alright @kchzndrvh because i love you, here is a short sneak peek of the halo!lilith au.
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lilith collapses on the edge of the bed, catching beatrice by her bandoleer of knives and drawing her down for a kiss.
it tastes of sulfur and iron and the bright ozone crackle of the halo’s lingering touch. there is no escaping it. these days lilith is radiation and cellular death, but beatrice’s lips are warm and astonishingly soft.
blood slides down her legs, pooling inside her boots, laddering like nail-marks in cheap tights, and lilith feels beatrice fall onto her knees, pressing both palms down onto lilith’s thighs, blood sticky on her fingers - and why not, when they are both all dressed up in it?
the halo in lilith’s body is no gentle death, and perhaps some part of it has soured inside of her because it does not protest, at all, as beatrice leans into her. she talks – and talks and talks – about how it is possible use a planet to slingshot an object into space. gravity assist, they call it, and it is what you do when you want to escape the solar system.
when you want leave the light of the sun; to abandon all but the memory of warmth on your back, of fire living a breath above your spine.
lilith feels this way; catapulted by her mouth into a space she is too rotten to occupy.
inside of her the halo is a profanity. it is a weapon and she is not a reliquary but a sheathe, wrapped around it, watching it drag bodies up into the air. watching them ribbon apart to the tune of its shrill song. listening to flesh collapse underneath a pressure like the deepest ocean, fountaining outwards, sounding uncannily like beatrice’s recordings of rain, which she listens to through a single earphone, at night, so that lilith can hear the soft static in the silence of the safe house, or the hotel room, or the backseat of a car.
she is a halo-bearer in the way that a knife is a piece of metal. on a technicality. a half-truth with a sharp edge
watching, while blood rains around them, the whipcrack of beatrice’s body, blurred by all the moisture but still visible. always there.
beatrice - marvel, menace - only hunching her shoulders against the mist that can be made of a human body. pushing her loose, wet hair out of her face. drawing another knife.
like it is nothing; like they are everything.
desperately, there, lilith thinks but does not say, does not dare to ask it aloud.
darling, have i made you terrible?
but she cannot think. she cannot cry caution or put her hands where they ought to go, because beatrice is slipping the tip of her tongue into lilith’s mouth. and it is better than prayer.
everything tastes red and they are both wretched, but there are fingers slipping into her hair. her scalp is slick and blood-greased, and the interruption of human hands sends trails of imperfectly dried blood down over her temples, around her ears.
touch sends it sliding down the curve of her jaw, but for all that it is ghastly, for all that lilith wants to rip her mouth away because it is wrong – to be so wretched and so wanted – she cannot.
there is no hesitation in beatrice’s mouth. there is not the slightest flinch in her attention.
and so, willingly, wretchedly, lilith closes her eyes, trying to imagine that the blood in her mouth is all her own.
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When I was a little kid, I asked my mother 'What does a child need to survive in a desert?'. She wouldn't give me a straight answer, so I had to pull it out of her bit by bit. Would a child live if they had fruit? 'That's not enough', she said. Would it work if the child had milk? 'Maybe'. I kept asking what else, and then she put the dots together, and figured out why I was asking. 'Children can't survive without their mother', she told me curtly. I frowned, not liking this response. 'But, if they had fruit and milk?' I insisted. 'No. Child can't survive without a mother. Don't even think about it.'
But, I was thinking about it, and she knew it. She knew I was trying to find a way to escape the house we were living in. I was 6, maybe 7 at the time. She repeated over and over to me, you would die outside this house. Nobody else would take you in, there's no place for you anywhere else. You would only be a burden.
I didn't like that. I didn't like the idea of being a burden anywhere. But, I supposed she was right, other people didn't need a stray kid.
In my quest of not being a burden, I wanted to learn how to work. In the house I lived in, there were countless chores to be done, but somehow I was always stuck with the ones that required no knowledge or skill. Put the logs over there, clean, carry this over there, sweep, scrub, throw, wash, dig, gather, relocate, hold, lift, put down, bury, shut up, and don't ask questions. I wouldn't get any answers even if I did ask, why am I doing this, whats it for? I wasn't to know. I was kept blind, following orders, up to myself to figure out what was this a part of.
When I'd be ordered to do something I didn't know how, I would be told I 'should have learned it by watching others do it', but I was never free to watch while others worked. In fact, if anyone in the house was doing anything, and I was sitting or lying down, I would be screamed at for 'just watching others work and doing nothing'.
