agree with you…..unfortunately, it seems it’s a bit too late.”

Raising one eyebrow expressively “Magician” slightly stepped aside in order to let his companion see the running counter from before on the digital display of the lower part the multi legged tank. Right after that all the numbers on the liquid crystal display changed to zero ---- an then there was a violent explosion.

                                          (End of Part IV)

[1]荒 事 - Kabuki genre with brave warriors and grim deities and demons

[2] In Enochian (occult language recorded by John Dee and Edward Kelley in 1582), Mph Arsl Gaiol is the Holy name of the element Water.

[3] そんなこと言って – used if somebody gets angry or mad

[4] I guess he means by it that he was in trouble.

[5] As death, when we come to consider it closely, is the true goal of our existence. - This sentence is in the original Japanese novel written in German with katakana.

[rhinozilla]

JnD Horror Week

Day 4: Manufactured Monster

Ashelin decides to see for herself the labs where the Dark Warrior Program took place. Every square inch of it is a nightmare, but the only monster that she finds is the one showing her around.

–

Places like this were supposed to be underground. They were supposed to be hidden away as a shameful thing, to at least grant the rest of them the illusion of ignorance at what was happening. In the privacy of the elevator, Ashelin clenched her jaw, grinding her molars as the lift took her to the laboratory level of the Haven City prison.

No, that wasn’t how her father had done things. Why hide away your horrific deeds in dungeons when you could house them in one of the largest, most imposing buildings within the walls…where everyone could look at that fortress of a prison and know how easily that it could be their fate if they didn’t keep in line.

The scientist who met her when the elevator doors opened had the backbone to look her in the eye…and the intelligence to at least pretend to be remorseful of his role here. He had the appearance of someone young who had aged quickly under the stress of his work. The unfinished tattoos peeking out from the collar of his lab coat told her that he had failed to complete training to be a Krimzon Guard, but by his closely cropped hair, stiff posture, and dead expression, he had gotten pretty close.

“Your High—“ he started to bow.

“No.” Ashelin lifted an abrupt hand. “Let me stop you right there. The only reason that you are not rotting in one of the lower cells is because you are the last of the slime who worked on the Dark Warrior Program. Just tell me what I need to know, and count every breath that you take as a personal mercy from me.”

The man’s automated smile faltered only a bit. “So, I give you the tour, and THEN I get imprisoned anyway? How very gracious of our new governor.”

Ashelin narrowed her eyes and kept her shoulders square. “Just get started.”

As he led her down the main hallway to the…ugh…research and development section of the lab, Ashelin tried to not let her imagination explain the stench of blood and bile that floated from the walls. The scientist was already speaking, but it was information that she already knew. The Dark Warrior Program had not been abandoned after Jak escaped the prison. Far from it, he had been such a “success” in her father’s eyes that his experiments had been accelerating in intensity right up until his regime was overthrown.

She was aware of at least eight other people who had been imprisoned and forced to endure the dark eco experiments. They had found the remains of five bodies as the first phase of demolition began, only half-cremated and hastily buried under the northern corner of the prison. They were easily identified as casualties of the Dark Warrior Program from the poisonous purple gas that emanated from the body cavities along with the contorted, mutated state of their corpses.

Failed experiments thrown out like garbage.

“—and anyone with any affinity for channeling eco has become so rare, but somebody who could channel ALL forms of eco? How could he not be the best candidate?”

Ashelin was glad that she had left her weapons at home, or this sick bastard would have already had multiple bullets blown through his body.

They took a left turn, and the floor started to angle downward. She paused enough for the man to look back, a disgustingly reminiscent look on his face.

“It was easier to roll the subjects on gurneys…once they couldn’t walk on their own anymore…or had died, of course.” He got halfway through a shrug before thinking better of the gesture.

“I should have waited another ten minutes before ordering the Guard not to shoot on sight,” Ashelin seethed. “Waited until they found you.”

“But then…what about your private tour of our grand facility?”

Forget weapons, she could snap his neck with her bare hands.

The yellow glow of the chamber ahead of them drew her attention away from his back.

This room wasn’t as large as the main prison room, where the injection mechanism and restraining chair was. She had seen that area already. This…This was what she had needed to see, what she was forcing herself to witness.

How could she lead Haven out of this dark period without a full knowledge of what that darkness was? She needed to see it, in all of its nightmarish truth, before she turned this whole building into a flaming crater.

The yellow glow, as it turned out, was coming from three glass columns against the far wall. Each one was four feet in diameter and at least ten feet tall. They were filled with amber liquid…and bodies. The missing three bodies of the last Dark Warrior Program’s victims had never really been missing at all. Instead, they were here, suspended in preservative fluid, not even allowed to rot in a grave with dignity.

Two of the three corpses were warped by dark eco like the other five recovered bodies. Horns extended from their hairlines. Half lidded eyes hung open, black all the way around. Thick purple veins created webs along their bare skin. Teeth extended into fangs that pushed past shredded lips. Fingernails jutted out of nail beds, onyx and curved so as to serve no other function than to destroy. Their flesh was stretched taut over emaciated pelvic bones and ribcages, contrasting the unnaturally developed muscles of their arms and legs. Precise, surgical lines traced their torsos where the autopsies had been performed and their flesh resealed.

The body in the third container had no outward mutations, but her chalk pale skin and the telltale black eyes gave away her condition. There were considerably more autopsy lines criss crossing this corpse, searching for the internal changes brought on by the dark eco.

The scientist caught Ashelin staring and clearly misinterpreted her expression.

“She was our most promising subject. She lasted longer than any of the others, dying just a few weeks before we got Jak. In a lot of ways, he has her to thank for his success. Each of our failures moved us closer to the solution. We learned from our mistakes, corrected them with every subsequent experiment. She…came the closest, that’s for sure…the strongest natural channeling gift that we had ever seen…before Jak.”

Ashelin’s skin crawled as she took in the vacant expression on the body. She had only witnessed Jak transform once, seen the toll that it took when the dark eco receded and he changed back to normal. For the briefest moment, those black eyes had been as vacant as this woman’s. Just an absolute nothingness when neither the monster nor the man had the reins. A blink later, those eyes had been blue, and the vacancy had filled with chronic horror as Jak had realized what he had done in that state.

She couldn’t take it. She looked away from the body behind the glass.

“Jak was a child.” It slipped out of her, and she cringed.

“Children are like sponges.” The scientist waved a dismissive hand. “We found that they were more resilient than adults…more…capable of adapting to the biochemical changes that the dark eco introduced to their genetic structure.”

“Adapting…” She let the word hang in the air.

The scientist hummed, looking at the woman behind the glass with something close to admiration. “Yes…By introducing the dark eco before the subjects reach maturity, we found that most of them were able to absorb it…growth spurts and hormones and all that…What better conduit for the chaos of dark eco?”

“You talk like there were other minors that you did this to.”

“There were others.” So casually admitted. “They burned up before we could advance to the final phase of the program.”

Ashelin shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose briefly. “After all this…this carnage…you all continued to push forward? To ruin more lives and kill more innocents?”

“Under your father’s orders.”

She bit her tongue and turned away. She wasn’t about to be sucked into the topic of her father’s morality, least of all with this cretin.

“We do have recordings of the treatments.”

Her head snapped around to stare at the scientist. “You WHAT?”

“The Baron insisted on having audio and visual recordings of every dark eco experiment on every subject that made it to the chair. Some of us took the liberty of making additional recordings of the subjects out of the chair, in their cells, purely for research purposes of course.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I could show you—“

“I want them destroyed.”

For the first time, the scientist looked knocked off kilter. “You…destroyed?”

“As of this moment, I am seizing custody of every tape, back up tape, and any and all other audio and visual records relating to the Dark Warrior Program,” she said curtly.

“You can’t! Years of painstaking research…We are within reach of harnessing the most powerful substance on the planet…Destroying all of our knowledge would not bring those people back from the dead; it would only make their deaths pointless.”

“Their deaths were already pointless.”

“I thought the purpose of this jaunt through our labs was for you to see everything that we did, to fully understand what happened here. I guess it’s easier when it’s all notes on paper…preserved bodies…blood stained cell blocks…But to see it happen in motion, that’s where your fortitude falters, Madam Governor?” He had moved over to a metal cabinet, opening the doors to reveal packed rows of tape recordings.

He plucked one seemingly at random, turning on his heel and stalking back over to her, stopping before the desk that stood between them.

“Or maybe you’d prefer a more personal viewing, to mourn the dignity of your hero in private.”

He tossed the tape on the desk, and she didn’t need to look at the numbered code written on its face to know that it was Jak’s file…or one of his files.

She snatched up the tape and immediately snapped it in half, breaking those halves into more halves until it was a mess of metal and plastic falling to the desk.

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed. “I expect to take ALL of these records with me when I leave here today. The Freedom League will come to collect the three bodies, to be given proper burials far away from this hellhole. The rest of the research conducted here will be confiscated and dealt with as I see fit. If I find out that you have withheld even the smallest piece of information on any of these people that you destroyed, then I will personally make sure that instead of a solitary prison cell, you find yourself in the middle of the Wasteland. I guarantee you will find more mercy from me than you will from the desert.”

The scientist looked furious, but his anger was impotent. Ashelin took what small satisfaction she could from his rumpled state. The feeling only lasted as long as it took for her to throw all of the recordings into three large hard plastic crates. The crates were equipped with hover tech, and they lifted a foot off the ground when she activated the circular nodes on the sides. That enabled her to maneuver them herself. She didn’t want the files out of her sight until she watched them turn to ash in a fire.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” the scientist finally spoke.

Ashelin bit back the urge to vomit, guiding the hovering crates toward the inclined hallway, going back the way she’d come. She didn’t acknowledge his statement.

“If it hadn’t been for the Dark Warrior Program, Haven City wouldn’t have had its great hero Jak and all his…gifts…to fight the Metalheads…the Dark Makers…the KG Bots…”

Ashelin reached the elevator, punching the button and impatiently waiting for the doors to open.

“If it hadn’t been for the Dark Warrior Program,” she snarled, “you and your fellow vermin would have only been arrested instead of—“

The elevator doors opened, and two large Freedom League guards greeted her. She jerked her head in the scientist’s direction.

“Take him.”

She maneuvered the crates into the lift as the guards apprehended the scientist, who looked confused at her thinly veiled threat.

