#wcsmp milo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

scribbling-dragon · 2 years ago

Text

i shine only with the light you give me

summary:

He pulls it from its place beside the wall carefully, reverently, aware of the fragility of the items inside. Glass bottles clink against each other and he draws them free delicately, all too aware of how easily they could smash and smear the lines of chalk- how easily everything could go wrong here. There is no room for mistakes, not now, not ever; he has one shot at this, and he’s determined to make it work.

He doesn't know what he’ll do if it doesn't.

(ao3 link)

(3,437 words)

this is a hurt no comfort fic. this is angst. there is casual discussion of death within and many references that toe the line between just being a little disturbing and mildly gore-y. if you’re worried about that, maybe consider checking the ao3 tags for the warnings

(also shout out to rhi and hoax for enabling me. hope this fic makes you cry <3 /lh)

He drags the chalk over the ground, feeling the rough grind of it against the stone as he turns in a tight circle. The sound of chalk on rock fills his ears, grating against his nerves as he draws the circle, running over it again to ensure the lines do not smudge- that they remain firm and clear in their purpose.

He steps back, carefully stepping over the previous circles of chalk, neatly sidestepping the runes scratched into the floor. It had taken him several hours to draw them all, and then several more to actually carve them deep enough for this spell to work. If his hands weren't already numb with decay, the work would have numbed them for him.

He has everything he needs, he reminds himself. It is difficult to breathe, for some reason, though it should be easy at this point. He is doing what he set out to do- this was the purpose of this competition, of winning it. His chest continues to feel heavy, as though it is slowly being filled with leaden weights. He pushes past the thought before it can truly begin to choke him, reaching for the small bag instead.

He doesn't know what he’ll do if it doesn't. If his best isn't enough. He pushes that thought aside too, before it can add to the weight bearing down on his chest.

He holds the book open in front of him, eyes darting back to the instructions every few words. If one thing went wrong, just one, he could ruin this entirely, and then it would be worthless- everything he has done would be ruined.

He treks through the instructions slowly, ignoring the growing weight in his chest, threatening to drag him to the ground with its sheer force. He blinks past it, ignoring the hooks it has in his chest, tugging at his flesh- trying to rip it free of the bone, to pull him apart until he’s nothing but a swirling mass of rot and decay and death and misery and mourning. He inhales, chest shuddering, waits as the hooks in his flesh loosen until they begin to tear free and he can breathe easily again- as easily as one can when rocks continue to sit in the base of his lungs, at least.

He makes his slow, painstaking way through the instructions. Draws lines on the floor with a shaking, gloved hand. Ignores the way his hands shake, his arms trembling too, as though he can hardly keep himself held up. He shakes like a strong breeze would rip him to shreds, reduce him to nothing. He continues tracing lines on the floor, muttering the instructions beneath his breath as he works, repeating the words over and over until he’s certain they're permanently imprinted on his brain.

He sits back on his heels as he finishes, cloak sweeping behind him with a soft rustle of fabric. He stares at the ring in front of it. The incredibly detailed ring with runes from a book that shouldn't even exist. The existence of the instructions within this book shouldn't be possible- it shouldn't be possible. It goes against everything he’d managed to previously learn of necromancy, defies the very laws of existence and being.

And yet, the book exists. It sits heavy in his palm, the pages snapping shut as he stands. It echoes around the cavern he’s set himself up in- a very large, empty cavern. It is empty, despite the darkness that still looms in every corner, pooling across the floor in thick patches of shadows. And yet nothing slips free from those shadows, nothing creeps towards him across the cavern. Perhaps they know better than to approach him- perhaps they can sense the power thrumming in his veins, bubbling beneath his skin; barely contained.

Or perhaps they simply recognise him as one of their own. Recognise the darkness that has curled up and made itself a home in his chest. He doesn't shudder at the thought like he once might have- once did. The thought is all too familiar (if it lingers at the edges of his mind for long enough, anything can become familiar) and he can push it away easily, allows it to fade into the shadows again as he focuses on the next step of the process.