Reaching adulthood, I really wanted to know about cooking, but mother always chased me out of the kitchen if she was making something, or she would chore me with 'peeling the vegetables', which would then take all of my attention. I tried to sneak into the kitchen and learn by myself, but she chased me away as soon as she'd catch me, telling me off for 'wasting resources'. But, as she noticed my inclination, she decided to inform me, in a very clear manner, that I would never in my life know how to cook. You see, I was clumsy, slow, stupid, and would always only mess it up and waste precious ingredients. It was far above my abilities to learn how to cook. She gave me a clove of garlic to cut, and I couldn't do it well on my first try. She told me it was a proof that I was 'no good'. Then she gave me an onion to cut, and yelled at me for 'taking too long'. Now it was proven twice over. I couldn't cook. Everything would be ruined because I was taking too long to cut the vegetables. Also, I didn't know where food was even stored in the kitchen. She would never show me. (The food was stored in boxes in the basement. I would find out years later.)
With a heavy heart, I gave up on learning how to cook, and resigned myself to feeling forever guilty for 'eating their food', which was something my family regularly held over my head. You know, after I helped digging, working the soil, sowing, planting, weeding and spraying, it was still their land, and their food, and I 'had no right to it'. They were careful never to show me how to actually grow food, but just kept me busy with menial tasks that were never explained to me.
I was convinced my mother was a good person, because she usually wouldn't forbid me to eat, and if she wanted me to do a task, she would tell me in a humane way. For example 'Can you do x?'. The other family members had a more crude way, something like 'Why are you waiting to be told, do I have to spell out everything to you??' so her polite manner had completely won me over, I would have done anything for my sickly, poor, kind and generous mother, who was so worried for my troubled self, who couldn't learn how to do anything, or survive outside the house.
Even though my mother repeated through the years, that I would never be able to do anything, and also berated me if I ever tried to learn a new skill because 'it was worthless and wouldn't earn me any money', I would still sometimes gather a bit of momentum and courage, and figure hey, I should try to get a job. It would take months to gather that kind of confidence. And one such time, I announced my intentions, I'm going to look for a job! My mother laughed without looking at me. 'Who would hire you? You can't do anything.' Poof. That was my balloon of confidence, popping and then deflating into a tiny bulb. I didn't think she had any reason to lie to me. She knew me all my life. If she was confident that I can't do anything... then it had to be true. Otherwise why would she say that?
The rest of the family, of course, agreed. My grandmother, she had fantastic stories to share with me about how quickly I would be kidnapped, robbed, murdered, tortured, sold into slavery, you know all that good stuff that happens to every person outside their parents house. My father, who inherited massive amounts of land, 2 houses, illegally got his hands on a third, earned a very formidable salary, and constantly had me working for free for him, told me that it was in fact, impossible for a person to survive out there without inheritance. I frowned because I didn't agree with this, and I asked, what about the people who get a job and move into the city? They were living just from their wages. He shook his head and said that it may look like that, but they're all just living from their family's resources. I was old enough to not believe him. It's him who couldn't live without his inheritance, because he's an idiot, I thought.
So, I finally got to earn some money online. It was slow, and very tiny amount, I was freelancing and there was no consistent income, but my enthusiasm on being able to earn anything, was strong. After all, I had earned absolutely nothing working for my family for forever, and this was mine. I remember securing a big project and rushing to reassure my mother, to tell her that I was in fact, good for something, and she didn't have to worry anymore, I was going to make something of myself.
'You will never get another project again.' Her face was dead serious. 'You were lucky once. Don't count on this happening again'. I was speechless. Self doubt swallowed me whole. Was this only one-time occurrence? Was I stupid to believe it would happen again? I despaired. She was my mother, and she was older than me, and she knew the world better than I did. She wouldn't say this for no reason. Could she be right?
She brought it up to the rest of the family, and they all had things to say about it. 'Online work isn't real. The money doesn't even exist. You'll never see it. Show us where is this money. You can't, can you? And even if it does exist, it will all get stolen from you'.
Leaving me wrapped in my survival panic attack, they went on with their day, satisfied that they put me back in my place (which was an ongoing panic attack). I eventually recovered, and continued to work on projects. I was approached and told I would fail constantly, but even then, what could I do but work with my anxiety levels up to the roof and wait to fail? I had to try.
I didn't believe I would make it, because my mother's words 'you'll die, you'll die' were on repeat in my head, but I realized I would die in that house anyway, so I ran away from home. My mother was worried about me; she was in fact, so worried she called every person who knew me, all of friends, relatives, their kids, and told them about how badly worried she was for me, and how I needed to come back home. These people, well they were all worried too you see, so they had to call me, to tell me that I'm breaking my mother's heart, that I don't know how it feels to have a child and not know if their child is okay, apparently she was crying every time it rained because she thought I might be outside in the rain.
My guilt was activated, but I knew just what to do to resolve this situation. I responded to my mother's call, and she told me too, that she was dying from worry, so I said, listen! Listen to what I have! And I went around the apartment, and I listed all of the groceries I had bought and stored. I listed everything out to her, and then explained how to make multiple meals, I offered proof to her that I had already, in this short time, learned how to cook, and I was doing fine. I was sure she'd be so relieved to know that her child had food.