“Take him…where, ma’am?”

Ashelin knew exactly where she wanted that beast to go, but she used all of her remaining restraint to carve out a more appropriate response.

“Out of my sight.”

[dlkardenal]

After the Gods - Chapter 1.

1.

A relic from the past

Asgeir heard the first thud well before the fog crept in, yet he chose to disregard it. He thought it superstition, one of the many shadows plagueing every soul since the serpent’s rise. There was no reason for him to abandon this field so ripe with the remains of a bloody battle. Shattered spears, torn shields and dented blades lay everywhere Asgeir could see, some of which could still fetch him a day’s rations in the Nook. He couldn’t understand why people clung to these rusted mementos, but they did. They sought some salvation from the blunt axes and bent bows, a spark of hope hiding withing these weapons. A chance to fight the terrors that befell humanity.

The next thud was louder and more clear, and when Asgeir raised his head, the blood froze in his veins. The horrid figure emerged from the milky mist and trampled on several half-eaten corpses while turning its blind sockets towards Asgeir’s racing heart. It was larger then the tales told, standing almost thrice his height and many times his weight. The fog swirled around it and froze into solid, tinkling gems that covered its entire arm, from thumbs to shoulders.

There was no hiding now—the jotun saw him. Or rather sensed that he didn’t belong there, between the lifeless cadavers of once mighty warriors and heroes. He was way too alive for that. Asgeir lept back just before the colossal fist smashed down where he previously stood, shredding a wooden shield to pieces and flinging pieces of bone to all directions. Nobody knew what drove the children of Ymir into such a frenzy, but people told about them in every hideaway. Life slipped from them the moment the Gjal sounded, and so did the tolerance for any living thing. They smashed apart villages, uprooted glades and massacred anything that crossed them.

Asgeir rolled to the side, avoiding the massive foot crushing him like a bug and looked around for a weapon. There was nothing that could save him from the jotun, but by Odin, he wasn’t going down without shedding blood.

He caught something glistening under a mound of rotting flesh and heavy leather cuirasses. Asgeir didn’t hesitate, he just rushed towards it and grasped the handle with both hands. He heard the jotun thudding behind him, crossing the distance with a few steps and casting a deathly shadow over him. The weapon wasn’t giving. The chilling presence of the giant bit him all throughout his body, but he couldn’t run away. There was no use. He’d only die a coward, and he refused even now, when no god was alive to judge him.

The jotun raised his hand to swipe Asgeir to the side, most probably shattering every bone in his body, but that moment something got unstuck in the pile of flesh and the weapon swung upwards, meeting the giant’s palm head-on. It was a spear, sturdy and thick with a rune-carved head, which somehow survived the massacre. Time slowed to a halt, the dry muscles strained around the jotun’s arm, and in that moment, Asgeir was ready to die. Valhalla was no more, Odin’s halls lay empty, so only uncertain darkness awaited him, but he didn’t care. Life was miserable as it was, he could settle for an emptiness.

Yet, death never came. The runes inscribed into the spearhead glowed in dark, ancient colors and the jotun’s hand split. The small, barely fist-sized blade cut the giant’s hand clean off, more akin to a headman’s ax, spilling crimson blood across half an arrow-shoot. The creature roared in agony, while Asgeir just stood there, grasping the spear, not daring to even blink. This was surely a dream. A last feverish phantasm as his skull split, just like the jotun before.

He had no time to decide wether he believed his eyes, because the giant leaned forward and smashed down, trying to crumble him between his dried out fingers. Asgeir hopped back, twirled the spear around and jammed it clean into the colossal arm. Bones creeked and tendons popped under the blade, and when Asgeir pulled the weapon back part of the jotun’s forearm came with it, spinning free from the joint and smashed onto the ground between two warriors’ remains.

Blood rushed into Asgeir’s mind. The runes almost burned on the tip, and the heat covered his arms and legs, crying to give into the bloodlust. The wounded giant coiled up like a worm and threw his leg forward, trying to sway the troublesome human away. Asgeir jumped upwards to dodge the attack, then kicked himself forward, closer to the colossal torso. The omen of dread that clouded his mind until now dissipated, the force driving him towards escape let go and nothing but an instinct remained. He was no berserker, yet in that moment, he understood them better then all his life.

The jotun swung the snag that remained of his right arm at Asgeir, and he could barely block it with the weapon’s shaft. The force of the blow sent him flying clean across the field, and eventually onto a shieldmaiden’s corpse. The air escaped his lungs, but the crimson haze didn’t clear. A familiar metallic taste rushed onto his tongue, his chest stung like fire and when he tried to rise, his limbs forsake him.

The runes on the spear brimmed again. A cold, salty wind swept over Asgeir and his vision blurred, obscuring the giant slowly rising to it’s feet. It was barely more than a corpse; maybe it never was more. A mountain of frosted meat and tendons, bristle bones and a cold killer instinct that drove him to squash Asgeir even crippled and near its end.

Asgeir clenched his teeth in anger and forced himself to rise, then spun the spear around and planted his feet for a last charge. He heard drums from somewhere, strong and agitated beating like a warchant. When the jotun howled at him, he cried out too and lunged forward. Time crawled like a melting glacier, every heartbeat took an eternity, and every move heralded a victor. Either the raging monstrosity with unearthly strength, snapping the warrior’s spine like a twig, or Asgeir, mystic spear in hand, aiming for the jotun’s empty eyes.

The warrior won. The weapon thrust into the giant’s skull, pierced through the layers of bone and emerged through the back of its head with a wet plop. The colossal body curled, its abdomen fell against the ground while the spear got stuck in the mud and held the lifeless head looking ever forward. Asgeir wheezed like a horse, his shoulders trembled and unwilling tears ran down his face. He couldn’t control the panic that came over him as the battlerage left, so he gave in. He fell down his knees and covered his head with both arms, shaking on the miry ground until he was too tired for that.

He faced a jotun. A jötnar denizen of Jotunheim, an ice giant akin to the god Loki and he won. There was no man since the starts faded that could befell a giant, yet he did just that with a spear he just requisitioned amidst junk and rubbish.

Asgeir slowly opened his eyes and looked at the weapon still sticking out from the gian’ts eyesocket. A normal spear would have snapped already from the weight, but this not only withstood and stayed firm, it radiated some wild beauty. An ancient perfection, something from the oldest tales told by the völvas during their sacrifices.

“What… are you?” Asgeir wishpered barely daring to speak. It was clear the spear was far more powerful than he was, and it made him uneasy. People told about relics, adorned armament of the Einherjar that fell to Midgard in the battle, but he never seen one carried around. Warriors would give anything for those relics and some gatherers like him made a fortune from them. Not that fortunes mattered these days, but this thing—this had real power. This wasn’t a simple Einherjar weapon.

Asgeir grabbed the shaft and fighting his disgust, he yanked it free from the skull. The runes still glowed, shifting from blood red to nightshade, but the light shrunk weaker with every pulse. Almost if the weapon knew the battle was over and it had no duty anymore. The giant’s head knocked against the ground and a fang broke from its horrid jaw. Asgeir’s eyes narrowed as an idea came over him, then set the spear onto the ground and grabbed the skinning knife hanging from his belt. There wasn’t a chance he would sell that weapon for anything, but he still needed to eat that day. He knew how much would Hrothir give for the remains of an ice giant?

* * * *

The Nook grew somewhat since Asgeir departed three days ago. Refugees came pouring in from every direction, mostly from the south where the waters rose the fastest and they settled in to count the days left. It was a pathetic sight for what was supposed to be the harshest survivors mankind had to offer, but nowadays getting here was a feat in itself.

A lean, dark-haired man winced at him from atop the guard tower, but seeing he was just a human, he nodded. Asgeir walked past the stake fence, resting the spear on his shoulder and hanging his spoils form the end of it in a brown sack, catching many an eye. He was seemingly the only one walking straight with some confidence among the hunched husks and darkened glimpses, and that stirred into the murky depression. He couldn’t walk three steps inside the walls before a woman rose up from a shadowy corner and walked up to him.

“Oy. You a peddler, right? What you got there?” she asked. She spoke flawless norvegian, yet her colours were much more reminiscent of the celt warriors they battled with on the western raids. Or so they told.

“Nothing. Hunt was unsuccessful,” Asgeir replied but it didn’t startle the woman.

“You know, lyin’ is fruitless when you show off the truth. That’s a spear, right?”

Asgeir took a deep breath and looked into her eyes as cruel as he could. “It is. Not for sale, though. It’s personal.”

“Yeah, right,” the woman smirked. “What would you do with a weapon, peddler? You ain’t a warrior.”

The conversation caught the attention of more people and they slowly cornered Asgeir. He felt like prey, and he didn’t like that at one bit.

“How much?” a staunch men said simply. He looked quite sickly, with a shrunken face and a spreading black malady on his fingers. He must have spent a long time in the snowstorm heralding the end times, and the frostbite chewed his flesh and bone. He couldn’t hold the spear properly even if Asgeir was willing to part with it.

“Not for sale,” he replied more agitated.

“Come on, peddler,” the woman pushed on. They threw the word around like a jest, a mockery to humiliate him for living on instead of charging head-first into a wall of jötnar like many did. He was “just” a peddler in their eyes, someone to cowardly to die a warrior.

“Alright, so be it. I’ll just pluck it from your corpse,” the staunch man said raising a rusted axe onto his shoulder.

“Hey!” the celt woman shouted and grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Did the frost scoop out your wit, you moron? You want to kill a man, here?”

“So what?” the man replied confused. “You wanted to take it too, Fenris.”

“Yeah, with coin. Or whatever he asks. Kill a man and you’ll bring the giants on us.”

“That is just saxon horseshit,” the man grunted. Fenris struck out like a fox, clever and precise, grabbing the man’s neck and twisting it backwards until he lost his balance.

“Say that again, you sack of piss and I’ll rip out your throat right here. I’m no saxon, Geirolf, and I do not speak nonsense. Understood?”

The man squeezed a weak ‘yes’ through the grasp, so Fenris let him fall on his arse, then turned back to Asgeir, who just stood there silent, bearing the interlude.

“Now, peddler. You sure you won’t sell me that? I could pay well.”

“I told you twice already,” he replied. “It’s personal. I need to defend myself as well.”

“I could defend you with it. How’s that? You give me that and we’ll share food until you find something else.”