He draws the last item out of the bag carefully, almost reverently. He cradles the cloth-wrapped item in careful hands, holding it close to his chest as he takes a step back from the prepared items, wary of breaking this in some way- of ruining the ritual before it can even start.

He pulls the cloth back, allows it to fall away from the item snugly wrapped within it. It gleams beneath the dim light as it’s revealed, and he finds himself unable to pull his eyes away from it. It has been…a long time since he last allowed himself to look at this, something he had promised himself he would not look at again until he had a solution. Until he could bring him back.

He runs a finger along the curve of the bone, tracing over the roughness of it. The fabric of his gloves catches on the surface of the bone, and he can hear the rough rustling of fabric on bone. He can almost remember the sensation of it beneath his hands, long hours of running a thoughtful hand over the bone in thought or in anxiety or in a moment where he has no comfort other than the singular remnant he still has.

He does not remove his gloves, content to remain in the memory of its feeling rather than to run his hands over it. He wouldn't be able to feel what it is that he remembers, the nerves in his fingers have been dead for a good, long while. The decay of his hands had numbed the flesh until it was nearly impossible for him to function properly. The gloves had only been a temporary solution- more for anyone else than himself; to spare them from having to watch as his hands rotted and withered from within, to stop them from staring on in horror as the flesh covering his hands began to peel back, revealing nothing but necrotic flesh beneath.

He wonders, momentarily, whether there is any flesh left on his hands- whether the rot has begun to crawl upwards. He hasn't bothered to check.

He steps forward, the bone still cradled to his chest, careful to not smudge the chalk lines on the floor; gingerly stepping over the carved runes. He lays the bone down in the centre of the circle. It clinks against the stone as he sets it down, despite how careful he is with it. The sound echoes around him for several long moments and he takes his time with folding the cloth up, tucking it away in his pocket with numb hands and a trembling heart.

The demon he trapped does not even stir as he releases it. It does not move from where it stands. It recognises him as something akin to it- something that has clawed its way out of hell and earned its place in the current world. It watches him, likely aware of its fate. But it does not move, does not even flinch as he steps forward.

He doesn't bother with salt. To do so would only trap him in a spell of his own making.

His knife is wickedly sharp, gleaming in the light as it drops into his hand, released from the small holster in his sleeve. The weight is comforting in his hand, even as he fails to register the sensation beyond that. His hands curl around its hilt from habit rather than out of a response to any sensation.

The demon does not even struggle, and if he still believed in some kind of higher power- something that looked down on him with benevolent eyes, then he would have thanked it in that moment for making the sacrifice swift. The weights in his chest seem to only increase; his lungs feel as though they're filling with water, choking him slowly, allowing him to feel every moment of it as he watches the blood drip freely from the end of his knife.

He can feel it on his face too, warm against his cheek as it slides down, slowly dripping from his chin. The major arteries are always far more convenient for the spells that require a blood sacrifice, but they're incredibly messy- they spray blood everywhere and even if he thinks he’s managed to avoid it, he’ll always find some on his clothes, or in his hair, or caked beneath his chin, just out of sight. He has grown used to the feeling of blood on his skin, of the tacky feeling it creates as it dries and sticks, and so he does not bother to wipe it from him any longer. There is no one to hide the blood from any more.

The demon crumbles into ash with barely a sigh, fading away as the runes begin to glow, lighting up the cavern with their light as the spell activates. He takes several hurried steps backwards, wary of being within the circle when the process truly begins. He is wary of the light it gives off, too, shielding his eyes as the glow of it only seems to grow brighter.

He’s reluctant to look away, to avert his eyes at all during this process- he wants to watch as a life is remade, as the laws of the very Universe are defied in this moment. To defy such higher beings would send lesser people scrambling into submission, in fear of what punishment they may be struck with. But there is nothing that could be done to send him cowering in fear, not any longer.

He has cowered before, when everything he loved- everything he needed with the entirety of his being was ripped away from him, no matter how hard he clutched at the threads of his life and willed them to come together into something that made sense.

