#litany against fear was made for him
Text
"....and here we have the image of the Terran deity of truth, Eycha-Bomba-ur-Guy, not be confused with the deity Bomb-ur, the god of abundance from the ancient Tolki-eena religion, which predates the Utubar religion entirely. Archeological excavations of the primitive holo-relics of Terra dates the Utubar religion to the two kingdoms period of the Amaz-U-na, and App-le-ple empires, in the Memetiscan era.
As stated before Eycha-Bomba-ur-Guy is a deity of truth and religious texts proclaim that he emerges whenever the principles of truth are violated. The legends we have been able to uncover from the ruins of Terra talks of a well where he is supposed to reside in and that every terran year he appears unexpectedly in order to shame the liars seeking fortune in the Holos of the kingdom of Utuba in a ruthless public sermon.
(Unfortunately we have not been able to uncover physical evidence of the kingdom as of now. Much of the information we have on the Utuba come from the Utuba Com-men-tits, the famous historical document that confirmed the theory that the Utuba people, consisting of the mortal Viu-wah, the priestly Saab-scriba, and godly Cree-atar, recorded history collectively.)
In his endeavor to champion truth Eycha-Bomba-ur-Guy is confronted by many adversaries and we can see how these battles play out in the religious iconography of the period. One of his many opponents is Tomm-y-Tallaar-ico, a rather comical figure who relentlessly takes credit for the achievements of others' and boasts about it throughout Terra. Some scholars believe him to be a fictional figure created to warn children to stay away from lying and boasting, especially because the Utuba Com-men-tits records one of the claims made by the minor deity as his mother being proud of him, which by the very nature of the deity is implied to be a false claim.
(Parental figures and their approval seems to be very important to the Terrans. Scholars have found multiple worshipful holos with terms such as Daddy, Zaddy, Mother, Mommy, and Muscle Mommy as evidence to this theory. Deviant behaviour seems to be referred to as 'Fatherless' behaviour. 'Yo Mamma' statements seem to be considered a damning insult. In addition, the ritualistic chant "Excuse me? Sorry. Mommy? Sorry. Mommy? Sorry", which is believed to be the only surviving part of the the lost Litany for Forgiveness, the pair to the Litany against Fear from the Epic of the Dune, validates the theory that Terrans craved parental approval.)
Much more sinister than the Tomm-y-Tallaar-ico is the Jayme-som-Erton, a figure that only talks in the voice of others. A negative deity presiding over plagiarism, Jayme-som-Erton pretends be your ally while making profit off of your work. After Eycha-Bomba-ur-Guy defeated him in a lengthy duel the Utuba Com-men-tits faithfully records that Jayme-som-Erton's own voice can only speak lies and to be wary of the others among the Cree-ator class that use his tricks to prosper in Utuba.
Eycha-Bomba-ur-Guy's legendary victory over Jayme-som-Erton was followed by the complete erasure of the Cree-ator's presence in the Utuba kingdom's religion beyond being used as a cautionary tale. This presents another aspect of Terran religion, called Can-cellat-Ion, a ritualistic deicide of the gods that have wronged them. Undoubtedly this is an evidence of the might of the ancient Terrans. Several pieces of historical evidence from the records known as Twee-et-er (theorized to be named after a blue avian like figure who many believe might be related to the legendary heroes Twee-dle-dee, and Twee-dle-dum) refer to multiple conflicts called the War of the Fans which lead to the Can-cellat-Ion being performed. Ancient Terrans were indeed a fearsome species. (To be noted that some deities do recover while others do not. Criteria for survival unknown.)
In the coming chapters, we'll look into more deities from Terra's various pantheons, such as the eternal enmity between the Goddess Doll-y-Par-tonn and her nemesis Jol-e-Ne. The deity Trish-a-Payt-As, whose children are harbingers for the death of malignant royals is also important to look into. The deity seems to have had hostility towards the Brie-ti-ish royals specifically as legends say they were hit twice by the deity's wrath. Also of particular interest are Ea-Nasir, a deity of trickery and mischief, and ancient literature such as the Gonch-ar-Ov, a lost epic saga whose holo-copy researchers are still trying to uncover today. Both of these are a part of the Tumb-L-Er mystery religion, whose intricate rites and rituals still remain too complex to decode...."
-Excerpt from Chapter 9, "Deities from the Holo", from Scholar Jaarp-r-Saar's The Complexities of Terran Religions.
#hbomberguy#tommy tallarico#james somerton#humans are space orcs?#I don't know about that last one#this came to me in a dream#I can never reproduce this monstrosity#like what is this?#ea-nasir#Goncharov#Dolly Parton#Jolene#Trisha Paytas#King Charles#what a set of tags
172 notes
·
View notes
Text
like a stubborn sword from stone.
link to ao3 will come! a piece of my fic-ified game, in which i headcanon that gale of waterdeep was not in some unseen room on the nautiloid, but in the same that shadowheart was held — and he saw her, but said nothing.
i wrote it in a rush, it will be edited, it is nigh incoherent but at least it is out of my brain
gale/shadowheart, rated T.
content warnings: mentions of suicidal ideation, mentions of death, vague mentions of illithid technology and mindflayer transformation.
Long had Gale of Waterdeep held fantasies of his own one-day heroics. In youth, he conjured them with rapt enthusiasm: that he, a creature of boundless ambition and baffling talent, would surely take the world’s fate in hand, capable hand, and find a Weaving of words none had crossed before. His incantations, unwinding the knots of the world's greatest ills.
But when the time came for such valor, when indeed he was thrust into peril, heart thundering in his ears, he was not swept up from one admirable pursuit into another.
No. He’d been reading. Hadn’t he always, of late? A great wizard, fallen into utter disrepair — reduced to a shadow of his prowess, and forced out of the light. Her light. After all he's devoured in her absence, there's nothing left to cower behind but pages.
To land aboard a nautiloid, in the firm clutches of one of its pods as it enters Avernus under duress, should have been the introductory sentence to a sweeping tale, spun with anecdotes of glittering grandeur. But it isn’t.
Instead, he thinks it the last notes in his song: a tale bound to decrescendo, then end in a whisper of its former glory. The pod has no interior latch, and not nearly enough room to attempt any spell's somatic component. Outside it, this chamber is bereft of illithids: only their victims are left behind, hopeless. There is nothing to do now but rest, his surrender given long before his capture. His end is a foregone conclusion. This is not new.
But he isn’t alone. Not technically, anyway. This room contains a litany of occupied bodies, connected to the illithids’ wretched contraptions, but one remains vibrantly alive.
There is not much to note of her — a smudge of a person’s form, trapped behind another pod’s murky glass on the opposite end of the room. The only detail he can make out is that a silver bauble rests in her hair, moving as she does, catching the saturated light.
He sees her only because she wakes him from a haze: her palm, striking the glass; her screams, muffled, but carrying all the way to him. Every one of her muscles engaged; her voice raw. If he squints, he can almost see the whites of her eyes, wide with fear and rage.
She is fighting — even here, at the end of all things — to live.
And what had he just been doing? Trying to close his eyes, to lie back and feel a moment’s peace. Perhaps he’d have prayed for forgiveness, just the once more.
Gale of Waterdeep does not have to fight the mind flayers aboard, after all. There needs be no heroism here, no courage roaring in his heart. He could almost laugh.
They’d made an error in capturing him at all.
Before ceremophosis takes him, the scratching hunger in his chest — the orb resting oppressively above his heart, leeching from his marrow — will take them all. The mind flayers. The ship. It’s a perfect solution: a blast so high in the sky that the only casualties are those damned to a gruesome transformation and the monsters who damned them.
There’s only one blemish upon this immaculate scheme: this blur, a smudge of shadow across the room who battles with all she has for hope, will have to die, too.
Is that not the cost of heroism, though? Is one life — one beating heart, one will refusing to succumb to the inevitable — worth doubting the many that will ostensibly be saved by his inaction? He could weigh it, again and again, balancing the measure of one life against thousands. The trouble is, he’s circled this problem too often. Its conclusion is too easy to find. Both are infinites unto themselves. There are no winners where even one innocent life is lost.
His is far from that claim. That’s the only outcome he’s ever found. His folly, his doom.
So when this impossible blur of indomitable strength is found by not one, but two others, he only considers calling out to them for a fraction of a moment. He’s had this argument with himself — and with a livid tressym — before.
There is no use. He hasn’t found a scrap of reason to suggest otherwise. To inflict himself upon others’ lives would only kill them later, or doom them even worse than they are now.
No: he’s mapped out the possibilities. Better for everyone that he stays.
Rests.
Dies.
But he doesn’t: what might be moments after her rescue, the nautiloid pitches right, then left, then down, in a cacophony of explosions and terror that have nothing to do at all with his many misdeeds.
It is still not heroism when he is cast through the starry sky — nor when he finds a pinprick of light from an old and disused waypoint and finds his mouth moving heedless of his will. When a Weaving of words, of all things, prevents him from shattering against the ground in a gruesome pile of viscera.
He barely means to live. He supposes he’s asked, in a grim and cosmic sense, for the spell to misfire, for most of his body to be trapped in limbo. To be forced, once again, to rest until disaster bursts from his ribcage.