It was obvious they were getting nowhere, so Asgeir threw the sack onto the ground, unfolding half a dozen frosted fangs and a hearth larger then Geirolf’s head. He didn’t know which part was worth anything, so he went after his instincts and old tales.

Fenris and Geirolf both took a step back, while a third bystander, a young blonde kid nearly jumped away from the sight.

“Is—is that…” the celt woman gasped.

“It is. Jotun fangs and its heart. Those I’d gladly sell for a week’s rations. You think I need protecting?” Asgeir asked looking at Fenris. The woman’s lips curled into a grin, but her eyes still stuck to the remains.

“How… How did you kill that?”

“Wait. Don’t tell me this peddler coward fell a giant!” Geirolf shouted, and the words ran across the Nook like a warhorn. Every begging cripple, every malnourished child and wounded warrior sprung up and swarmed at them so tight even Fenris got agitated.

“Hey! Behave, you mongrels!” she cried, but it bothered no one. A grey warrior lumping around with a crutch tried to touch Asgeir’s spear, only deterred by another woman grasping his hand and pushing him back.

“Did you really? You killed a giant?” a juvenile boy asked. A slim, crooked man knelt down next to the fangs and slowly picked one up then dropped it immediately. A veteran-looking man shoved away another, shouting about something and not before long almost a hundred tired souls tussled around Asgeir and his spoils.

“Someone killed a giant. There’s still hope!” the grey man said shedding tears. “Odin might still be with us.”

“Enough!” Fenris cried out so ferociously the buzz died out in an instant. “Shut your claps before you get more hurt than you’re now. You…” she said tilting her head towards Asgeir. “Come with me. Without a word.”

Asgeir just sighed and packed up the giant remains, then walked after the celt followed by the renewed cacophony of eleven dozen people spinning the tale of a yet unkown giantslayer. He didn’t intend to put himself as a hero, nor did he want to show off, but he was left with little choice.

Fenris struck through the mass and lead him towards a hiding, half carved into the rockface that served as the backwall to the whole Nook, half built from stakes and split shields. It was surprisingly large considering how fast people had to build hovels for themselves, but it seemed Fenris didn’t cut corners. The inside was separated into two rooms with a board wall, one that was suppsodely where the woman slept, while the larger was packed with different hunting trophies and half-prepared meat.

“You’re a hunter?” Asgeir asked, but Fenris didn’t answer. Instead she lit a large way candle on a wall-mounted shelf and closed the door shut. She even covered the windows with some pelts, so the candle was the only source of light in the whole hovel.

“So, peddler,” she said sitting down by the rough table. “How did you come across those horrible trophies?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. You just htrew them on the ground and let those dumbasses believe you killed a fucking jotun.”

“Why do you think I didn’t?” Asgeir said, sitting down opposite Fenris. The celt just grunted and stood up again, making the whole scene a bit awkward.

“Because that’s impossible. You know, I’ve met one. Fought it, even, and by sheer luck I could escape with my hide,” she said while tampering among the junk piled on a counter until she found two drinking horns. “So don’t speak nonsense to me, boy.”

Asgeir tried not to remark, just shrugged. “If you say so. You can believe whatever you want.”

“I’m not much for believing, peddler,” Fenris said while sat down and threw a horn towards Asgeir. It was just water in it, but he would have been much more surprised if she’d waste ale on him—if she had any. Not many did. “I want to know things. At first I thought you just happened upon the most intact weapon on this side of the sea, but after that little stunt… Now I don’t wanna buy it. I want you to tell me about that giant.”

Asgeir took a big gulp from the horn to bide his time a little. There was no point keeping anything from her, since laying low was no longer a possibility. He’d suspected he couldn’t keep something this unearthly a secret, but a bit more peace would have been nice.

“If you insist,” he said eventually. “I was scavenging a day’s walk from here, around the Coal Woods.”

Fenris suspiciously narrowed her eyes. “That’s where the Serpent’s blood dripped onto the earth. Are you mad, boy?”

“Perhaps. But I found no curse, no poison, just a battlefield. It was so vast I could tread half a day and still walk inwards. I wandered around there for two days at least, until I was covered by a fog.”

Fenris looked lost in thought, at least the way she wiggled her drink said as much. “A giants’ spell. Something that even fooled Thor once. So you were ambushed.”

“You believe me now?” Asgeir said with a smirk. “But you’re right. A frost giant emerged from the fog and almost killed me if not for this spear,” he said glancing over his shoulder at the weapon’s cloth-covered tip.

“How could a spear stop a jotun? I saw even varg fail to penetrate their skin.” Fenris asked leaning back. This woman grew more interesting with every word, and somehow that reassured Asgeir. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one experiencing the impossible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wasn’t thinking much, I just grabbed something and held it towards the jotun as it tried to flatten me. But it didn’t, instead the spearhead cut its palm in half and tore the other arm off by its elbow.”

“What?” Fenris said even more confused. “Alright, you’ve stalled enough. Show me that spear.”

Asgeir was still reluctant to reveal anymore of something he himself couldn’t fully grasp, but for some reason he didn’t oblige. The runes carved into the tip were peaceful now, almost like they were sleeping inside the metal, but it still hummed with the strange, archaic power.

“I can’t let you take it, but you can observe as you like,” Asgeir said as he held the weapon towards the celt. Fenris tried the blade’s edge with her finger, then caressed every rune carefully until she stopped.

“Don’t… Don’t tell me… This can’t be—,” she muttered, almost grasping on the spearhead.

“What? You know this weapon?”

Fenris looked up in utter dismay. Her eyes stared forward with a sickly pale shimmer and she even flashed her teeth at Asgeir, while the woman’s hand twitched and her fingers curled.

“How can you not know? How can you not recognize the symbols?” she asked. Asgeir pulled the spear back and stood up, unsure if the woman would jump at her or collapse.

“Tell me. What is this?”

“That is Gungnir, boy,” she said in a deep growl. “You found the place where the gods fell.”

[elfnerdherder]

The Fault in My Code: Ch. 15

You can read Chapter 15 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 15: One Eye Green, One Veiled Sea Blue

           Matthew Brown lived at an apartment complex towards the outskirts of the city with decently thick walls, kudzu creeping up the side, and a door whose lock was picked with relative ease.

           As Will stepped into the apartment and lingered on the landing, he supposed he could have asked for a key, maybe explained the situation to someone who would take pity and just let him in. He was tired of having to explain himself, though. He was tired of completely understanding and recognizing the absolute expression of dismay, followed by pity. If there was one thing he’d choke on in the end, it was the pity that people gave him, now that they knew about his fucking eyes.

           What have you done to your eyes, Will?

           Matthew’s apartment was clean, mildly Spartan in furnishings with a distinct organization that showed his living alone rather than with a roommate to save on money. It was a one bedroom apartment with a plain blue bedspread, one bathroom with a plain blue curtain, and one photo in the living room of a man in profile showing one blue eye.

           He stared at that photo of himself for a long time. It was one that Alana had tagged him in on Facebook, something teasing and reminiscent of their college days when all seemed to be somewhat manageable. He looked younger in it, the lines and weariness not so set into his face. It was a stoic photo, like Matthew’s mother said, but it was the sort of photo that made him look handsome rather than fatigued –purposeful, as Red Dragon called him.

           He sat on the sofa next to the end table that housed the picture, and he tried to sink into the space that Matthew Brown lived in, the space that he existed without having to hide himself. He’d not even been able to be honest with his family, his co-workers, or his friends. He’d pretended at a relationship with his family, sneered at Lecter’s connection to Will with his co-workers, bemoaned singledom with his friends.

           There was nothing inside of the apartment that felt truly like Matthew at first. He shifted on the sofa the way he imagined Matthew would, lingered in the kitchen whose refrigerator held no magnets boasting announcements of weddings, reminders of bills, or lists for groceries. Inside of the fridge, a small bowl of leftovers contained an egg salad, condiments were minimal, and the milk had expired. Will poured the milk down the sink so that later in the week, Mrs. Brown didn’t have to when she came to collect her son’s things.

           The books in the one bookcase in the house held discussions on psychiatry, notes on soulmates. It was there that he felt he’d found some of Matthew Brown, confused and bitter as he highlighted the portion discussing half-connections and how they ultimately were like having no connection at all, both socially and neurologically. Will stood frozen by the shelves of books on anatomy, books on animals, books on zoology. There was even one of Will Graham’s own books –something he hadn’t intended to have published, but Alana had coerced him into it after a publicist made contact –discussing the ramifications of the social indoctrination of soulmates within education and upbringing. There were notes throughout it, written in a cramped hand in the margins:

           Exposure to normalized ‘need’ of soulmates at young age leads to expectations later in life socially?

           Friend groups determined in high school based on if you have soulmate or not –Graham ostracized for not having soulmate? Maybe bitter?

           Lots of derision here. –This in reference to soulmates whose sentences in prison were lighter due to having a living soulmate that stood before a judge and begged to not be kept apart.

           Bad experiences with soulmates at young age? –This one written beside the case study Will had used to explain serious cases of bullying for those that had already found their soulmate in elementary school by other children that were unable to articulate their own jealousy or worry they wouldn’t find one.

           Statistic of colored contact purchases to hide soulmate or to pretend to have soulmate –NO clear stats (Green 0394 for mine)

           Graham visited with Dr. Bloom again. Shook my hand, but he didn’t look at my eyes. –This was written beside a paragraph discussing the rarest form of soulmate pairing: the staggered connection. Sometimes, one person connected early on, and their eye changed color. It was a half-connection that had no effect on the second person until months later –years, even –when they met eyes again and a full connection was established. Will had gone on to discuss events could have occurred between the initial eye change that caused the other person to suddenly connect, and there were several sentences underlined, highlighted, near-smudged with fingers that gripped the pages tightly.

           The spine of the book was bent, much loved and worn from being read over and over and over again. The deepest indent in the spine though was the space that opened up to the discussion of the staggered connection. Will tasted his desperation there.

           He sat down beside the bookcase where he imagined Matthew would have sat, and he traced over the letters written along the margins. He could feel the hope in the words, the idea that maybe if Will had managed to look again, something would have happened in their time apart that he would finally connect back. It was in those vulnerable spaces that he finally found Matthew Brown, quietly yearning that if he just waited long enough, Will would see him for what he was –what they could be.

           I thought, what if he saw someone like me?