He lowers his arm, watches as the light remakes him.

Bones crack, snapping into place as the light reforms a skeleton. Something to build from. The sinews and tendons wrap into place, cushioning the bones as they spring into place. He can hear the flesh slithering, the wet sounds of blood and gore snaking over and around the bones, holding them in place.

The flesh begins to layer on after that- returns, layer by layer, wrapping around the skeleton like an elaborate weave of fabrics, if those fabrics were made of muscle and tissue and blood rather than threads and fibres. He’s certain a lesser person would have been ill with the sight, but he can only continue watching on; his eyes are no doubt as wide as they can be without them falling from their sockets, drinking in the sight ahead of them, in utter awe of the power thrumming through his veins- the very same power that is undoing the wrongs of the world- righting the injustices that were dealt.

The being- the person gasps, and he inhales sharply too, staring as the person (the person) hunches over and begins retching, hands braced against the ground in front of them as they continue to heave.

The weights in his chest have lifted, as though they were never even there in the first place. And he draws a breath in, feels it feel his lungs in a way that hasn't been possible since he died. But he isn't dead, not anymore, and he won't be again- he’s powerful enough to protect him now, nothing as trivial as death should every challenge either of them again.

He steps forward, heart beating a tattoo against his ribs, like a bird trying to escape its cage. He’s certain it’s loud enough for him to hear, but he doesn't turn to look, not until he clears his throat- it feels a little too much like he’s choking for his own comfort, but he pushes past it anyway, smiling as best as he can.

He- Milo turns to look at him, hair swinging about his face. And Scott just about loses the breath he just regained as he takes in Milo’s face- does nothing but admire it for the first time in years. He’s able to look at Milo’s face without memory blurring it, without it being distorted by images of him- bloody and ruined and glassy-eyed invading every thought of him.

His throat feels thick, something lodged deep within it- enough to make him choke on his words before he can even think to speak. He swallows his next ones down as Milo continues staring at him, eyes horrifyingly wide as he simply continues to stare at Scott. That shock - that fear, fear that shouldn't exist on his face, why is Milo watching him like that, why is he looking at him like that, that’s not how he looks at him, why is he looking at him like that - only lasts for a moment before Milo’s face twists, turns to something snarling and ugly and hating.

“What business do you have with me, demon,” Milo spits, nothing but disgust and distaste colouring his tone- marring his face. There is something lodged in Scott’s throat again, something that he cannot swallow past- cannot even breathe past. He panics, for a moment, raising a hand to his throat.

Milo flinches back at the movement, skittering back, as far out of range as he can manage within a few moments. Milo shakes where he stands, gangly limbs trembling as he continues to stare at Scott with nothing but hatred. It would be enough to make immortal beings bow beneath the weight of their own emotions, despite their unfeeling nature- it’s enough to make Scott feel as though he’s drowning.

“Milo,” he whispers. He can't force himself to make him raise his voice above a whisper, above the merest murmur, as though anything more would startle Milo into fleeing. And he doesn't know how he would deal with that- to have him back, to know that he is out there and wants nothing to do with him.

“How do you know my name?” Milo draws himself up, some of his hair drooping over his eyes, coming to rest in the way that Scott remembers. And Scott would reach up, whenever he noticed it had happened, and he would brush it away, and Milo would smile at him, and sometimes, just sometimes, there would be a kiss- an exchange of affections over the smallest of actions. “Speak, demon.”

“I- Milo,” he steps forward, heart clenching painfully in his chest as Milo scrambles back several more steps. He was always one to act brave in the face of danger, to act confident even when he wasn't- to bluff his way through everything in the hopes that they might move on, that they might pick an easier target and leave him alone. “Please.”

“I thought pleading was below demonic entities.” Milo’s eyes are dark, nothing like their usual, cheerful colour. It feels like a blow to the chest, something that almost sends him staggering with the weight of it. “Tell me your demands, and then leave me alone.”