How poetic that it is her hand — warmer than he thought it might be, though perhaps his exposed fingers might have chilled while he called out for rescue — that pulls him from that fate like a stubborn sword from stone. Without the silver bauble, it’s hard to recognize her at first, especially considering how charred most of her ink-dark hair has become.
But it is her: that shadowed blur from a pod opposite his. It has to be, by the sheen of sweat on her skin, the flush in her cheeks, and the fight still left in her eyes. Even now; even doomed.
Of course it is she that fought for him to live, in the end.
Whether the deed is heroic or woefully ill-informed remains to be seen.
#baldurs gate 3#bg3#bg3 fanfiction#gale of waterdeep#gale dekarios#bg3 gale#gale bg3#galeheart#shadowheart#bg3 shadowheart#gale x shadowheart#i love them ok#this is from chapter 3 of my fic but i do not care whatsoever#the world can have this one#as a treat#but really the treat is for me#enjoy it nerds#i certainly do#fern bg3 fanfiction
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sekhmet "the Mighty", one of the bloodiest and most terrifying deities of ancient Egypt, was able to generate the desert from her own breath.
Sekhmet_statue_Egyptian_Museum
Statue of Sekhmet, Egyptian Museum (Turin) –
Tripadvisor
Goddess of war, fighting alongside the pharaohs, she killed enemies with her fiery breath. Her fame as a destroyer was so widespread that even the other deities feared her ferocity.
She was a solar deity, sometimes believed to be the daughter of Ra (god of the midday sun). She was represented entirely as a lioness or in human form with a lioness's head.
relief_Sekhmet_temple_KomOmbo_Egypt
Relief of Sekhmet in the Kom Ombo temple in Egypt –
Ancient Origins
Expression of the duality between disease and healing, chaos and order, Sekhmet was venerated as a deity of epidemics and medicine.
The lioness became an instrument of Ra's power when necessary. She intervened with her anger to restore order among human beings, disobedient to divine law.
For this reason, the regularity of the rites performed in her honor was necessary so that her anger was kept at bay. Only in this way could her protective side turn benevolently towards humanity.
The goddess manifested herself in all her magnificence, incarnating herself in the statue of her which represented her, the true protagonist of the rituals.
The most famous mythological tale of which she is the protagonist sees her become a ruthless avenger. Ra himself, deeply angry at the human race that had conspired against him, sent Sekhmet to have the culprits exterminated.
Once the battle was over, however, the lioness had not yet quenched her thirst for revenge. Exhilarated by the taste of her blood, she continued to rage against men to the point of arousing Ra's pity. Considering her unstoppable anger, the god was forced to devise an original stratagem to stop her.
He decided to dye some beer with red ocher so that the liquid looked like blood. Falling into the cunning trap, Sekhmet drank the drink greedily and got drunk. Only once she came to her senses from the intoxication did she realize her deception and stopped her massacre.
Statues of Sekhmet are found in many of the world's major Egyptian antiquities collections.
21 of them are on display at the Egyptian Museum! An entire room is dedicated to the splendid sculptural group made up of 10 statues of the seated deity and 11 of them standing.
Walking among the imposing figures of the goddess, approximately two meters high, the visitor finds himself surrounded by severe gazes and immerses himself in a deeply evocative atmosphere. It seems clear that the figure of the divinity has not lost any of its power to inspire deep fear.
Sala_Sekhmet_MuseoEgizio
Room containing the statues of Sekhmet inside the Egyptian Museum (Turin) –
Talents and events
Sekhmet statues are very widespread also because they often share the same provenance. Amenhotep III (1400-1350 BC, approximately), in fact, commissioned 365 statues of the goddess in the temple dedicated to the cult of his royal power.
Every day of the solar year, which for the Egyptians had the same duration as ours, a different statue of the deity was worshiped. The priests sang litanies and brought offerings to Sekhmet by interacting directly with her figure.
Speaking of myth, it is not difficult to fantasize a bit... It is easy to associate Sekhmet with other important deities of the classical world, closest to us. Just think of Athena (goddess of war), Artemis (protector of wild animals), Dionysus (god of ecstasy), Ares (god of violent struggle) and many others...
A rich collection of images of these deities is collected in the Mitholgiae repository.
Share
24
Home Culture
CULTURE
THE MULTIFORM SEKHMET: THE GODDESS WHO GIVES DEATH AND RESTORES LIFE
By Martina Portello - March 21, 2022
Facebook Twitter
Sekhmet, known as "The Mighty", is the bloodiest female deity of ancient Egypt. Her cruelty can only be compared to that of the fratricidal and usurping God Seth.
In the "Book of the Heavenly Cow" (1539-1292 BC) her birth from the eye of the solar God Ra is told. The god of the Sun, in fact, tired of the cruelty and rebellion of men, decides to punish them by creating a divinity with the body of a lioness, Sekhmet, and unleashes her against humanity.
“The desert was stained red with blood as the Eye pursued the traitors and slaughtered them one by one. He didn't stop until the sands were covered with bodies. Then, temporarily satiated, she returned triumphant to her father to boast of her successes."
The Goddess destroys human wickedness but, now thirsty for blood, she does not appease her violence. Ra, then, to avoid the extermination of humanity, decides to plot a deception. He dyes the waters of the Nile red wine and Sekhmet, thinking it is delicious human blood, dries up the river. Once intoxicated and tame, the terrible divinity transforms into the docile Hathor, Goddess of love.
The double personality of Sekhmet, devourer but also benevolent consoler of the people, in Egyptian times, made the divinity both feared and venerated. The Egyptians, in fact, believed that the Goddess was the cause of plagues, famines and various natural disasters but, at the same time, they recognized her extraordinary healing abilities. For this reason, the priests of Sekhmet were considered the best doctors of antiquity.
Probably, precisely to honor her virtues, Pharaoh Amenhotep III erected, more than 3400 years ago, inside his funerary temple in Thebes (Egypt), 365 statues dedicated to Sekhmet, one for each day of the year. Offerings were brought to the sculptures and rituals were performed to prevent the goddess's wrath from unleashing.
Multiple characteristics and qualities come together in Sekhmet. She is believed to be the Goddess of joy and intoxication; of life and death at the same time, she was honored with dances and songs.
The sistrum, a purely female musical instrument with rattles, played by priestesses during religious ceremonies to ward off evil, was sacred to her. Furthermore, the mirror dance was dedicated to her, during which the dancers danced holding a mirror and castanets in their hands. The mirror was considered a symbol of beauty, youth and immortality.
This divinity, halfway between the Goddess of love Venus and the God of wine Bacchus, between the warrior Goddess Minerva and the violent God Mars, is among those most depicted of all. Her simulacra are preserved in the most famous museums in the world, from the Metropolitan Museum in New York to the Egyptian Museum in Turin.
In Karnak, Egypt, the entrance to the temple dedicated to Sekhmet is decorated with a gold inscription that reads: “I only ask you to enter my house with respect. To serve you I do not need your devotion but your sincerity, nor your belief but your thirst for knowledge. Come in with your vices, your fears and your hates, from the biggest to the smallest. I can help you untie them. You can look at me and love me as a woman, as a mother, as a daughter, as a sister, as a friend, but never look at me as an authority above yourself. If your devotion to any God is greater than your devotion to the God within you, you offend both and you offend the One.”
Description by sito web from internet
I mage from pinterst
#witch#witchcraft#witches#brujah#ancient egypt#dark goddess#Egyptgodess#Sekmeth#egpyt#goddesses#godess#witchy woman#witches of tumblr#pagan witch#wiccan#wicca#wicca aesthetic#paganism#pagan#witchblr#luciferism#left hand path#bruja#brujeria#mitologic#egyptology#stregoneria#hellenic polytheism#hellenic pagan
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
The enigmatic Dr. Scully
Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober2023
It's been a while xf fam! But I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. Thank goodness for Fictober! Hope you enjoy this little slice I came up with.
Season one, Mulders thoughts on his new partner.
He hadn’t prepared himself as well as he thought. His research into his newly assigned partner had glossed over her brilliance, significantly. Her thesis resonated with him on an intellectual level that made Phoebe seem almost illiterate, which was most certainly not the case. Most would assume he had a certain type of woman he liked, tall, dark hair with a classic old money look that can’t be faked by even the wealthiest of the new money. That wasn’t his type, not really, the problem was women who had come from backgrounds like his had something else in common. Education, yes education, you see men of wealth needed a companion who could hold their own in conversation. Who read the Times, the Wall Street Journal. These women were well-bred and educated in a way that previous generations of women would never imagine. Phoebe and her father’s connections, prestigious schools, even Diana and her senator of a father.
His type wasn’t looks, and the fact that he sat here on his worn couch with a copy of Dr. Dana Scully's senior thesis with so many notes in the margins that he had 8 pages of additional addendums on a yellow legal pad gave him more than a pause for concern. Dana Scully could easily be his downfall. Her thesis and thoughts had plagued his mind for weeks since he first read it. While originally he believed she would be a skeptical scientist and discredit his work at every possible turn, her thesis pointed to a different person altogether. She was certainly pretty, which he had already discerned from her FBI photo. She outranked him in the shooting range and about 95% of the bureau. Might be a good thing to have a partner with a guaranteed good shot. Unless she was going to be shooting at him, another ripple of anxiety rolled through his mind.