           He laid his head against the edge of the bookcase, book open on his lap. He was cruel when he could have been kind. He couldn’t take his anger out on Hannibal at the time, therefore he took his anger out on the catalyst, the one that dipped along the shadows and let the ball roll that inevitably led to Molly and her god damn pause.

           The one that spent the quietest parts of his days wondering if one day Will would see him and finally see.

           There was a thin notebook beside a biology book, and he slid the other book back into place, sitting down once more and propping himself up against the wall. It was a sketch book, and he opened it, his gut tight. Sketch books were intimate; writing was intimate. He was seeing too much, knowing too much, but for what he’d done to Matthew, he felt it was right that someone in the end knew him and knew him well. For the sake of the mother that hugged him beside the casket and thanked him for what he’d done, he owed it to Matthew to finally see.

           He saw himself in those pages. He hated himself a little bit more.

           They were sketches done from a mildly unpracticed hand, but a hand none-the-less. Among small doodles of animals copied from the zoology book up above, Will saw himself through the eyes of Matthew.

           His estimation of Will Graham was far kinder than Will Graham’s.

           He looked pensive, purposeful. In one he smiled, glancing off to the side, and Will recalled his meeting with a man that that had a speech disorder where he could only speak when Will looked away.

           In many, he looked like there was a glow about him, something more than flesh and bone and color. There were earnest expressions, resigned expressions. Page after page gave Will the understanding of just how someone saw him when they hardly knew him. With each intimate line and curve of graphite, there was a longing and a comfort. Three and a half years of sketches, small notes that tracked Will’s accomplishments with pride.

           March 14th, moved and began work at a small office specializing in soulmate grief

           May 21st, awarded certificate for best lecture on soulmate grief, quantified by the ratings and reviews of attendees.

           August 3rd, positive review for work posted in the journal

           October 12th, appearance in court that aided in release of a soulmate wrongfully imprisoned –cornerstone of case his analysis

           October 20th, dating someone? How long?

           February 14th, her name’s Molly, and they’re not soulmates.

           After confirming that Will and Molly weren’t soulmates, he went back to his sketches and his notes of things Will had done, things that were public knowledge and easily accessible. Alana must have mentioned something around Matthew about Will and Molly for him to have known. He traced over the pressure of the word ‘not’ for a long time, the sensation of relief at Matthew realizing that Will may not have connected to him, but at least he hadn’t connected to anyone else, either.

           He was jolted from his pained musings by the sound of the door opening, and he stood up quickly, tucking the notebook under his arm like it was his. A man he didn’t recognize stood in the doorway, and he looked appropriately confused.

           “Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded. Will noted the keys in hand, the nametag at his belt.

           He thought to maybe placate the man, maybe explain himself. The words were jarring in his throat, though. Instead, he gestured towards the photo of himself on the end table, like it should explain everything.

           People are impressionable; when silence spread and gaps exist, they make explanations, create stories to placate themselves. People have a need to know, but when little information is revealed, they make the information. This was no different. Will saw his eyes leap from Will to the photo, then back to Will. Thoughts tumbled, shifted, and before Will’s very eyes he saw the man create a world within himself, a world where Will was a soulmate that’d just endured the wrenching loss of losing his other half.

           “Oh, you…you were Matt’s…” His voice trailed off, and he nodded. “You look…hell, sorry. I’d just never seen you around. I’m his landlord –well, I’m the landlord’s son.”

           “Nice to meet you,” Will managed. “I’m leaving, if that’s alright.”

           “Yeah, shit, man…yeah.”

           Will passed by him, and there was that fucking look again –pity. He despised the pity. He paused in the doorway, notebook tucked underhand, and he glanced back.

           “His mother’s coming to get his things later this week,” he said.

           “You don’t…you don’t want them?”

           “No.”

           Will left him with that silence as well, let the man make his excuses as to why he wouldn’t want his soulmate’s remaining things. Driving back to the hotel, Will supposed that it only made sense that if he’d just lost the most important thing in his world, the last thing he’d want is to have to remember it.

-

           The woman he sat down across from was aged, both from time and from a life of secrets. She eyed him across the table, and he eyed her back, fingers tapping idly on a file.

           “You’re the biological mother of Francis Dolarhyde, Marian Vogt,” he said at last. She had mismatched eyes and the sort of hair that screamed the wife of a politician.

           “I didn’t keep contact with him,” she said curtly. Age had given her fine lines around the eyes from posed smiles and harsh glares.

           “You had an orphanage take him soon after birth where he was taken in by his grandmother, your mother, at about five years of age,” Will said, ignoring the shrill, shrewd stare she held. Behind the mismatched gaze, there was something decidedly guilty. “Later, though, you took him back once more after having three more children with your soulmate when he was aged nine.”

           “You’re telling me things I know, Dr. Graham,” she said, shifting in her chair. Her discontent was as tangible as the itch of Kevlar under his shirt. “Is there something wrong? He died a few years after he married that woman.” Her sneer told him exactly what she thought about Reba’s skin color. The derision was an itch he couldn’t reach, and he frowned.

           “As a soulmate psychiatrist, my specialty is in the studies of the psyches of children whose minds are still developing within a culture of soulmates like ours. He once saw a psychiatrist that was working with him on his grievances regarding soulmates, and we’ve attempted to analyze his mental state for our work.”

           “What do you think I can give you that a shrink can’t?”

           “He didn’t speak of his childhood very much. Only a month or so after you took care of him once again, you had him taken back to the orphanage under ‘unknown’ circumstances.” He’d been watching her face, and when he emphasized ‘unknown’, an odd sort of spasm twitched near her right eye.

           “It’s been so long that I can scarce recall,” she sniffed delicately. “He burned their house down, you know.”

           “I think you can recall,” Will replied.

           “I really can’t.”

           They considered one another from across the small desk, a spare office he’d borrowed from a local counselor’s business Dr. Avery had contacted for him. While Will’s face was grave passiveness, hers was defensive, a stark expression of a shuttered window with no way to peer behind the curtains.

           “I think he killed an animal,” Will said at last.

           “Is this how you speak to your clients?” Marian demanded.

           “You’re not a client,” Will replied. “I think he killed the family pet, and you sent him away for it.”

           The horror, unmasked at the ease in which he revealed a sordid family secret, was palpable. Will wondered if he reached out, he could touch it with his bare fingertips, wrestle it into something substantial so that he could understand Red Dragon through the mother that’d abandoned him twice.

           “That little shit wasn’t normal,” she said at last. “And my husband –my soulmate –just got sicker than sick after he was there, lost the election, lost face with the community because of that…that…boy.”

           “The three children you had with Howard Vogt were well aware that they were the product of a soulmate union and that Francis Dolarhyde was not,” said Will, ignoring the way her hands clenched a small handkerchief in her lap. It was reminiscent of old southern women in church, trying to wrangle themselves together when they heard something particularly spiritual or troublesome. “Just how did that line manifest in your home?”

           “I don’t have to deal with this. You know, you people call me, make it seem like this is something important –he’s not even alive and everyone is trying to make me take responsibility for something that isn’t mine…” She stood up to leave, fumbling with her purse as she strode towards the door, cardigan slipping off of her shoulder with the weight of the purse swinging wildly.

           “Mrs. Vogt, were you aware that he was being abused?”

           She paused at the door, turned to consider Will with a furious, horrified expression.

           “Excuse me?”

           “He didn’t speak of his past with his psychiatrist, but he did speak of his dreams. Nightmares of scissors held against his genitalia, threats of emasculation, brothers that weren’t brothers slamming his face to a mirror repetitively after a lost election. Were you aware of these things occurring in your home? Or did you simply not care because he was the product of something that wasn’t your soulmate, therefore his existence was inconsequential to you?”

           Will hated doing small speeches like that, words tumbling and falling like rocks that crashed every which way. He’d hit his mark, though; the longer he spoke, the angrier she became, the more embarrassed she became as she hissed, stalked closer and leaned over the chair she’d once sat in, fuming.

           “He took my beautiful daughter’s cat and strung it up,” she snapped, “and he had a face not even a mother could love. My mother held his life over my head like some sort of trump card because I didn’t want him, but in the end he was just like her and they burned their homes around themselves until there was nothing left. Neither one of them had soulmates for a reason, Dr. Graham. I’m the only one in my family that did, and what’s that say about them?”

           “I think that says more about you than it does about them, Mrs. Vogt,” Will replied calmly, “that you would turn one child away for not being the product of a simple chemical reaction in the brain.”

           “Fuck you and don’t ever call me again,” she snapped, and she stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

           Will sat in the aftermath of her guilty fury, and he felt that he understood Francis Dolarhyde a little bit more, the things he was searching for behind the mirrors in Mrs. Hess’ and Mrs. Panter’s eyes.

-

           He got a call much later, as he sat in his hotel room and turned the bottle of whiskey around in his hands. It was almost gone, a testament to his commitment of numbness and his commitment to drinking himself into oblivion when he didn’t have to fire on all pistons. He was only guilty at Beverly having wasted so much money on the bottle when he’d partaken of it with a gluttonous need that well drinks could have provided for less.

           It wasn’t Molly’s phone, nor was it the landline to her family’s house. Will decided to answer, head propped to the side to hold up the phone as he poured himself another glass.

           “Hello?”

           “Working late, Dr. Graham?”

           “Good evening, Hannibal,” Will said wearily. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be surprised; he’d stayed well enough away after Hannibal agreed to help them, unable to fathom staring at that space between them with no way to really close the distance. It infuriated him. The fact that it infuriated him disgusted him.

           “You don’t sound as though it is a good evening. In fact, I’d say you’re three glasses into a rather potent form of whiskey.”

           “Do you feel drunk when I’m drunk?” Will wondered.

           “You once informed me that emotions are only felt in extreme moments. For the time of our connection, I’ve come to the conclusion that either you are only able to feel things in extremities, or the distance has heightened my ability to feel your emotions due to your refusal to come close to me for the time being.” Hannibal paused to allow Will a miserable laugh. “However, when you drink it is a muted thing. The longer that time passes, the more I find there to be far more frequent bouts of muted emotions.”

           “They call that alcoholism,” Will informed him.

           “Does Molly know that you have fallen off of the wagon, dear Will?”

           Her name in Hannibal’s mouth was wrong, all wrong. Will studied the lovely color in the glass, reflected every which way by the lamp next to his favored chair, and he sighed dismally.