“Don't you recognise me?” He pleads, voice wavering. He feels weak in the knees, almost dizzy from the relief of Milo being alive and sick with the way Milo is speaking.

“You're like all of the others,” Milo says. His eyes are cold. “Covered in blood and swathed in darkness; a monster that has simply stepped out of the darkness and forgotten how to return. The same as everyone else.”

“No, no,” he steps forward, shaking, shaking his head too. “It’s me- Scott. Your sunshine, please, Milo.” Milo doesn't move backwards, face twisting, then relaxing into something closer to horror than disgust.

“Scott,” Milo breathes out, eyes wide. Scott isn't sure of what Milo sees, but he can imagine it as he looks down at himself. His gloves are tacky with dried blood, shining red when the light catches it just right. He can feel the stiffness on his face, patches of dried blood sprayed over his face. “What did you do.”

“I brought you back,” he steps forward again, heart thudding when Milo allows him to get close. “I did this, I did all of this for you. And it worked. You're here, you're actually here and you're alive and you're not just something that I remember- you're here.”

“No,” Milo flinches back from Scott’s hand, and he pulls it back as though he’s been burned (not that he would be able to tell if he had been, the nerves in his fingers are frayed- destroyed so utterly that nothing registers now), breath getting stuck in his throat. The water in his lungs has returned, and he has to remind himself that it’s not real, that any witch that could have filled his lungs with water isn't here anymore- she’s long gone. Everyone else is gone. It’s just him and Milo. Just him and Milo, like it’s always been, like it will be. “No, no, no,” Milo shakes his head, and then he’s tearing himself free, breaking loose of the almost-hold Scott had on him. “This is wrong, this isn't right- what did you do?”

“I- I fixed it.”

His feet are rooted to the floor, as though they have grown roots and bound themselves to the rock. He cannot move- cannot chase after Milo, cannot follow him. He can never follow Milo- can never chase after him, because Milo goes places where he cannot follow, no matter how hard he had tried.

“No,” Milo backs up with another step, shaking his head. More of his hair falls over his face, and Scott aches desperately to push it back behind his ear and kiss him. “There are some things that shouldn't be fixed- some things that aren't worth it.”

“You're worth it,” he cries.

“Not like this,” Milo says. He’s several paces away now, slowly continuing to distance himself. And Scott cannot bring himself to follow- he can never follow Milo when he steps away, walks where Scott cannot chase him. It makes something wounded in his chest snarl. “There’s nothing that is worth this.”

“What is this,” he begs, pleads, hopes for the conversation to stretch on a few moments longer. Milo cannot leave, cannot go, Scott has only just gotten him back- for him to leave so soon would be a new kind of torture he’s certain he wouldn't be able to bear. His heart trembles in his chest, a weak, fluttering thing.

“I called you a demon before,” Milo raises his chin high. His eyes are still cold. It feels like ice down his spine. “Before I knew who you were- who you had been. Perhaps I was not far off in my initial assumption.”

“But…I brought you back,” he cries after Milo; he chokes as Milo’s back remains turned and the man remains turned away from him, remains walking away from him. He’s leaving, and Scott has grown roots and planted himself here, in this cave, unable to chase after him- he has never had the will to pursue Milo, why can't he bring himself to do it? “Aren't you happy to be here?”

“No,” Milo does not stop. Milo does not look back at him. He continues to walk away, and his voice echoes around the cavern. Scott bites his tongue, chokes back a sob. “You are not the Scott I knew. You are a rotten husk that still uses that name, but you are not something I would call sunshine.”

And Milo leaves.

Milo disappears, and Scott does not chase him. He does not follow him. He has never been able to follow him, has never been able to summon the will to continue on without him and yet, in the moment, he cannot bring himself to chase after the only proof of his success.

Milo slips through his fingers. Again.

#juno.writes #scott smajor #witchcraft smp #witchcraft scott #witchcraft smp fic #wcsmp #wcsmp milo #wcsmp scott #wcsmp fic

79 notes · View notes