Why put her on the X-Files? Why saddle her brilliance in the basement? She wanted to get into fieldwork, she had a reputation as being a well-liked, informative instructor at the academy. Of course, some of her classmates were proving they would do anything to climb the federal ladder, not at all unusual for new recruits. He tapped his pen against the pile of pages of math and theory that had him questioning his own marginal knowledge of the universe.
He had mentioned he liked it. He more than liked it, and damn if he didn’t like her too. This was not the time to fall for a badly veiled ploy. He taps his pen more before tossing it on the stack of files as he rubs his face standing up to pace a bit trying to order his thoughts of her once again. He isn’t sure what to make of her. She had followed him out to Oregon, and while she didn’t agree with his theory, the way she had gathered extra evidence, as she had studied Billy Miles's feet. She understood. On some level she was just like him, searching for the truth in a litany of lies. She was far more open-minded than she let on. She was far more righteous and loyal than he had originally thought, and he has been desperate to talk to her since.
While he is proud that he hasn’t called her again since he let her know that the reports they filed were gone, his mind is begging him to engage her in another mystery. He needs more time with her. More time to figure out the enigma that she is. His stellar reputation and education have provided him with a way to look through people dissecting their interests, their fears, and their motives. Has he become so complacent that this new partner of his, confounds his mind so easily? Or has something much worse occurred? Has he finally found a woman that leaves him in the intellectual dust?
He pulls out a report of a missing test pilot in Idaho. What would the enigmatic Dr. Scully think of a missing test pilot? How far would she challenge a military command that her own father has been a part of for over 20 years? He wonders and his own damn curiosity about her allegiances and thoughts have him picking up the phone and dialing before he has a solid plan to engage her.
She agrees to meet him tomorrow at a bar just down the street from the bureau. His mind finally catches up and again asks him how smart it is to meet the woman, who has been plaguing his mind incessantly for the last 4 days, at a bar. Thank god he suggested a 2pm meeting. Will he buy her a drink? That could be an easy test. If she is open to a drink, would it speak to her willingness to fall in line with the secret lynching the bureau has planned for his continual embarrassment? Or will she point out that it is 2pm and she has other work to do? He told her he had a case that he didn’t want to share at work. He has a feeling should they continue on this journey it will not be the last time they meet in secret someplace outside the walls and ears of bureaus halls. He sits back against the worn leather, a smile stretching across his face. At the very least he will get to see her again, and talk with her, and for now, just knowing that tomorrow his mind will need every fiber of fortitude to dance with the brilliance of Dr. Scully is enough.
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
Whump drabbles : Taliesin
I – Torture
Taliesin's body, covered in bruises and wounds, writhed in pain from the new volley of blows. He enjoyed the pain, but to a certain point and in a certain context which unfortunately was not the latter. His former comrades from Thalmor were unleashed on him, setting an example. The sucid missions had not been enough, Taliesin had betrayed them and left Thalmor to travel with the Dragonborn. It was more than treason. He went through torture. But even when they had defiled and torn out his beautiful hair, he would not open his teeth. He would not betray the Dragonborn. (101)
•
II – Broken
More than any physical pain, Taliesin knew there was one thing in particular that would break him. From the person he feared most in the world. His own father. Should he be caught by the Thalmor, his alias would quickly be dispelled and he was certain that his own father would lead the interrogation and the torture session. His father would surely revel in inflicting pain on his degenerate son to match his disappointment and contempt. And Taliesin would endure it all without a word, staring blankly and body trembling in a cold sweat, so engulfed in the terror of his own father's wrath. (105)
•
III - « Let's have some fun »
When they arrived on the scene, it was already too late. Blood stained the feet of the statue of Talos and lifeless bodies littered the small square in front of the altar. Talos worshippers and Thalmor, who had killed each other. They heard a wheeze, then a black robe moved. One of the Thalmor was still alive. Eyes full of resentment, Kaidan unsheathed his nodachi. He approached the Altmer with an evil grin, ready to make him pay for his crimes, without trying to listen to the latter's defense.
"Let's have some fun..." he muttered, pointing his blade at the wounded Mer. (104)
•
IV – Breathe
Taliesin had never known how to swim and when the wave took him, he could only struggle against the black and icy immensity of the sea. The cold water had been unforgiving, dragging him down. With the help of his traveling companions, he had managed to reach the shore, but blocking his breath made him pass out. They laid him on the ground, breathed air into his lungs. He coughed. Throws up. Then took a his first deep breath, hands clutching the pebbles, feeling the weight of his soaked robes pressing down on him. Never had breathing felt so delectable. (100)
•
V – Alcohol
The bottle of Alto wine passed silently from one to the other. In the midst of the tranquility of the place, under teh stars, neither of them managed to find sleep. So there was alcohol. To forget the horrors of the past that jumped out at them as soon as their eyes closed. Nebarra grimaced. It wasn't strong enough for him. Taliesin cracked a smile. Of all their companions, Nebarra was ultimately the only one who could understand him. He too was haunted by the war. The mercenary often verbalized it, like a litany of the horrors he had seen and experienced. (103)
VI – Chains & Hanging
Taliesin was shackled and suspended by chains in a dimly lit chamber. In other circumstances, he would have found it nice.The cold metal bit into his wrists, his own weight pressing down on the chain cuffing his hands. The chains rattled with each movement and and the arms held well above his head forced him to stand on tiptoe. They were going to let him exhaust himself, hanging on these chains, before torturing him. He knew it, because not so long ago, he was part of a group that tortured people to extract information from them. (98)
•
VII – Struggle
Although he did not feel comfortable at sea, Taliesin had no choice but to obey his superiors and embark on this ship bound for the city of Solitude. The fainting light of the lighthouse had pushed the ship against rocks and already the hold was filling with water. Taliesin's long Thalmor robe was quickly waterlogged, and he began to wade with difficulty. The water was rising rapidly, and the Mer couldn't swim. He struggled, tangled up in his wet clothes and began to panic, hoping to reach the nearest ladder and not end up drowning. (97)
•
VIII – Wound Cleaning
Nebarra gritted his teeth as Taliesin poured the stinging liquid over his wound. The searing pain of the act made him curse and clench his fists. The smell of strong alcohold filled the air, mingling with the heavy scent of blood.
"It's a shame to waste such good alcohol in this way. You would have let me drink it, I would have forgotten my pain."
Taliesin carefully cleaned the deep gash that marked Nebarra's arm. With each pass of the soaked cloth, Nebarra flinched, his body instinctively tensing in discomfort. He glared at Taliesin, who replied with a jaded sigh. (102)
•
IX – Semi-conscious
Taliesin muttered weakly, trying to say something. Gore told him to stay calm, cradling the Mer's long body in his arms. Stubbornly, Taliesin tried to move, in vain. He felt too weak to move his limbs which seemed to weigh a ton. He could only squeeze Gore's hand. His eyes fluttered. He didn't remember what happened to him.
« ...Where am I ? »
It was the only thing his furred lips could articulate. The Altmer could hear around him the buzz of the bustle around him, without understanding what his companions were saying. He felt weary, so weary... (99)
•
X – Forgiven
"You will never be forgiven, I never can. You were a Thalmor bastard.", Kaidan threw at Taliesin, with a dark look. The Mer sighed, lowering his eyes. The barb hurt. He had a lot of blood on his hands. All for the ego of his father and the Aldmeri society, which were not afraid to break a young soul to fit the mold. But that, Kaidan probably couldn't hear. It certainly didn't erase his guilt. And besides, was that forgivable ? The bottom of his soul wasn't bad, Taliesin just hoped his time in the Thalmor hadn't tainted it too much. (104)
•
XI – Brainwashing
His father relentlessly molded him to be shaped into the perfect Thalmor. Day after day, he was subjected to mental conditioning, his own thoughts twisted to align with Thalmor ideals. Taliesin was the first born son, he couldn't disappoint his father.
"You must rid yourself of weakness", his father would say, his voice like ice. "Embrace the rightfulness of our cause."
The brainwashing took its toll, leaving Taliesin questioning his own identity, hating is own body. The line between truth and manipulation blurred, and he found himself torn between loyalty to his homeland and the doubt in his heart. (100)
#skyrim#skyrim custom followers#taliesin#whump#whump drabble#depictions of violence and pain#trauma#psychological abuse
36 notes
·
View notes
Text
20. 10/10 Interrogation
Angst, past trauma, past captivity, referenced military setting, referenced torture, referenced murder, fictional politics
AU Masterpost / Previous / Next
“Sargent Harrison Gomez. Translator and technician for TF-42, deployed from Carson City, Nevada Tuesday June 3rd, 2003.” The words were practically a script, slurred between bloodied teeth between screams from broken bones. A prayer, a litany against surrender. But he wasn’t there anymore - there was no surrender to fear here. Wherever here was. Harrison paused as the Deputy scribbled down the information in his notebook. “Can I ask a - a dumb question?”
“Sure.” Thomas looked up, still parsing the words he had transcribed.
“Where - where am I? Where’s - I know this is Cedar Creek or - or something - but…”
“You’re in Cedar Hills, Idaho. Southwest corner of the state - just north of the Nevada line.” His eyes scanned over his notepad, brow furrowed. Harrison interrupted whatever thoughts were churning behind those dark eyes.