           “Molly paused us,” he confessed. “And it’s not because of the alcoholism.”

           “My dear, are you trying to inform me that it’s because of me?”

           “She wasn’t pausing us before you came along, that’s for damn sure.”

           Hannibal was quiet, and Will wondered what sort of secrets he kept, what sort of thoughts he was latching onto without sharing. He sipped the whiskey, savored the feeling of numbness that it provided. The after burn was much like how his skin felt whenever he was too far away from Hannibal, and that sort of torment was something he was more than happy to deal with.

           “I’ve been informed that I’m to be moved tomorrow,” Hannibal said when Will didn’t elaborate on Molly’s ill-fated pause.

           “You’re finally getting what you wanted.”

           “What is it that you think I want?” Hannibal asked. “To be closer to you? To have reason to be moved near you?”

           Will snorted. “Nothing so romantic. You wanted a way out of that institution, and I’ve provided it.”

           “An implication that the benefit of being close to you is somehow sub-par to the idea of being let out of this infernal place. Rest assured, Dr. Graham, I am also looking forward to being exposed to you without this wall between us once more.”

           “Touch starved?” Will taunted. The moment he said it, he wished that he hadn’t. It sounded almost flirtatious, something he’d say to someone he wanted to touch. A wicked, dark part of his mind whispered, don’t you, though? Don’t you want to touch?

           “As much as you are, I think,” Hannibal replied dryly. “Although with the alcohol you’ve supplied yourself with, it’s difficult to tell. Was that your intention?”

           “Why did you call, Hannibal?” Will asked, exasperated.

           “You can hide many things through your use of self-medication, but you can’t hide your pain at your dear Molly pausing you,” Hannibal said. “In your mind, everything you’ve done now seems almost inconsequential, that you can’t return to her and say that all is well.”

           “I don’t want to talk about that,” Will snapped.

           “She’d have paused you whether or not you connected to me, dear Will,” Hannibal assured him. “In the end, I was not the one that brought the darkness out of you. I merely showed you mine in return.”

           Will finished off the whiskey with a vengeance, slamming the glass down with a little too much force. He thought about pacing, about throwing a few more things, about cursing the shadow of Red Dragon lurking nearby, but ultimately he slumped down farther in his chair and swallowed heavily, the room hot and blurring around him like the landscape was melting at his very feet.

           “You don’t have to remind me,” he whispered, aggrieved. “I am well aware what sort of person I am, Hannibal. The kind of person that I will always be.”

-

Will didn’t have to see Hannibal get strapped into something much resembling a dolly that packed large boxes for delivery men, nor did he have to see him get wrapped into a straightjacket. He sat outside of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane the next day in the early morning and enjoyed a small cup of coffee that didn’t come from the BAU break room. The last time he’d shared a cup with Beverly, he’d had to ruminate on the taste of two-day-old, reused beans. She hadn’t been sorry in the least when he’d pointed it out.

           Beside him, a soulmate argued on the phone with someone, head dipped down. Their whispers were harsh, prickling things.

           “I know she’s in prison, mother, but –oh my god, did you really just say that? Really? She’s mentally unwell, you can’t just. No. No. Yes, god, I know, but…”

           Her voice trailed off, and she cast a side-eye to Will who pointedly tried to ignore her.

           “Look. I know you think this is just stupid, you and dad aren’t soulmates, but you have no idea what it’s like. I can’t…just stay away. I can’t just…” A pause as she scrambled for words to convince her mother of her dubious choices. “I could walk up to anyone with a soulmate, and they’d tell you the same. You can try to stay away, but sooner or later it pulls you back. She’s always kind to me, mom, and we were dating long before she ever killed those people.”

           Will brushed his thumb over his lips to rub away a small, secretive smile.

           “You know what? I don’t care what Pastor Mark says, how can you call it a sin if God made us soulmates? Because it’s a girl? Would you care if I’d connected to a boy that killed people instead? That’s so homophobic!”

           The voice on the other end grew louder, but Will couldn’t quite make out the words.

           “Oh my god! Okay! Fine! God!” She hung up and threw her phone into her purse, righteous indignation. Will sipped his coffee. He could taste her pain as much as he could taste her longing. It didn’t mix well with the coffee.

           “Do you have a soulmate in there?” she asked glumly.

           “Yes.”

           “Worker or inmate?”

           Will glanced at his watch; Freddie’s article had been out for a few days now. “Inmate,” he said.

           “How long?”

           “Not too long.”

           “My mom…she says it’s not worth it. But you know, right? You know it’s worth it?” She was desperate. She saw his mismatched eyes and needed reassurance from someone that knew.

           Will watched the army of vehicles roll up, four police cars and a transport van. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash can beside him and stood up, rolling his neck back and forth to pop it. He sniffed his collar; it smelled of expensive whiskey and a long night of no sleep.

           “I don’t know yet,” he said honestly. He glanced at her green eyes that were just different enough to be a problem within her family dynamic. “If I see you around later, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

           She watched him climb into the back of the transport truck. She watched them drive away.

           Hannibal watched him from the cage he’d been locked into, arms tied tight around his torso, a mask strapped across the bottom of his face to keep his mouth from snapping. There was a part of Will that despised it, longed to rip it off of him, but another part whispered that he’d bit a nurse’s tongue off, once. His heart rate hardly changed at it.

           His heart rate changed when he’d hurt Will, though. That thought closely followed, and Will sneered at it.

           “Back in Baltimore for the time being,” Hannibal noted lightly.

           “I’d been in Maine,” Will informed him. The need to reassure him that he hadn’t been trying to run from him was as off-putting as the tie had been at Matthew Brown’s funeral.

           “What did you find in Maine, Dr. Graham?”

           “Francis Dolarhyde’s base of operation,” he replied. The agent shot him a glance at giving away such information, but at the sight of his mismatched eye, they looked to Lecter’s and couldn’t suppress a shudder. Whatever they thought was kept silent, but Will could all but taste the discomfort, closely followed by the pity. He resented the pity.

           “I’m sure that was enlightening,” said Hannibal gleefully.

           Will hmm’d an assent and shifted around the agent to sit down.

           “Comfortable?” Hannibal asked him as he settled down on the metal bench. On one side, the orderly sat prepared to administer a sedative if Hannibal became belligerent. On the other side of him, the agent wielded a shotgun.

           “…Going to be,” he said. “You?”

           “This is more fun than I’ve had in the last three years,” he replied, and Will saw through the small holes made for breathing, the twitches of a smile. “I owe it to you, dear Will.”

           “Happy to oblige,” he muttered sarcastically.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@mynameisanakin {{xx}}

There is a subtle weight to the way Anakin looks at her. It’s not the oppressiveness of absolutely darkness nor of deep water, but more like the anticipation before a storm breaks. Ions dancing across her skin that make the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. Winnows its way down through her limbs before diffusing throughout the rest of her. It makes her want to ask if he feels that too but the time is never right and she doesn’t want to expose herself to the kind of scrutiny that he is capable of. Instead she focuses on the corners of his mouth and urges them through sheer willpower alone to quirk into a smile. One that will rise like her four moons until it reaches its zenith in his eyes. It’s a childish want and she knows it. She also knows it is in these small moments that such things are possible. That he might indulge her like he can’t or won’t in other situations. And it’s the closest she comes to admitting to herself that she both misses him and is envious of the long leash the masters give him. Admits that sometimes when she’s knee deep in holocrons and bacta-tanks that he might find something out there that will find a way to keep him. To make him forget her. She knows his work is important. His adventures are things she likes to listen to in rapt fascination. The dreams of other worlds and other people. A thousand lives strung together like a garland of little lights and he touches them all even if it’s in the smallest of ways. Hers isn’t the same but it suits her, she supposes, even if the excitement she hoped for long ago is now confined to the halls and byways of the Temple, rather than at his side like she imagined years ago. When Anakin is gone, there is space. Expansive and cold and empty despite other bodies and the soft, syllabant whispers that remind her of restless ghosts. Again, not wholly unpleasant as abject silence would be, but markedly different, as though he takes the idea of living with him and only gives it back when his boots touch the floor of the docking bay. By slow degrees her fingers find his sleeves. Glide over the warp and weft of the fabric. Stop at the crooks of his elbows. They linger there, insouciant vagrants finding a place to squat, making themselves at home. His physical presence isn’t that much different than his spiritual one in the Force; the biggest difference is the scent of him, the warmth that is lacking when he’s just a thought, a mental reach far longer than her limbs can possibly imagine. She soaks it in. Allows it to seep into parts of her untouched and untamed until she picks up his natural rhythms. Until their separate breaths become one inhale, the same exhale. A sigh. Something that becomes a communion of intermingled sentiment that one could not extricate the pieces without sending the whole thing to the ground. She can’t quite tell what’s joy and relief from the brightness and the need. The way he cages her in with his arms she has no choice but to lower her hands to the vague area of that space between his waist and hips and finds no hardship in doing that. Closer still they grow until one bare foot rests between his and she relaxes utterly in the solidity she finds. How the pose, if viewed from the outside, finds a parallel in dim memories of home. A vague reminiscence of her fathers standing in the exact same way. Their faces carved into the very likeness of hers and his. Not the features but the emotions in them. And it’s funny to her how one moment she can be utterly transfixed by the feel of this ~of Anakin~ and the next moment she’s home. Not for the first time she wonders if it’s the same, or similar, for him. If he remembers where he came from with the same fondness. If she is just as close as he gets to be connected to his roots. That singular sense of peace and well-being. Of rightness in the moment and with the universe that they are told should not come from any one source but all of them. 

It is a gift that she cannot explain nor properly thank him for even if she had the words that might express those feelings. For all the reasons that should feel wrong she can’t. And maybe, deep down, below some substrata of her being she takes that vague semblance of stillness from him as a sign of the turbulence inside his mind that has yet to be able to find its way to his surfaces. She’s never minded that. The thrum of life so vibrant in his veins that it spilled out into the world around him. The voracious curiosity that he had about everything and everyone. It was just who he was and she absolutely loves him for that. And maybe some small part of her envies that kinetic energy because it’s something she lacks herself. There’s a good deal many things like that which are different between them and none is less fascinating than the rest. Almost as much as the slight sound that escapes him and teases a little laugh out of her that’s immediately hushed because it shows a lack of self-control and elegance. Another thing she is painfully aware of.