In my mind we were continuing the conversation we had when I was six. I have milk and fruit now mommy. You said I might survive if I have that.
'Okay, we KNOW you can do everything yourself--' She interrupted me angrily, unwilling to listen to my ongoing list of resources and skills. I froze. '--but you need to think about what you're doing to us and come back home!'
I hung up. Unbelieving. Two things I've been told in that sentence, and I had a hard time believing either. She- they- KNEW I could do everything myself. Since when? For how long? How could she possibly say this, after telling me my whole life, not only that I didn't know anything, but was too stupid to even learn? She knew I was capable the entire time? She knew I'd do just fine? And, she was angry about it. Hearing the list of resources and skills I had, it made her livid. After crying to all these people, and convincing me she was dying out of worry, she wasn't worried even one little bit. It was all fake. The entire time. She could either tell I was capable the entire time, or.. she never cared enough to even tell. It didn't matter. It only mattered that she convinced me that I can't survive. So I wouldn't run. So I would stay in that house, and so she could watch her violent husband, and violent mother in law beat me and call me animal names. While blocking my only possible exit.
Later I found out she changed her story. She was now telling people that I was now 'rich but so selfish I would not give any of my money to her'. It was almost funny. Her perspective of me rapidly shifted from 'incapable idiot who cannot survive' to 'selfish rich snob who won't give money'.
It stung. I had spent my life trying to protect her. Even after running, all I could think was how badly I wanted to take her away from that violent place, how much I wanted happiness for her. She watched me dying in that house and blocked my exit. She threw me back into the hands of violence and cheered them on as they broke me. She watched a kid being broken and told that kid they could not live, except if they stay and continue being broken, over and over again. I got jealous of all of the mothers who helped their kids escape. And of all the kids whose mothers escaped, taking them with. Keeping them safe. Why wasn't I worth keeping safe? But I can't look back in that way. That's not it. There was nobody to keep me safe. Nobody was my mother. Nobody was my parent.
My six year old self reached their goal. What does a child need to survive in a desert? Some fruit. And some milk. And some other groceries also don't hurt. And definitely not a mother like this one.
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it feels like the relationship between Jake and Khonshu is still like in GLJ lmao. is there any details between them? i think Khonshu in this au will be less manipulative. am i wrong? looking forward to your new chapter next week!
Hello! We will actually get a lot of details between them next week, so I can't say too much.
What I can say is that there is a difference, but it's subtle. And I think it wouldn't truly come out until later on in this timeline. Truly, I don't think he has to be manipulative. Jake's pretty pliable. Very early on he clearly established Layla as an emotional hostage, and Jake's accepted that. Jake's the protector for everybody and nobody's the protector for him, with no Marc to Steven to take any emotional loads, and Khonshu's the closest he has. Jake's machismo in a recurring thing, and part of that machismo is 'well, a guy's gotta do things he doesn't like to protect his family', and this is just that. His identity as 'Perfect Guy' involves being a perfect husband, but it also involves being a perfect weapon. A lot of his self-esteem and ego is in his work with Khonshu - hence the enthusiasm over the priest stuff lol. And as is pretty obvious, Jake feels like if he doesn't have the Perfect Guy stuff then he has nothing - if Khonshu doesn't protect him nobody will - so...
As is fairly obvious through Jake's own narration, he is very, very deeply in denial about his relationship with Khonshu. And even the part of him that understands, takes a very 'well can't do anything about it so might as well like it' attitude. Sad attitude, but it is Jake in a nutshell - the system couldn't avoid the violence, so Jake stepped up and became an alter who enjoyed the violence to ease the emotional burden. And when he doesn't enjoy it, he bears it. The violence is emotional, but it is a violence. In best life there's pushback on this, there's other people and other experiences saying 'hey this is bad', but he doesn't have that here in anybody but Layla.
Also unlike in best life, Jake's never even attempted a normal life. His life is Khonshu's work, and it doesn't really occur to him to want any differently until the very end of the story. He would stand up to Khonshu for anybody's sake but his own. But it's just himself rattling around up there, so there's really no point. So asking if Khonshu is less manipulative is kind of hard to answer, because he doesn't really need to be.
That's all the bad stuff about their relationship and ignores all of the more complex stuff, which is how Khonshu, like, has Long Term Avatar Care in mind (finally.) and tries to take care of Jake. And how they're actually friends, and how Jake actually loves the work, and how I think Khonshu likes him as a person. It's just also abusive. The fact that Khonshu actually tries to take care of Jake and keep him emotionally intact, and the fact that he never actually listens to Jake on how to do that and as a result doesn't budge from abusive behavior, creates bad results and complex feelings. Khonshu: Tries! But Not Very Hard! And Is Bonkers Years Old And Very Bad At Changing Opinions! Bad For Jake, This Is!
You'll see it next chapter. Thanks for reading!
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