“Okay - okay. Okay. Dumb question number - number two - what’s today date?”
“February 29th, 2004. Leap year and all.”
8 months.
He had spent the last 8 months buried beneath the same soil he was sworn to protect. He had spent the last 8 months bleeding and starving and bearing witness to horrific human rights abuses on that soil.
8 months.
It felt longer - it felt wrong that years, or decades hadn’t passed. It felt wrong that more than a few days or weeks had been lost to pain and fear and grief. Had they been declared MIA? KIA? He was supposed to see his mother for Christmas that year - his niece Mel was so excited to show grandma her new knitting skills.
8 months.
He missed the new Lord of the Rings movie.
He wanted to laugh and cry and scream.
“Okay.” Harrison nodded, voice flat and expression blank. Laughing and crying and screaming didn’t help in the bunker, and it wouldn’t help now. He was lucky this small town cop hadn’t shot him on sight - a haggard, blood covered man of color half hysterical with panic and dehydration.
“You don’t seem okay with that…are you sure you’re - ”
“No, but it won’t change time and space if I was.” Harrison shrugged, shaking his head as if it would help clear the desire to scream until his lungs gave out. “Sorry, just - just wanted to get myself oriented. What were you going to ask next?”
“Sure, sure…” Thomas wasn’t convinced but the suspicion in his eyes was drowned by gentle curiosity. “You’re Sargent Harrison Gomez, and he is..?” The deputy nodded his head toward the door they had taken Wolf through.
“Wolf.” Harrison swallowed the half formed sentences on his tongue. He tortured me, my squadmates - killed my CO with a rabid dog and made us watch. He was tortured in ways I can’t imagine surviving. He got thrown into the same dark hole as me when we were left for dead. He got us out of the Box. He saved me from a fate worse than death. He took a bullet for me. I hate him and I can’t at the same time. “Just - I only know him as the Wolf.”
“He’s not one of your squadmates?” It was an honest question, Thomas’ brow pinched in thought. Harrison strangled the flare of offense in his gut - how dare he put the Wolf on the same level of comradeship as Elias and Merrick and Orson and Thatch and Clement -
“No. No, he - he was just in the shithole as us.” They had been there for 8 months. How long had the Wolf been down there? Was his real name on one of the dog tags weighing heavy in Harrison’s pocket?
“Oh. You two seemed…well acquainted.”
“Between getting shot at together and talking to him for however long to keep him awake until…until he stopped talking…well, we aren’t friends, but he’s not some random stranger.”
It was odd to consider. He knew more about his torturer than he knew about Thomas, or Dan, or Merrill. (Not that he knew much.)
“Is there anything identifying you know about him? Outside of his name, of course.”
“German. I think he’s German - he - he spoke German when he was…scared.” Harrison swallowed thickly, forcing down the memory of the Box and the Dark and the smell as the Wolf begged him not to touch him. “His Arabic is good. Accent was always just a little off - makes more sense after hearing him in his mother tongue.”
“Why was he speaking in Arabic?” Harrison opened his mouth, and then closed it. Thomas’ body language shifted, a tension gathering in his jaw. “Son, we won’t hurt you boys, but if you know something that could save lives - ”
“They weren’t terrorists.” Harrison bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing back the spark of anger in his chest. He thought they had been. He thought for so long he was under a different continent’s sand. “They were American.”
“Are you sure?”
“I - I’m not crazy.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Don’t.” Harrison felt a cruel laugh bubble in his throat. “Don’t you fucking dare - I’ve spent the last fucking 8 months thinking I was watching terrorists torture and - and murder my squadmates only to crawl out and find I’m not a day’s travel from home.” The laugh hiccuped into a sob. “If they’re terrorists and - and they somehow got set up out here then this damn country is fucked. They’ve got enough men and firepower there to wipe out this town overnight.”
“You’ve been through a lot.” What a polite way to call him insane. But he didn’t have the energy to flinch away from Thomas’ gentle, steady hand as he rubbed Harrison’s shoulder. “How about we talk once you’ve rested up a bit? I’ll…keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“The hard drive…” His voice was hoarse, throat strangling his words. “The - there’s a duffel in the truck. We grabbed anything we could - I, there’s a hard drive.” Thomas’ eyes flicked away, guilt in his voice.
“We don’t have any computers in town. County library has a few…”
Of course this hick town wouldn’t have a single computer between them. Harrison’s sobs turned to gasping sighs.
“I’m sorry. I’m - I’m not lying. I wish - maybe - 8 fucking months.”
He was too tired to cry anymore today.
AU Masterpost / Previous / Next
(An AU of my Freelancers series)
Taglist: @i-eat-worlds
#whump#angst#past trauma#past captivity#military setting#reference torture#referenced character death#fictional politics#<- kinda but also. not? post 9/11 us culture was insane yall it poisoned everything#freelancers au#queueing this up bc idk what its gonna be like now that im Home w the Family for the Holidays tm#also yeh: im happy to tag anyone who wants to be tagged!!! pls let me know :]
17 notes
·
View notes
Note
Trick or treat! Any girl Seb? 🥺
deserted island au be upon ye
***
“You shouldn’t be wandering around the jungle at night.”
Mark whipped around and pointed his flashlight towards the source of the voice that had interrupted his careful examination of the jungle floor. He sighed when he caught sight of Seb’s cherubic features in the bright beam of his light—a bit of relief, but mostly exasperation. After their first few tumultuous days on the island, it had become clear that Seb wasn’t interested in making any friends.
“No one died and made you leader,” Mark muttered as he turned his attention back toward the strange tracks in the mud that he’d stumbled across just a few minutes earlier during what was intended to be a quick midnight piss.
“Not yet,” Seb replied.
When Mark finally gave up on finding more tracks in the thicker undergrowth that had obscured the rest of the trail, he finally turned back only to find that Seb was still standing there in the dark. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
Seb’s expression didn’t change at all. “The gun you stole from my cabin,” she replied coolly.
Mark stared at her with a grimace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He took a step forward, intending to push past Seb and head back to camp, but a strong hand around his bicep stopped him in his tracks.
Mark looked down at Seb, whose threatening aura was undiluted by the fact that she was half a foot shorter and unarmed—as far as Mark knew, anyway. There was no telling what she might have managed to bring ashore during the storm, before Mark and the others had a chance to conduct a thorough search of the ship for supplies in the days following the wreck.
“Why would someone on a search and rescue vessel need a .45?” Mark asked calmly. He was all-too aware of the bulk of the pistol pressing against his lower back, just a few inches from where Seb’s fingers were wrapped around his arm.
Mark was ready for her when Seb suddenly moved, darting to the side to try and reach around him to grab the pistol from where he’d stashed it in the back of his pants. Mark jumped out of the way and lunged forward, seizing Seb around the waist and tackling her onto the ground before she could make a second attempt to retrieve the weapon.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Mark said once he’d successfully pinned Seb to the ground, her arms twisted back behind her, and her hips cradled securely by his thighs.
“Do it,” Seb spat out. As soon as the words left her mouth, it started to rain, a torrential downpour appearing out of nowhere that filtered readily through the jungle canopy to soak the ground below.
“What?” Mark asked, bewildered by her response.
“I see the way you stare at me when you think I’m not looking,” Seb panted with her face pressed into the mud. “I know you’ve wanted to fuck me since we left port. So just do it.”
There was a litany of reasons why giving in to those urges was a very, very bad idea. But in that moment—with nothing around them but the jungle and the deafening rain, and Seb’s warm body pressed up against him separated by only a few layers of fabric—Mark wasn’t thinking clearly.
Mark reached down between them like a man possessed, his hands frantically tearing at his own zipper before yanking at the waistband of Seb’s cargo pants. There was nothing romantic or even dignified about it, just lust amplified by anger and need, wrapped up in the desperate existential fear that they might soon meet the same fate as the missing plane that they’d been searching for.
The longer they remained on the island, the harder it got to think any further than the next dawn, and it was this exact frame of mind that had Mark rutting between Seb’s thighs, pushing into her before he was even fully hard, and fucking her so roughly that both of them were covered head to toe in thick black mud by the time he finished only a few minutes later.
Then the rain stopped, just as abruptly as it began. Mark rolled over onto his back and stared up through the small gaps in the canopy at the brilliant array of stars that dotted the sky. He was only peripherally aware of Seb still lying next to him, and it didn’t register until she’d slowly picked herself up and walked into the jungle that she was going the wrong way.
“Hey!” Mark called out after her as he scrambled to his feet. “The beach is the other way! Seb!” It was only after he started to walk after her that Mark realized the familiar heft of the pistol tucked into his pants was gone. “Son of a…” Mark muttered to himself as he turned around to pick up the weapon from wherever it had fallen in the small jungle clearing. But when he returned to the muddy wallow where he and Seb had just lain, there was nothing there.
Mark stared out into the dark jungle where Seb had disappeared. He let the anger build and build—frustration at allowing himself to be swindled, and fury with Seb for putting them all at risk, and for what?
“Seb!” Mark yelled again at the top of his lungs.
She couldn’t have gone far, Mark rationalized. And if he returned to camp to wake Lewis or one of the others, there was every possibility that the sporadic bursts of rain might erase her tracks entirely.