So intrinsically intertwined as they are both in a physical and spiritual sense she can practically taste a darker current to his light, can feel something shift in the currents that surround him and it peaks a brow over one eye in subtle query though she’s not entirely sure he can see her face to know that there’s a question written in her features. Though she has suspicions because she knows where her own thoughts had travelled. “He’s not here, Ani.” Not in the room, not even on Coruscant. Her Master had spent hours with Master Windu before he’d collected his things. Told her that she should practice her sabre techniques. Told her he’d contact her when he was on his way back. There’d been a certain look on his face that prevented her from asking questions even if she thought she’d die if she didn’t know. She was still alive and here so clearly that wasn’t a universal truth. She likes being separated from him, kept out of his web of secretive missions even less than she cares to be separated from Anakin. And that nascent hate is another thing that whispers her unsuitability, because no matter how hard she tries, there is a shadow of it that lingers. One that looks a lot like the look resting on his face and why she suspects that it is her Master or the idea of him that upsets him. Zarek is the only thing she could put a name to the shadows falling over Anakin. And she recognises it because she has very similar instincts when it comes to him and his own Master. Worse still when he casually mentions the Queen-now-Senator. She knows that he has loved Amidala longer than he’s known Keni herself, and she has no way of combating the influence of the Naboo woman’s ghost on him. A part of her fears that she will always be second best to the woman even though she is better suited for him. They are both Jedi. She knows Anakin in ways Amidala never can, and she doesn’t trust the woman’s sense of loyalty and fairness. She doesn’t believe the Senator would give everything up for him. That she would risk arguing with him at whatever personal cost because he’s stubborn sometimes. That she would listen to him even when he cannot bring himself to speak. That she would place him ahead of whatever manipulative agenda she thinks might be best for the Galactic Republic. Amidala is only a career politician after all. Like Palpatine, like Organa, like the rest. 

And if Amidala did not mean so much to him, Keni isn’t sure she would care so much. But the woman represents everything that he might crave some day; she is freedom, she is not a significant part of the Force. She is exquisitely beautiful. She sees things in ways Keni can not, and is not bound by the will of the Council.

Her fingers curl up in his robes with a tightness she isn’t even aware of possessing. The joy of their reunion robbed from her features until they’ve darkened considerable, her eyes too bright with restrained malice that she tries so very hard to subsume, to push down into the bedrock of her psyche where it can do no lasting damage.

She’s just about to pull away from him, sink back into herself and hide behind decades of practiced non-existence when he starts talking again, distracting her from the dozen different tangents she’s found herself trailing behind. And that’s when the puns begin. Each one of them carefully chosen, each one of them carrying weight until she realises what he’s actually saying and the look on her face changes from murderous to incredulous to somewhat horrified amusement. If she laughs she might hurt his feelings. If she doesn’t laugh she might hurt his feelings. And so she just freezes in the moment. Bit by bit everything else does around her so that she can only hear the sound of him breathing, the water in the little fountain in the corner of the room trickling into its basin. Until everything becomes singularly focused on the feel of his hand travel it’s way up her side to her shoulder and into her hair. Which tilts her into his fingers. Her eyes trek from his endless blue downward to the midpoint of his chest. Where her thick lashes close leaving her able to feel more than see, an absolute gesture in tribute of the trust she places in him. And where one set of fingers glide down her face a moment later, her own much smaller ones take to wandering on their own accord. Across his chest. Down his arm. To the glove. So very careful. So very gentle. Afraid the slightest pressure will send arcs of pain across what’s left of his still healing nerve endings. Where she laces them together, only a teensy bit unnerved by the lack of living flesh and bone beneath her own.

“What if,” she murmurs in a low, husky tone before she opens her eyes half way, all green embers in the dim lighting so very far from the innocence etched elsewhere. “That was the one I wanted to keep, Ani? It’s very practical after all. Strong and resilient. Mind of its own, too, so like it could do amazingly dangerous things all by itself. I mean it’s absolutely perfect.”

[necromantic13]

The Ardent Fortification

Another story of a swamp witch making questionable decisions.

The chanting emanated through the darkness, echoing along the rugged path lit only by fractured slats of moonlight. It was a strange sight to behold: a dozen humans of flesh followed by six creatures of steel, the latter carried on an elaborate palanquin pulled by four of the former. A man in front holding a torch and leading the chant stopped them at the edge of the forest where the trees tapered into a vast field, long ago abandoned by the farmer who had once claimed it. The bonfire had been prepared that morning; he lowered his torch and lit the piled wood.

As the fire roared into the skies above, the humans of flesh unloaded the creatures of steel, placing the lifeless humanoid bodies in a half circle around the fire. As a mirror to them, six robed supplicants arranged themselves in kind, directly opposite the metal constructs.

The man in the robe, less his flaming torch, reached into the satchel he carried and withdrew an ornate jeweled scythe, the wicked steel blade curving around his hand where he gripped the handle. Raising it to his lips, he kissed the cold metal, and began to speak the Words of the Ritual of Fortification.

Elishya watched from the shadows across the field where the edge of the forest met the withered grass, huddled against the dark trunk of a tree, and waited for the reaping to begin.

The supplicants - the Ardent, they were called - waited with their heads bowed as the man spoke to them - of what Elishya could not hear, although she imaged it was some nonsense about honor and duty to one’s monarch. She’d heard it before, the memory like the echoes of another life she’d have much preferred to wipe clear of her psyche for the pain it brought. They persisted nevertheless, and she did what she could to wield them as weapons against those she opposed rather than allow them to cripple her. Sometimes, after all, context was all that stood between right and wrong.

The hooded man approached the supplicants, pulling back the cowl of the first. He bent low, kissing their head. Then he raised the scythe and slit their throat.

He did this to each one in kind, and they accepted his ministrations with a reverent tenderness usually reserved for new babies and one’s true mates, spilling their blood into the tamped mat of dry grass they knelt upon. When it was done, he set the scythe on the ground, and the six remaining Ardent turned to witness the birth of the machines.

Elishya breathed in deeply as she felt the souls slip from their bodies, drawn to their new robotic hosts by a magic she did not yet understand. She could sense their confusion, the draw of forever far stronger than anything that could be constructed by man.

Souls were curious by nature, however, and reluctant to leave their bodies behind. While they desired oblivion, they had not yet unlearned the fear of the unknown, and latched onto distraction like a newborn clutched its mother. It was why the reaping worked so well; it was also why Elishya’s charms captivated them long enough for her to pull them back in. They gravitated toward the dead metal shells they would soon become trapped in, drawn by the magic they were imbued with, not knowing their fate once they arrived.

It was during this window that Elishya extended her own soul out to the wandering Ardent, and prepared to spring her own trap.

The Ritual of Fortification was well-guarded, but even the minions of the monarch would not suspect the small, snuffling attentions of a common field mouse. They would not notice its presence among the toppled bodies and roaring fire, nor would they notice the bone charm strapped to its small belly.

Elishya rode within the mouse’s flesh, searching the area for the soul she would take. Several had already found their new forms, gently prodding at them with interest before hesitantly entering and becoming trapped until the monarch dictated their release. Enough were still reluctantly occupying the space around the fire, and it was one of these errant wanderers that Elishya sought.

She reached out and, in a figurative manner, tapped the soul on its shoulder. It turned, drawn to the bone charm, and as it reached an invisible, formless hand out to touch it, she made her way out of the circle and back across the field to where she laid in wait, the soul following the field mouse like a dog followed its master.

With the snare set, it took little effort to spring the trap, although there was a certain detail to be attended to in this manner that was not one she typically employed: she would need to force the wayward spirit not into herself, but into the fresh corpse she’d just chased the owner from. The monarch was unaware of her presence, and she was content to keep it that way, so instead of pulling it into herself and either running the risk of the soul learning her secrets from the others dwelling inside her, or leaving the Ritual with a missing soul, she would simply ask her questions the old fashioned way.

Pulling her hood over her head, she smiled, and through force of will pressed the soul into the cooling corpse.

The body gasped, the proximity to life reinvigorating it for long enough that she would be able to finish her task. In the back of her head, she could hear the Elder Voracious cursing her abominable acts. Depending on who you asked, reanimation was either a grievous sin or entirely impossible. In either case, she preferred to keep her activities quiet, if only to avoid the endless nagging that would inevitably occur.

Kneeling beside the crippled body, she placed a hand on one of its broken legs. There was little chance the transplanted soul would try to get up and run, but she preferred not to take any chances in the matter.

“Night-flier,” she said to it, voice calm and void of emotion. “What do you seek?”

“Where am I?” it replied, operating the jaw in an open and closed, clacking manner, reminiscent of the wooden maw of a nutcracker. “Where is my body?”

“Dying with the rest, I’d imagine,” she replied, pushing the soul to keep it on track. “You were headed for a metal coffin; for what purpose did you flee?”

Eyes lolling awkwardly in its sockets, the jaw creaked again in a waterfall of phonemes. “In service to the Monarch. The Mon. The Iron Royal. We fortify the realm.”

“The Ardent Fortification, yes. Against what do you stand?” Elishya’s mouse squeaked in the field behind her, and she let her attention waver for a moment to send it back to the fire. The Ardent had all entered their robotic shells, all but the one she was questioning. Their chaperones were beginning to look concerned. She would have to hurry.

“Against the corruption of flesh. Flessssssh,” it drawled, as though forgetting the function of its tongue. “We stand for immortality and perfection, eschewing rot and ruin.”

Elishya sat back on her heels, hands curled in her lap. “Immortality, you say?” she said evenly, considering the creature’s words. “But how do you keep yourself alive?”

“We never die. We never die.”

Elishya frowned, tilting her head slightly. “The flesh ends, night-flier, and without it your time is never long. Tell me how you live within a cold metal coffin?”

“We’ll persist where you will fail and fall and eventually rule over you all.” Its voice shrilled into a grotesque rhyme, and it repeated its final words over and over in a stunted lilt.

“Tell me how,” she insisted. The corpse stared at her, mouth continuing to push out the same words it had been uttering before. Elishya sighed.

“I suppose that’s more than I should have expected. You’ve been very helpful.” Drawing a dagger, she leaned forward on her hands and knees and sliced the body’s neck from ear to ear, the still-warm blood running in rivulets down the pasty skin and soaking into the rags the peasant had been wearing when she’d first killed him. She could feel the man’s original soul recoil in horror within her, impotent to do anything and quickly silenced by the others she embodied.