Mark sucked in a deep breath and turned on his flashlight, catching sight almost immediately of Seb’s heavy boot prints in the soft mud.
It didn’t take him long to find her. She’d gone maybe half a mile before stopping in another small clearing not unlike the one they’d both just left. Mark was fueled by righteous anger as he marched up to Seb, who was standing in front of a tall, thick tree trunk staring silently up into the canopy, as though oblivious to his presence.
Mark grabbed her by the wrist with a violent jerk. “Where is it?” he demanded.
Seb didn’t even glance at him. She barely acknowledged his presence at all, instead staring wide-eyed up into the tree with a look of terror that seemed completely alien painted over her typical show of bravado.
Her reaction gave Mark a moment of pause. “What?” he asked her, wondering even so whether this was just another trick. But when Seb slowly raised a hand to point up into the canopy, Mark slowly followed the vector of her outstretched finger—only to find a pair of large reflective eyes staring straight back at him from within the darkness.
Mark didn’t hesitate. He seized Seb around the waist and flung her over his shoulder, running as fast as he could back the way he’d come, hoping that whatever animal it was that Seb had seen in the trees wasn’t following them—or that if it was, they could at least hope to outrun it.
When they reached the edge of the jungle, Mark immediately collapsed onto his hands and knees. Seb went tumbling into the sand before managing to catch herself. Where Mark had stopped, she kept running, out into the ocean where she finally paused with the waves waist high as she turned around to stare back into the jungle.
“What was that thing?” Mark asked as he picked himself up again, taking a quick look over his shoulder to make sure that they hadn’t been pursued.
Seb shook her head as Mark drew closer. He could see the light from the fire back at camp, just a few hundred yards down the beach, but every ounce of his focus remained on Seb for the moment.
“I don’t know,” she said breathlessly. “It was dark, I couldn’t…I don’t know what it was.”
But Mark could tell from the petrified expression on Seb’s face that she’d seen far more than she was willing to admit.
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Dionysian Effect
We need more religious festivals and symbolism of the Thirteen incorporated into TFP since they were deities and I want more lore, so here’s a peak of the Megatronus Prime sex cult with Soundwave being devout follower
(Heads up: drug-induced sex):
The first sparklings on Cybertron descended by a union of Megatronus and Solus. The Prime of Chaos took the Prime of Creation upon the aftermath of the Thirteen’s triumph against the Unmaker. He filled her divine frame with his holy essence. For Thirteen days and Thirteen nights they were joined and that passion internally crafted a Forge when Life took root in her spark and made it possible to bring newsparks into the world.
Primus blessed their union by allowing all Cybertronians similar equipment to mimic the First Conjunx.
It mattered not if her other brothers had laid with her as well, nor if Solus' final Gift was the Well of Allsparks. To this day, all newsparks emerge from their carrier's frame with only their base instincts to guide them, full of wants and fears, soft-plated and blind, mewling and crying.
By that union, Megatronus and Solus left them their greatest legacy: to ignite life between their mortal frames and sacred sparks outside of the Well.
___________
The Marks of the blended insignias of Megatronus and Solus wavered in the very air, flashing liquid gold and bright blue, and all he could taste the thick, syrupy sweetness on his glossa. The strange vines undulating across his frame, between his legs, and within his throat as he clung onto the stuck pair of hips, overloading into the tight valve.
The wall suddenly gave away into nothingness, and he quickly wrestled the other squirming frame to the ground, wrenching arms and deploying data-cables to pin them down. Seeking out the warm, wet valve again, rocking into the clenching mesh as he silently mouthed the Litany of Solus into heated neck-cables, inhaling the sudden release of ozone, burnt circuitry, and lubricant. The stranger wailed beneath him, hips attempting to move but she -a data-cable had found a secondary valve and made it its home -could only twitch, vents expelling immense heat as the wild field immediately snapped and synched into his own.
Soundwave groaned at the hot charge clawing down his frame and the last vestiges of sanity and repressed code broke, his denta sank into the neck-cables and began to rut into the pliant, wanting valve.
When Megatronus claimed Solus, it was not on a bejeweled altar of an exalted temple under perfumed incense and controlled words of high-caste priests. Closeted away from the outside world and its taint of filth and savagery.
No, he claimed her in the dirt on Primus' scorched and blood-soaked ground, directly on their Creator’s very alt-mode in the very wilds.
Their frames were the temple. Their energon and fluids were the anointing oils. Their sparks were the hymns.
Soundwave was a dutiful spark; even with his visor blackened and neural net seared from the raw code-related ecstasy and drug-induced mania, his vows were upheld even when the dark caverns and stained grounds that he pledged upon were long gone, ravaged by warfare and Cybertron's demise.
And on this strange, organic planet in the middle of absolute nowhere, here lied an artifact of his chosen God and his Conjunx, so they shall consecrate the hidden cave with nothing but themselves and claim it the old way.
#transformers#Transformers Prime#tfp#soundwave#solus prime#Megatronus Prime#maccadam#My writing#fic ideas#The Dionysian Effect#valveplug#religious imagery#Religious Symbolism#cybertronian culture#creation myth#dubcon#guess who got stuck in the wall?
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sacrifice Chapter 3
<< Chapter 2
<<< Chapter 1
A/N: After a bit of schedule maneuvering, it looks like this story will be updated once every two weeks until I finish it (I still don't have an estimate one the chapters yet oops). Thank you all for your patience and I hope you enjoy!
Standing underneath a levitating tree has my nerves on end. Up close, it's more massive than anything I could imagine, tall enough to reach the clouds, wide enough for my home to fit inside twice over. The magic that keeps it afloat must be grand and ancient.
As we walk under the behemoth, I see the underside is pockmarked by rings. It sits so high that Aurelius can walk underneath unimpeded, but I feel a pull in my chest to reach out and touch the marks, to make sure I'm not caught up in an illusion.
There's thousands upon thousands of them, a lifetime spiraling outward through delicate circles that mark the eons. The dark rings of a fire, then the swollen sections of a flood, the sun-bleached cambium and rich heartwood towards the center. I'm awestruck by the majesty, the history of it, and terrified all at once.
Appearing as if through a fog is a spiral staircase, invisible one moment and in front of me the next. The banister is a filigree of plantlife rendered in wood, thin to the point where I see sunlight through the petals of a flower. It leads straight up, where warm light pours forth from a circular opening. The light is warm, inviting, and I think of a predator, luring me in with false hope only to eat me up. Perhaps I'm still shaken from the fae earlier. I can still feel their fingers pinching my skin, my ears still ring from their voices. Will his home be the same?
Ignoring the litany of images my mind throws at me, of emaciated bodies reeking of death and decay, of hovels filled with rats and sludge that seeps into my skin. I ignore the image of the house slowly swallowing me, integrating my body into its walls over a matter of years while I am helpless to stop it. I ignore all of it, and walk up into the tree.
With shaking hands I poke my head through the floor, and find not a den of fear, but a grand entry hall. It's rendered in stone, torches lining the archways that stretch all the way to the back. I half-expect to see colored glass windows that I'd find in the town church, but the windows here are simple. In fact, everything has been stripped to the bare essentials, save for the massive chandelier made of bones acting as centerpiece.
Stepping onto the floor my bare feet are warmed by the stone, but the air is cool against my face. Long tables meant to seat dozens line the left and right walls, covered by table runners colored a rich red and edged in gold. They're bordered by high backed chairs, made for someone of Aurelius' size, and I wonder if I'd feel like a child sitting in one. There's a single set of silverware and cutlery at the far end of the left table, shining and untouched. It's the most ornate set I've ever laid eyes on, the gold it would fetch alone would feed my family for a year.
Aurelius makes a noise of recognition behind me. "So this is the entry way that she chose."
She? Is there another human here? The fae who tried to kidnap me implied that he had brought more than one human here. Aurelius takes one look at my expression and his jaw opens halfway as if he means to smile.
"My home, sweet doe." He rests a hand on one of the long dining tables. "She is a fae, as old as I am."
That is all the explanation I'm allowed it seems, because he walks past me and off to the right without a word. My face pinches in confusion-- there's nowhere to go, he's going to run into the wall.
Except it's not a wall that greets him, but a doorway. A doorway stretching into a hallway that shouldn't be possible. It should stop, should hit the edge of the tree, at the very least it should lead outside.
But I follow him into a long hallway, around a corner and into a sitting room that looks completely untouched. The furniture is plush and there's a roaring fire I can feel from the doorway. The room branches into three, and Aurelius walks into the far one.
The hallway twists like rope, and my eyes widen when Aurelius continues walking and it leads him to the ceiling and back to the floor. I take a step forward, and another, and it's like the pull of the earth shifts as I move forward. My feet stay on the ground, and down becomes up. My hair doesn't fall to the side, even as the frame of a door creaks under my feet. I make it to Aurelius, my heart in my throat, and look up at him. He stares down at me, his head tilting slightly, and my face flushes. I grab his large hand in both of mine, and we continue forward.
***
Despite trying to trace my steps, I cannot wrap my head around where we are. The hallways are endless, the stairs lead in circles, and so many doors simply open to walls. All the while, Aurelius continues forward, allowing me no space to breathe, to process my surroundings.
The home is lit by faerie fire, a soft glowing flame bathing every room in warm, comforting light. Orbs of light bounce along the ceiling like insects, or lines the walls or baseboards in strips, or simply floats in the air like a candle held aloft. Shadows are soft, shifting things that catch my attention. I look for some demon or creature that would grab at me, but there's nothing. Just the two of us. Three, if the house counts.
I'm led through archways made of water, upside down stairways, halls of mirrors and glass, each dwelling more fantastical than the last. Despite the growing absurdity though, I'm not as overwhelmed as before. The home exudes an aura of calming, of welcomeness. I don't know where I am, but I don't feel lost.
After the thousandth set of stairs, I ask through heavy breaths. "How high does your home sit?"
Aurelius pauses, his hands clasped in front of him. He tilts his head to one side, considering me. "I've never been to the topmost level. You are welcome to try, but beware that the higher you climb, the more chaotic it becomes, and even I may not be able to find you."
"Chaotic?" I look around us. We're currently standing sideways, on a set of stairs above a reflecting pool on what should be the ground. Fish swim in the air around us, a koi swirls lazily around my feet. "What could possibly be more chaotic?"
Aurelius holds up his hands, gesturing grandly as he speaks, "As a tree splits into many branches or a mind into many thoughts, so too does this dwelling separate from reality as it climbs towards the sky." He looks down at me. "And I would hate to lose you, my dear."
I purse my lips. That was far too eloquent to not have been practiced. Aurelius is pressing his hands together, steepling his fingers, his head still turned on me as if expecting a reaction. He most certainly had that prepared.
"Eloquently put, my lord." And my suspicions are confirmed when he lifts his head, chin held haughtily as he continues up the stairs. My lips tug into a smile. Very cute.
The stairs lead us to a hall, and at the end a single door.
"The house has told me she has not prepared a room for you yet, so you can stay here while she works."
Before I can ask how he speaks with the house, Aurelius pushes open the door. Inside is a library, towering in stature, holding thousands upon thousands of books. There's several corners cut out for reading with couches and cushions, as well as a large fireplace.
"A…library?"
"Your temporary room."
I bite my lip around the next question as we both step into the room. Some part of me had hoped we'd…share a space. I thought he cared for me, wished for me to be around.
"This is…where you want me?"
But as I look around, I'm not so sure. Every corner, piled high on the floor and on tables and covering everywhere one wouldn't walk, is clutter. Books, clothes, fabric, papers and writing utensils, empty cups, and even more books, all over.
I rest my hand on the arm of a couch, looking at the mess with dismay.
He doesn't make any motion other than to look around the room. "This will do for now. I use this room most."
"Oh," I say.
Aurelius doesn't respond, and when I look to him for direction, he's standing where he came in. His hands are in front of him, his fingers interlaced, and he starts to glide back towards the door.
"Are you hungry?"
I frown, concern marking my features. "I…We just ate."
Didn't we?
"Right," he says, looking around, a hand coming to his bony snout. The air stales in my throat, turns awkward. He doesn't want to be here, he's trying to back out.
"Right," I slowly repeat back to him, watching as he creeps towards the door.
"I am going to…" He's standing in the doorframe now, leaving me here. I'd ask where he's going, but I don't want to bother him. Maybe he enjoys being alone, and I'd be a deterrent to that.
I push down the concerns that begin to build behind my chest. I don't do well alone, I thought he would stay. But surely a god has other responsibilities to tend to, he can't be spending all his time with a lowly farm girl.
I hold back my disappointed sigh, and give him a nod. "Goodbye, my lord."
As I turn towards the room, anything to ease the tension, the door closes gently behind me.
I need something to distract my mind. Looking around at the mess, my fingers itch to clean. Perhaps that's why he brought me, as a maid.
I start with the clothing, gathering it in my arms. It all smells clean, thankfully. Mostly shirts and pants, a cloak here and there. The cloak he wore to see me must have been for the cold then. All the clothes are from different eras, some pieces similar to what I'd see hanging in the church. Decades are laid out and tossed aside here, and I'm curious to know if he wore these things often.
My arms are full to bursting with items much too large for any human, when I realize there's nowhere to put it all.
I glance around to the empty room. "Um, H-House? Do you have, uh, somewhere I could put these?" I lift up the armful of clothes, looking around at the ceiling of the library, as if some face is just going to appear out of the grain. But the only response I get is the creak of the wood. I sigh, feeling rather stupid. Of course the house won't respond to me, she has no connection to me. Only Aurelius.
The scrape of something against the wood catches my attention, and out of the shadow pushes a basket. Flat, wide, and expertly woven out of the same material as the library walls.
"Can you, um, hear me?"
Placing the book back in its spot, I forget about it and continue attempting to organize the mess.
A book falls from a low shelf close to my feet. I'll take that as a yes. I dump the clothing pile into the basket and continue gathering what I can to place in it.
I pick up the book that had fallen and dust it off to inspect it, but I can't read the cover. The scrawl on the spine is too curly, too high-brow for me to make out. I had only just started to learn to read before Arthur got sick, and that was only in the dead of night with his help.
Picking up the clothes takes me at least an hour with the help of the house. I speak to her as I work, telling her of my previous life. Of my friends that all left for the city by the coast, my brother and my parents and our life on the farm. I was never ashamed of the hard work, in fact I took pride that I knew my way around the animals and the crops. She doesn't respond, and I feel more alone than before, but having something to do is a welcome distraction to keep from thinking about where I currently am.
Once the clothes are gone, I start on the loose items--papers and scrolls, inkwells and writing utensils. The scrolls have a curled writing similar to the book. It must be Aurelius' handwriting. Strange that such a hulking presence can have such delicate penmanship. I still can't read it, but I try to make out what I can to keep everything somewhat organized. I notice the words "festival" and "moonlight" are repeated quite a bit across the parchments.
I stand, self-consciously rubbing my arm. I hadn't seen any washbasins in here, or passed any rooms for them on my way in.
They seem to be plans for something. I pick up drawings, layouts of boxes ovals all lined up in order, with scrawled names and notations. There's lists with items crossed out, corresponding to several stacks pushed into a corner of the library. It seems like he's preparing for something, but I'm not sure what.
Only when the room is mostly clean do I sit down. My mind feels less foggy, a little more stable now that I feel like I can breathe. It allows smaller things to creep their way through my attention, like the dirt under my nails and on my feet, the sweat cooling against my dress, and the dried spill between my legs. I need to bathe.
I stand at the doorway, hoping Aurelius left it unlocked. The handle pulls easily and I'm greeted by an empty hall. It definitely wasn't the one we came in through.
"House? Where might I bathe?" I say to the empty room. She doesn't respond, only to shove the book off the low shelf again. I sigh, turning back to the hallway and starting it down. Stepping out of the library feels like a violation of some unspoken rule, but I'll do it if I must.
The first door I try opens to a small room filled with large smooth stones along the walls and floor. There's a huge window at the far end letting in the glow of sunset through, and below the window is a huge, oval-shaped wash basin built into the wall. It's made of varnished wood, stands up to my hip, and could fit three of me sitting side by side.
The space between the basin and the wall is filled with glass bottles of every color and size, some as small as my finger, others as big as my head. The light from the window hits the colored glass and refracts onto the walls, each bottle I pick up makes a tiny light flitter like an insect against the stone. I open a small bottle the color of honey and sniff, my senses filled with milk and sugar. None of them have labels-- not that I could read them anyway-- but I don't think this house would want to hurt me. I did clean up that room quite a bit, maybe this is her way of giving thanks.
The water is steaming as I strip and step into the basin. There's a small square of cloth I dunk into the water and use to scrub at my skin. I grab the honey colored bottle again, tipping the thick liquid into my palm. It lathers like soap when I rub it over the cloth, filling the room with the scent and making my skin slick.
Gradually, the dirt falls away, each pass of the cloth releasing tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The scent of the soap is relaxing, working in tandem with the hot water to loosen my muscles. I'd always been the last to bathe with my family, and hot water is a precious commodity. This feels like a luxury I can't afford, one I shouldn't put to waste.
I reach my thighs to scrub at the dried come, and pause for a moment. I'm not a maiden anymore, at least, not in this sense. I'm still unmarried, I think. I'm unsure what this arrangement with Aurelius constitutes as. The witches that live in the woods outside of town would howl with laughter if they knew, they might have even congratulated me.
I scrub it away, trying not to think of what happened. There's too many emotions involved, too many details. I can think later about the god that's given me his names and then left me alone to clean his house. I can think later about this messy place that is not my home but something else, something that will likely eat me if I anger her.
As soon as the water begins to cool, I get out of the tub, my mind no less clear than before. I look at my kirtle and shift with dismay. Both are a mess, covered in blood and dirt and sweat.
On instinct, I grab them both and throw them into the water, and immediately I realize what a stupid thing I've just done. This is my only dress. The kirtle alone will take hours to dry.
My head falls forward and I groan. "Idiot…" I chide. Well, it's already soaking, I may as well clean it best I can. Eyeing the bottles on the shelf, the one that grabs my eye is ruby red with a cork stopper. I uncap it give it a tentative sniff: Peach and honey, that'll do.