The soul fled, but not before Elishya captured it the same way as before, leading it via the field mouse back to its original destination. Confronted with the larger temptation of its body, it lost interest in the miniscule charm held by the mouse, and slipped into the metal chassis intended for its occupation.

The circle of worried Ardent watched as the steel creature shuddered to life, its perpetually-open eyes glowing a bright green as the soul settled, trapped within its new shell for eternity. It pushed itself excitedly to its feet, head whipping back and forth between the startled Ardent waiting for it to animate.

“I was caught by a witch in a black robe. She questioned me, us, the great Iron Royal.” The mechanical’s legs buckled under the new, unfamiliar weight of its body, and the remaining attending humans caught it before it could fall.

The Head Ardent glanced at his disciples. “It’s not infrequent that souls experience delusions in the transference.”

“This one seems a bit more creative than most,” one of them replied quietly.

“It’s no matter,” the Head Argent replied, ceasing conversation with a wave of his hand. “Let us help our new Fortified back to the palace.”

“Black witch, black witch, ripping out my secrets,” the transported soul exclaimed, chattering aimlessly as the Ardent walked it away with the rest.

For her part, Elishya watched them disappear along the path, leaving their fire to burn in the darkness as she took to the shadows herself, mouse skittering at her heels as they returned home.

[mamamidnight]

Dream Journal

Nightmare tiiiiime. Woo. ; v ;"

So there was a reference back to a video game I'd played in other dreams where you have to rifle through this desk in a library without getting caught and I didn't but as I was avoiding suspicion and eventually was removed from being suspect, I decided to follow behind the girl who was trying to hunt for me earlier (class president), and the strangely charming teacher she was with, following behind him herself. She was plainfaced in normal clothes, with black hair back in a ponytail. He was taller than her, who was already a taller girl, and was a tan white guy with ragged light brown hair n a beard n moustache in a blue button up dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, a violet and blue striped tie with inklings of gray in fine lines intermixed and black slacks and sneakers.

They gestured to two books sitting on display on top of one of the shelves out on the floor closest to the door. They were large, hard bound, thin books, each with a figure laying down in a bed on the cover facing us ala Regan in The Exorcist drawn black and white in what looked to be like the style of the scary stories to read in the dark illustrations. The book on the left had a slightly decayed girl (visible around the edges of her forehead), staring at the viewer blankly, but wide eyed with glasses. Hair was shoulder length and cut reminiscent of my hair but actual sideparted bangs and she looked about 10 to 12 ish. On the other book cover was a man, hair short but longer on the top, tousled and pointed a bit to the viewers right (one could tell this was his hair having been messed up) with a large chain draped over, to the viewer’s, right shoulder. His decay was much more visible; around the edges of his forehead, his mouth, his nose, etc. His expression looked more pained and was looking just to the viewers right, as though over the viewer’s shoulder in fear. The girl picks up the right cover, flipping through in mild curiosity.

The teacher gestured to the two books covers with the girl behind him on the other side of the bookcase (the right). Looking at them both, he commented something akin to “Two different covers for the same book. Interesting to see the takes on the story...” He then looks to the one on the left. “... even if one is only right.” He then glances at the book in the girl’s hands, back cover suggesting the shilouette of the man at profile is hooked and chained open as he cries out in pain, that shillouette having a cave esque area in a jungle shown in the back and foreground in black against the white of the shilouette. “The other seems to capture the more... gruesome parts of the story, even if exaggerated.”

THEN SOMEHOW FUCKING MAGICALLY I’m in the book. At the beginning of the tale, I’m with some man (who I assume to be my uncle [definitely family, but not close enough to be my father) who ends up with us taking care of a skeleton that had been possessed by his own ghost that was fighting along side us that had collapsed, his soul leaving his body (specifically shown as a soft pink light leaving his eye sockets and that same light that was around his skeletal frame fading away). We’re in some sort of earthy brown cave with stallagtites n stallagmites all over by the edges. The man (my uncle??) takes the bones as I look at the skeleton, still all in one piece, worried. I aks something like “will we be able to bring him back?” to which my uncle replies something like “I know of a way”. Draws some sort of circle around the body and magic n shit after placing him to the side near where some of the stallagtites n mites are and one thing leads to another and the skeleton has his flesh and organs and clothing he died in once more on his frame and jumps up, beginning to jog. Looks a bit like a viking with a long black beard and soft leather and fur lined cap with horns as well as those same materials on his clothing. He carries around his axe and sword he was fighting with as a skeleton earlier and grins to us as he moves, thanking my uncle [ehhh saying that unsettles me for whatever reason] and telling us his name is Licorice. Yeah, not shitting you. He’s extremely tall... a half giant, I’d say. He thanks my uncle for bringing him back. Very Reinhardt esque guy, though not necessarily in voice.

Somehow time skip and I’m not me anymore but I’ve turned into Freyja (itsblackfriday) carrying this ostritch feather black fan and hiding my face slightly from fans we pass by in the halls of what looks to be a school like environment but more so a theater. We go backstage (Licorice, assumedly, but he looks different... still tall as fuck but in jeans, a tshirt, sneakers, and has his head entirely shaved bald... you can see the sort of slight hook to his nose [reminiscent of the owner from the Fever The Ghost video] and just... age in his face annnnd my uncle, who honestly I can’t remember much about appearance other than being heavier set) and the woman leading me explains that there was only one person they knew could help train me to sing in front of all those people and leads us through people backstage occasionally staring until we reach the edge of the stage and turn back around, and low and behold, it’s Jillian Venters, dressed in all of her finery with GORGEOUS makeup. She leads us down the left exit of the stage (like Guaome’s stage) and as I hide behind my fan again as people begin cheering as they see me, Licorice gets sidetracked by the audience and interacting with them (specifically some young women he’s looking at in curious wonder) as he keeps moving and Jillian rattles of some stuff to my uncle and I about performing, etc. As we exit through the gym doors (Guajome), I look back at Licorice, who is still moving around, still talking with the audience... he’s much more slow and curious right now.

I turn back to my uncle, mentioning his interaction as Jillian parts from us, and he mentions that Licorice is a creature that has to keep moving. He can’t just stand or else he’ll waste away (decaying slowly into nothingness). I, having obviously seen him walking upright, ask howhe hasn’t already wasted away, to which my uncle replies that those creatures are very adept at skipping. Just to keep them moving. I finally get on stage to start singing, and I’m shy and a little nervously awkward about things and then I pull a Valentina and forget the words to this song called Wicked and make some up, gaining some comedic laughs from the audience. I accidentally trip off the stage, and there is Licorice, rushing over and catching me in his arms. As he stands there, he begins wasting away until he’s just an upper torso, arms, and a head, moving like Ed from Ben and Ed when Ed is sliced in a similar way. We rush backstage as the audience stares, mouths agape or gasping in confusion as to just what the fuck is going on. Now I’m suddenly me again as Licorice and my uncle (I think his name is Ed for some reason?? that just came to mind) exit through the prop room while I stay inside from a moment to catch my breath. Due to some of Licorice’s body leaving him, that part of him possesses these black, fur like filaments that were set out for me by Ed in the prop room (which is now dark inside, with the only light coming from the open door on the other side of it, through which there are Ed and Licorice. I see long, large spider legs manifesting and book it through the door, turning back to see a giant black widow snapping just behind me as I leave red eyes reflective in the darkness, panic in my eyes. Ed and Licorice see this, turning back, and stay behind to confront it as my legs carry me out of the building and I keep running to my apartment, tire causing me to catch my breath as I look, confused, back at the school like area, now hidden behind a tall building, as I feel myself slightly wearing away.

The camera goes back to view Licorice (actually I think maybe Licorice’s modern name might be Ed?? idk) and the spider fighting it out as they are flung together out a window and into an alleyway, Licorice getting bitten by the spider on his neck/shoulder area as it tears into him and he cries out in pain. Shaking it off, he pushes through the doors in the alley to scramble back inside as he runs away. The spider, first after their fall and now as he chases him, says something like “What if she saw you like this? How weak you are? She’ll be mine next~” and proceeds to bite him once more, causing him to wear away more.

I wake up. Looking back at this, I think that the second cover of the man is some artist’s interpretation of Licorice in that moment after he, assumedly, gets away safely enough to spend the rest of his short life rotting in the bed, but looking scared over the viewer’s shoulder at what I assume to be the spider. The other cover, that of the girl who looks like me at, like, twelve (although I didn’t have that hair yet, but I think it was imagined to closer connect me to the idea that that was supposed to be me), I think is supposed to represent how young I am in the dream and how I, myself, begin decaying soon thereafter, referencing the teacher’s comment on how THIS cover is “right”, implying that I eventually take Licorice’s place on the bed, but I look to the viewer (you) for help as for now, I can only sit, afraid of what will hunt me down eventually.

Cheery, huh?

[douglas-writes]

No Sleep Part II

His Majesty's eyes trail out the window, where the shadows that the towers of the castle cast loom over the courtyard.

"The sun's just past the peak of its arc," he remarks in a musing tone, getting to his feet.  "Her Majesty will be wanting me, I suppose."

Cecil squints up at the king's ruffled sleepwear.  The bottom halves of the man's calves are visible just beneath the hem of his nightshirt, and his feet, much to Cecil's distaste, are tucked neatly into a pair of slippers.

"If I may be so bold as to suggest that you wear something else to meet Her Majesty?" Cecil says, ignoring Victor's heavy stares.

The king looks down at himself, his mouth falling open as if he's just realized what he's wearing.  "Right you are, Cecil!"  He tugs at the front of his shirt, the material falling airily back against his form.  "It won't do if I am not at my best for my wife, the queen."

If there's a note of bitterness in the last two words of the king's speech, Cecil can't say, not when all he shares with this man is something as shallow as an appearance.  The king waves goodbye, and leaves the two of them alone together.  As soon as the door shuts, Victor lets out an exaggerated sigh.

"Am I a nuisance?" Cecil asks him, receiving a quick shake of the head in answer.

"Not at all," and the words sound like the gracious lies of a thief with one hand in someone else's pocket.  "Not when you're quiet."

Cecil laughs into the palm of his hand.  "Do you really think I won't take offense to your words?"