I pour some into my hand, and when it doesn't burn away my skin or make it turn purple or some other trick, I dunk it into the water, and the room layers with the scent of the soaps as I scrub the dirt out of my clothes. In such hot water, Mortimer's blood dissolves away, turning the water a brackish brown.
I try not to think about all that's happened in the past day, pushing back feelings too enormous for my broken mind as I scrub away the past several hours, but in the quiet, my thoughts bubble to the surface whether I like it or not.
Think about it later, Kyla. Later, later, later.
What's wrong with me? Making a deal with a god, and for what? He can take whatever he wants from me now-- for that matter he already has taken something-- he could condemn me to this house so I never set foot outside again. And this isn't my home, I think with dismay. Home is a place that takes any joy, any softness, chews it up and spits it out. This isn't my home, with it's baths and it's books and it's warmth. I haven't earned the right to live here.
And what comes next? Am I just going to live here, some sort of servant? A bed slave that also cleans? That wouldn't be the worst fate, but Aurelius never specified what my role would be, and it irks me not knowing. You don't make deals with fae, let alone one of their gods. And what do I have that he could possibly want? I need to remain useful to earn my place.
Once I'm done ignoring my feelings, I set the kirtle out to dry. The stones here are smooth and free of any dirt or grime, so I set the dress on the largest one I can find, fanning it out as much as I can so it dries evenly.
I'm left standing bare in the washroom, my hair plastered to my back and shoulders. I decide to test the waters.
"House? Would you happen to have any spare dresses?" Hopefully any other human Aurelius has brought back has left her clothes. I shudder to think of what he may have done with them.
From the shadows slides the basket of clothes I'd picked up earlier. Certainly these can't be the only clothes available. I wait for another basket to make itself known, but there's nothing. Just the steady dripping of water. Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose.
I sort through the clothes, many of which are too large for me, until I find a long shirt. The neck is high so it won't fall off my shoulders, the sleeves are cuffed so I can push them up, and it's long enough to reach my knees when I pull it over my head. This will have to do as my kirtle dries.
"Thank you," I say to the basket as I throw the discarded clothes back into it.
I find my way back to the library, hoping the house doesn't steal my clothes from me.
It seems to be a record of some sort, but I can't make out much of anything. A few numbers, a word, half of a phrase. The concentration proves to be what I need to finally pull my mind away though, and combined with the pattering of rain outside it makes my eyelids grow heavier with each page turn.
The library is cleaned enough, and I feel sleep begin to pull at my eyes. But my mind is still abuzz with thoughts, thoughts for later, so I need a distraction.
The book the house continued to push to the floor is still resting there, and I pick it up again and bring it to a pile of cushions underneath a massive window. The writing inside is the same looping scrawl on the cover, but there's sections of print that're more legible to my untrained eye. Night is beginning to creep in, but it's still bright enough that I can make out a few words.
***
The clap of thunder tears me from sleep and into full alertness. It's dark, the fire is gone, the only light coming from the moon through the window. The rain from earlier has transformed into a downpour, punctuated by lightning and thunder so loud it shakes the room.
Restless, I start to pace the floor, hands cupping my ears to mitigate some of the noise. I can't fall asleep like this, I can't even relax. If I had someone else with me, I'd feel safe, secure.
At home, I'd never been in a thunderstorm on my own. I had my parents, then my brother. It's a childish fear, I know it is, but I can't help it. Every shadow wants to jump at me, every flash from the sky makes me shake.
I curl into the cushions, squeezing my eyes shut and begging my racing heart to slow down. It's just rain, I know this, but what if it tears the house down? What if lightning comes through one of the windows?
I need to find Aurelius.
Exiting the room, I walk down the empty hall, again a different one than the first and even the second. The hallway is dark, lit only by the lightning flashing outside, so I'm feeling blindly along until I find a handle and push it open. The door swings open silently, and I step into the room.
It's a large room, probably as big as my home in the mortal plane, with high ceilings and crossing support beams. In place of the left wall is a stained glass window, the patterns forming some abstract shape I can't make out in the dark. On the far wall is a bed, four-poster and untouched, and an archway leading into a pitch black hall. The room seems empty, and I wonder why the house brought me here, when movement to the right catches my eye.
There's a loft, high in the ceiling, and inside is a nest made of branches and leaves. It's not like any bird's nest I've ever seen, it's spread and built up, integrated into the wall, clinging to itself and the beams, with structure coming up to wrap around and make an entrance.
The movement that caught my eye was inside, and through the darkness I make out the motion of breathing. That must be Aurelius.
I climb up the rafters to reach the loft, my hands shaking on every roll of thunder that pierces the glass. My heart thunders in my chest, and I nearly slip halfway up to the top. I carefully crawl on one of the rafters to this massive nest, and pause. Will he be upset with me for waking him? Will he lose himself in sleep and eat me? Another flash of lightning makes my choice for me, and I scramble into the safety of the strange nest.
It's like we're back at the altar; the whole nest smells like him-- pine and sage and everything in the forest. It's warm and comforting and safe. He's larger than I recall, laying on his side, away from me. His neck is stretched out and his head rests on the ground like a sleeping elk. I lay down, pressing myself into his back, curling my legs into my chest and resolutely watching the storm outside.
Aurelius stirs, voice almost too quiet over the rain. "Kyla."
"Forgive me," I whisper as I curl into his spine. I didn't mean to wake him up, I just wanted the company.
His large head lifts, turning on a long neck to face me. His skull is that same corrupted deer I know, but his body isn't human anymore, now more animal-like. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice heavy with sleep. The white of his skull practically glows against the dark, like a beacon for me to latch onto.
He extends his neck and in one fluid movement gently clamps his jaw over my shoulder, lifts me into the air and sets me down on the other side of his body.
I open my mouth to answer, but I'm cut off by a strike of lightning and instant clap of thunder. I jump at the noise, hiding my face in my hands. Shame burns hot through me alongside the fear, making my heart pound in my ears.
Aurelius only hums, almost a growl, the noise rippling over my skin like water.
My suspicions are confirmed-- through the darkness I can make out that he's morphed into a large deer-like animal with four legs curled under a long body. The back legs are so long they nearly brush his front as he brings his head around, pulling me into him. "You may rest here," he says.
I settle into the solid shadow of his body and the nest he's laying in. Despite being made of strips of bark and tree, it's got a layer of down feathers that make it soft. Aurelius is covered in a layer of short fur, and he's warm enough to sink into. The branch-like antlers atop his head are close to me, the silver veins catching the light when it flashes outside. I reach out and hold one in my hand, the stability working to drag me back into sleep.
Chapter 4 >>
#my writing#Sacrifice#sfw.#monster writing#skull creature#monster boyfriend#forest god#sorry for anyone who wanted a speedy updat on this#it's lookin like it's gonna be a bi-weekly thing because my god was this chapter hard to write#i scrapped it like three times because it felt boring#but i think (i hope) it sets up future chapters well enough to be necessary
49 notes
·
View notes
Text
Theatrics of Deception
(Ao3 Link) EDIT I almost forgot! Credit to @the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers for helping me proofread this one, thanks love!!! <3
—
‘This has gotta be the worst state I’ve woken up in in a long while’ Martyn thinks with begrudging sentience. There’s an unpleasant fog clouding his mind, discouraging him from opening his eyes. His eyes in turn thrum back aches of muted pain in agreement, threatening the start of a headache if he dares try taking a peep. The discomfort in his head is only superseded by whatever surface he’s decided to sleep on jutting uncomfortably into his back. Honestly, the whole situation reeks of some bad decision he’s made. Some all nighter he’d tried to pull to catch up on work, or a party he’d spent way too long at. Slowly, he persuades his eyes to open, and a dark unfamiliar room unfurls before him as his vision adjusts.
‘Well that’s one point towards the latter.’
He starts moving to get up, before noticing his hands are stuck, somehow. Weird… He runs through a few next steps: trying to clear the brain fog preventing him from remembering what he did last night, running his thumb along whatever’s catching his wrists, searching for some kind of give, and taking in the room he’s in. It’s dark, real dark, he can only really make out the edges of sparse furniture and the small LED glow of a couple appliances, as well as- oh jeez is that a person over there? There’s a figure a few meters in front of him, their form hard to make out by the minimal light, and they’re just… standing there.
The hair on the back of Martyn’s neck stands on end, the situation just sobering enough to jog his memory, reminding him that he was neither pulling an all nighter writing in his apartment nor partying hard enough to ruin him completely the next day over.
What he was doing last night… he was furthering his investigation on The Red King.
Shit.
“Your audience is awake, my liege!” A gleeful voice emits from the figure as the lights in the room all blare on at the same time, blinding Martyn for a moment. He can now fully make out the confines of the small room he’s contained in, its windowless walls and concrete floor, as well as the wooden chair he’s sitting in, hands and feet tied up. He can also make out the figure before him, one he’s seen plenty in photos but never in person.
Sir Cadian is blanketed, near-entirely obscured by a thick carpet of moss, tiny blood-red flowers speckling its surface like stars, or blood splatter. It would make for a strange ensemble on its own if not for the shiny golden armaments it contrasted with. Gleaming against their lush backdrop close to a dozen golden watches, in a litany of sizes, orbit a long chain strung over his shoulder. Metal gauntlets, one larger than the other, catch the light at the sharp ends of pointed fingers. Most decorated of all is the golden helm he wears, a glittering visage of the sun where his eyes should be and the silver crescent of the moon covering his mouth with a faux-smile. He stands straight, before giving a deep bow and stepping dramatically to the side. And then, standing before him, is The Red King himself.