"May I continue with the lesson, please?"

"Is there any use to learning this?"

Victor's mouth is a thin line that's neither up nor down.  He looks down his nose at Cecil, narrowing his dark eyes.  And then, he's turning back to the board they've hung up, pointing his chalk at his badly drawn diagram.  In seconds, the lecture spews out in his monotone voice right where he left off.  Cecil gives a huff, pressing his face into his hands.

"Hold," he calls.  Victor gives a noncommittal grunt, but goes quiet regardless.

"This isn't working," Cecil says, dropping his hands to the table with a slap.  When he stands, Victor steps forward, eyebrows furrowed.

"What are you doing..?"

"This isn't working," Cecil repeats, scratching his chin thoughtfully.  "I'm going back."

"I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?  I'm saying that I don't understand your lesson."

Victor deliberately squeezes his eyes shut.  Opening them again, he looks straight at Cecil and says, "I'm doing it the way the schoolteacher does it."

Cecil splutters out an undignified sounding laugh, one that makes Victor scowl at him.  He shoves his hand against his mouth, hiding the grin that unwittingly comes to his face.

"Sit back down," Victor commands, gesturing downwards with his index finger.  With his ruffled black hair and the wrinkle between his brow, he looks so harassed that Cecil can't help but give another chuckle.  Victor throws the heel of his hand against his eye, groaning to himself.

"It's been a while since my school days," Cecil says.  "And the schoolteacher never quite taught the way you do."

"Really."

His empty tone leaves no room for an answer, but that doesn't stop Cecil from piping up, "You were always asleep.  How could you have known?"

The other man, as grim as his features are, is a wonder to look at when his ears flush red and his eyes drift down to the ground, lips twitching as he fights to keep his scowl steady.  "The lesson," he mumbles, but his words ring empty.

"You're a dreadful teacher," Cecil admits, wearing a giddy grin.  "I'd rather reminisce with you for a bit.  Do you still talk to Sam?"

All at once, the vulnerability in Victor's frown dissipates, and he stands there, just as closed off as he had been when he stood behind the king and nodded mindlessly for all the platitudes that fell from the ruler's mouth as he fawned over his and Cecil's likeness.  What makes the smile drop from Cecil's face is the cold smile Victor directs towards him.  "Cecil, don't misunderstand.  I am only here as His Majesty's knight, for the king's sake, to be your instructor.  Sit down, please."

Cecil eyes the door, wondering what could possibly be done to stop him if he simply walks out.  It was comfortable enough living by himself before they dragged him to the castle; there's nothing that chains him here.

As if aware of his thoughts, Victor steps forward, placing a hand on Cecil's shoulder that clamps down painfully.  Setting his feet, Cecil stubbornly stands against the pressure before his legs give and he falls back into his seat.

Victor's nails dig into his skin through the cloth of his shirt, the sensation making Cecil reflexively hiss and bend his spine backwards.  He quickly reaches up to wrap his hands around the other man's arm, struggling to force him away before he can feel any telltale cracks.

"Victor!" he pleads, not able to bring himself to look him in the eyes, afraid to see his own miniscule reflection there.  He's released without a word, but Victor makes sure to shove him back before bringing his arm back to his side.

Something inside Cecil's chest, which he refuses to name, is sinking with a lurch.  He firmly presses his lips closed, afraid that it'll all back up into his throat if he's not careful.  Shame colors his cheeks, keeps his eyes trained on the polished surface of the table before him as he gingerly rubs his stinging shoulder.

When he was first apprenticed to the grocer, his thoughts would frequently wander to Victor.  Every time the grocer praised Cecil's ability to count up sums in his head, Cecil wondered what Victor was being praised for, if anything he had learned had helped him at all.  Every time Cecil brought home his pay and his mother, with tired lines crossing her forehead, would smile gratefully at him, he found himself envisioning Victor, his thin lips wavering on a smile as his loved one welcomed him home.  And always, in his fantasies, Victor had been the lanky, soft-spoken boy dozing off next to him, then waking up so sweetly with his head slowly rising, but his eyes still stubbornly glued shut.

Anything but this tall man in front of him who's put on muscle and bulk, who reluctantly elbows his way back into Cecil's life with indifferent words all the while daring to pledge his allegiance to someone who shares Cecil's own face.

He tentatively raises his head, catches a shadow of guilt on Victor's brow before it's chased away by irritation when their eyes meet.

Perhaps it's that shadow that gives him the courage to screw his face into a mockery of the king's vapid smile and say, "Rather unbecoming of a knight to raise his hand to the king."

There are no lessons to be learned on this day, much to Victor's chagrin.

---

His arms are useless bags of flesh at his sides, threatening to drag him down with their weight and send him toppling over as he makes his way through the aisles.  When he manages to will his right arm to rise, it begins to tremble when it passes the level of his elbow.  He sends a small frown its way, clenching his hand into a fist to steady it.

Trembling's no good.  If he notices, Sam'll goad him in that ruthless way of his.

Victor likes to think of his school years as an observation in strength, instead of the waste of time he frequently refers to it as.  Sam is the simplest example to look to.  Copper-haired, broad-shouldered Sam who allegedly got that crooked nose headbutting a boy four years older.  He was the taller of the two of them when it was just the two of them.  Two lackeys later, it's no longer the case, but Sam can still shove Victor aside with just a sweep of his arm.

His green-eyed seatmate, who never fails to greet him with a smile, never fails to point him in the right direction when he's addled from sleep and babbling half-coherent questions, is much less...remarkable.

Victor gives him the customary greeting: a lift of his eyebrows.  Some days, when he's not so exhausted, he stays conscious long enough to see Cecil nod back.

All around him, the aging floorboards creak with the other students chasing each other around the schoolhouse.  There's a clatter of desks as one of the younger kids trips over his own feet.  The snickers, mixed in with worried questions, of his friends reach Victor's ears in a jumbled mess.  The schoolhouse, he heard, was built before any of its current students were born, and it's been in need of renovations for a while.

However, even the faint fear that the building might collapse on top of them is just so horribly mundane.  He shoves his cheek against the palm of his hand, just about ready to drift off, if not for his arm complaining under the weight of his head.

A long time ago, when he was five, the knight who would travel all the way from the castle to visit his relatives in their quiet little village looked more like a steel wall than a flesh-and-bone person like all the other villagers.  The knight's name was Chester, but everyone referred to him as Sir Chester, and thus, in Victor's young mind, he came to be Serchester, the strange, almighty being who had two sets of heads: a metal one, and a more human-looking one.  Serchester couldn't speak very well with the metal one, which was why he was able to remove his metal one whenever he wished to, although Victor couldn't imagine why.  His human head was much less impressive than the metal one.

On his first days back, Serchester would weave his way around the looping alleyways that snake between houses built too close together, duck under low-hanging clothes that billow like flags in the wind, and make his way to the little crumbling statue hiding in the hollow of the ancient oak tree at the end of the avenue. Its stone face had long worn away beyond recognition, but the knight's purposeful footsteps slowed to a stop before it.  With his metal hand gesturing smoothly in the air, Serchester offered up a silent prayer to the statue of the town he had returned to, and Victor, unable to prolong his own need to worship any longer, crept out from behind a cobbled wall and spoke his respects to the statue as well.  His thoughts translated without a filter into his voice, and his words were borderline nonsense, but as he talked, a familiar warmth, reminiscent of waking up in the afternoon to his mother's soft humming, settled into him.

When they had both finished, Serchester's head turned to Victor with a scrape of metal on metal, and a deep voice came from him, strangely muffled. "Have you been following me, boy?"

Victor immediately shook his head; the answering grunt from Serchester didn't sound very convinced, but the knight still turned around and continued on his trek, the same curious boy in tow.  Even when women would lean in and giggle as they teasingly asked if Serchester had fathered a son during his time in the castle, and even as Serchester grew irritated and waved those questions away, he kept the same steady stride that even a boy could keep up with.

His own steps aligned themselves with the rhythm of Serchester's heavy footfalls, and as the sun inched lower and lower in the sky, it became easy to lull himself into believing that the monstrously loud clanks were his own footsteps.  He was a beast clad in armor, and the tracks in the dust that he could see over his shoulder were his work.  Victor could have pretended forever, up until the day Serchester took his daily patrol, and their path ended in a lone cart and horse standing by the road out of town.

Serchester clambered onto the cart, and Victor, with his tiny hands, reached up beyond his own shoulders to grab onto it too, only to have his hands slapped away.

"Who's the kid?" the cart's owner asked, leaning over from his seat to scrutinize Victor as he stubbornly attempted to climb again.

"Hell if I know," Serchester grunted.  "He's been following me since I came back."  And then, he turned to Victor, his voice taking on a joking tone.

"No following me here, boy."

"Why not?" Victor demanded, voice strained from his struggle to hang onto the cart.

A gauntleted hand descended onto his head, roughly ruffling his hair.  A few strands were caught in the metal; he winced as Serchester pulled his hand away.

The knight turned to look down the road, looking infinitely wise and inspiring with that unreadable visor of his.  "A man's gotta face his wilderness alone," he proclaimed. "And mine's the castle."

Victor's jaw dropped open.  He found his grip loosening on the cart, and when he fell back, the cart drove off, its wheels spinning dirt into his wide eyes.  He coughed into the crook of his arm, rubbing at his teary eyes.  There had been no time for him to say any sort of goodbye, but in the wake of Serchester's last words, he had forgotten any need to.

The walk back home was just that.  A walk home.  The scuffle of the soles of his shoes against the uneven cobblestone roads left no resonance in his ears.  The rays of the sun shone unforgivingly on him now that he had no giant to hide behind.  He glared as he squinted into the sky, a hand held over his brow.

At five, he had already determined that knighthood was the only path for him.

At thirteen, he sits with his head in his arms, counting how many unsteady breaths he can take before he completely drifts off to sleep.  Sir Chester, despite taking him in as a squire, insists on his attending school until the age of sixteen.  Says that it'll broaden his mind, give him other options.  The irony makes Victor scowl into the sleeve of his shirt.  The droning of the schoolteacher does nothing to enrich his mind; it drives him further into the security of his dreams.

There's no wilderness here, and that fact makes it easier for Victor to turn his thoughts away to the next day, the next set of training exercises that Sir Chester's planned for him.  Makes it easier for him to close his eyes to all of this, save his vision for greater things.