The Red King, a figure clouded in equal parts mystery and panache. A supervillain who first made his presence known six months back. He’s since enacted a variety of schemes that threatened the safety of the city, earning him a swift rise to infamy. To date, none of them have worked yet. He’s never even killed a person, directly or indirectly, as Martyn has pointed out in his writing. But thus far The Red King hasn’t needed to. His force of presence always spoke for itself and, regardless of what his actions might convey, the people feared him.
He’s dressed in a fine regalia decorated with fur trim and vicious, claw-like tears in equal adornment. A tarnished bloody crown rests between two pointed canine ears atop his head. Below, his eyes are obscured by a blood-red mask, the edges of which feather and bleed into his matching dark hair and massive cloak, trailing behind him like a stain as he slowly approaches Martyn. He’d also only seen him in photos before this moment, but aside from his nerves firing the main detail he registers now is just how The Red King towers in person. He finally stops a few feet away from him, his teeth gleaming like daggers as his mouth twists into a wicked smile.
“Martyn Littlewood.” His voice drips with an accent both archaic and modern. “Ye’re brazen to think we wouldn’t catch ye snooping.”
Martyn tries to keep his face stoic, staring The Red King straight in the bloody imprint where his eyes probably are. It’s the one skill he swears gets him all his top stories. Fake it ‘till you make it, when you’re found out you’ll have at least learned something. Plus the alternative right now would probably involve him passing out right now. So he steels himself instead.
“I, uh. I didn’t think you’d mind is all. Plenty of articles have been written about you already.”
“Yes… and several of them yours.” The Red King waves his hand, and behind him Sir Cadian grabs a leaflet of papers from atop a wood desk standing next to the door.
“Ahem. ‘The Red King; New Villain Emerges in Metropolis Area.’ ‘Expert Analysis on The Red King; Motive, Methods, and Powers - Lycanthropy Confirmed?’ ‘Hostage Situation at Red King Lair; Soup Group Saves the Day!’ ‘Hotguy and Cuteguy - Assault at The Monolith; What We Know.’ ‘Top 10 Villainous Fits; Who Does Bad While Looking Good. The Red King - Number Four’.” Sir Cadian lowers the papers from his face. “Wow! This guy’s a bonafide freak!”
“Never writing sensational periodicals again. I stand by what I said there though.” Martyn states, yet his voice is merely a whisper through his teeth.
“The point remains.” The Red King bellows. “Ye’re… prolific in the field. To be honest, fer someone as knowledgeable as ye are, I'd have thought ye’d have thought up a plan to evade us. Luckily the good Sir doesn’t disappoint.”
Sir Cadian twirls one of many pocket watches by the chain. “Next time include me in the headline!”
Martyn scoffs. “Well I’m here now either way. Not sure what you would want with a simple reporter like me anyways, unless you need a ‘you’ expert for some reason.” He turns his head to face away from the King. The Red King smiles, giving a hearty chuckle, before beginning to circle the room, walking away from where Martyn is looking.
“I assure ye, I understand myself perfectly fine. Just as well as I understand your justified fear of me right now.” He’s made it halfway around the room now, standing behind Martyn. Just out of his field of vision. The back of his chair is thinly scraped by the sharp tips of clawed fingers. “Ye can stop worrying. Fer right now at least, my plans for ye aren’t malicious. I actually have a favor to ask.” He stops and folds his hands behind his back, standing in front of Martyn once again.
“ …Go on.”
“I have a message. A message I wish to tell to everyone in this wretched city. I want it to carry through the streets like wind, to stick to the mind of people like frost.” Martyn flinches back best he can as The Red King suddenly jolts forward, their faces now inches apart. “My message will be the front page headline tomorrow morning, Mr. Littlewood. Do I make myself clear?”
The Red King’s breath wisps across Martyn’s face as his smile grows, widening into a toothy maw full of impossibly long rows of canines. The dark jagged shadow of his hair bristles across broad shoulders. A sharp sound emanates from below, and Martyn can hear the wood of the chair he’s in crack and splinter where razor-sharp claws press into its arms. Right now, the face staring at him looks like the nightmare a kid has after being read a fairy tale not fit for their age, constrained only by the imagination of their fear.
Martyn takes a breath. Fake it ‘till you make it…
“Alright, but only if you do something for me.”
The Red King’s smile, his bravado, for only a moment, falters.
“You have no right to make requests at The Red King’s orders, you-” Sir Cadian begins to storm over from the sidelines before The Red King raises their hand to stop him, smile returned.
“Sir Cadian, ye forget the position we’re in allows us to entertain and, in turn, be entertained.” His hand lowers as his gaze locks onto Martyn’s once more. “Tell us now, what would you request? Your Majesty?” He ends, voice dripping with ichor.
“Allow me to interview you.”
A beat, and then the king rumbles in a roaring, deep-bellied laughter, Sir Cadian following in suit with a falsetto wheeze of glee. Martyn waits for the two to finish their raucous laughter before continuing.
“As you said previously, I am something of a resident expert on you. You’re one of the main topics of my articles. Being able to talk to you, in person no less, is like a dream come true for me. You want me to spread your message, let me ask a few questions and whatever answers you give I’ll spread those as well, reporter’s promise.”
The ghost of laughter still haunts The Red King’s mouth, its edges curled into a smile. His eyes, however, study Martyn with a deeper curiosity now, searching for any kind of trap in his offer. After a few seconds his smile fades into a more serious look.
“If ye know me as well as ye say, you know I value my secrecy. But you’ve put me in a fair mood, so~!” He sits on top of the wood desk, almost casually. “I’ll allow ye one question and one question only for me to answer as I see fit to. Understand?”
Martyn nods, eyes fixated.
His smile widens. “Then shoot.”
“...How are you?”
When he looks at The Red King, he’s sitting in front of him, ears pressed against his head, eyes furrowed in a mixture of confusion and scorn, and one clawed hand curled against his lips in thought. And Martyn knows that, if only temporarily, he’s just killed The Red King’s act. The two stare at each other, waiting, the rising tension begging someone to make a move. Martyn doesn’t falter, and it’s The Red King who backs away first, standing up and turning his back to Martyn, arm’s crossed.
“How am I.” He taps his foot, mulling the words over in his mind like one would an object. “How am I.” He rolls his head around his shoulders. “How… am I.” The tapping stops.
“I… am growing impatient, Martyn. I have been for a long while now. The people of this city have forgotten the true meaning of fear. They’ve grown soft, placid. Emboldened.”
The Red King turns back to face Martyn with all the ferocity of a blizzard, the empty void of his eyes now glowing a cold white light as his claws grip his shoulders.
“When you tell those people: ‘Red Winter is Coming.’ When you tell them those words, Martyn. Then, and only then, will my patience be rewarded.”
The Red King turns away with a flourish of his cape, marching towards the door and yanking it open, Sir Cadian meekly following behind. The Red King turns his head, staring back at Martyn one last time.
“Don’t fail me.”
And the door slams shut with an echoing boom, rattling the few freestanding objects in the room. He’s alone now, and despite his heart racing at a mile-per-minute pace Martyn gives a quiet smirk to himself. He can’t help it.
He’s always been a damn good listener.
—
It’s dark out when Martyn wakes up from another overly oppressive sleep, slumped against a wall of some abandoned alleyway on the outer edges of the city. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he reaches into the messenger bag his captors had thankfully returned to him. It takes a couple of minutes for his phone to wake up from the total inactive state it was placed in, but eventually he can start returning a couple worried texts and figuring out where the closest station is to get home. And then he takes a deep breath, stands up, and taps his boss’ number. As it rings he braces for how hard he’ll have to fight to change tomorrow’s headlines so late.
#cyd's superhero au#theatrics of deception#hermitcraft au#hermitcraft superhero au#life series au#life series superhero au#3rd life au#hermitcraft ren#life series ren#3rd life ren#rendog#the red king#life series martyn#3rd life martyn#martyn inthelittlewood#martyn littlewood#inthelittlewood#hermitcraft bdubs#life series bdubs#3rd life bdubs#bdubs#bdoubleo#bdoubleo100#mcyt#mcytblr#awash in a sea of tags augh
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
EMBRYO
Chapter 9: February 7, 2021
When Heisenberg was small, the first few years after he was given his Cadou, Miranda came to him on nights he couldn't sleep.
He was not Heisenberg, those days, but a little boy named Karl. She kept him with her, then, a stocky, hunch-shouldered little boy with hair streaked in gray. It was a side effect of his transformation, his system strained to the breaking point to keep up with the monstrous power he channeled through it.
It took years for his control to become effortless, years until every emotion didn't sent metal objects within a fifty foot radius spinning around him in a deadly cloud. That was how he got his scars, and Miranda most days would return to find him battered and bleeding, surrounded by piles of scrap, twisting the metal fragments together into crude dolls and animals, things he'd loved in his village life. He was her special child, then, certain that he with his seamless affinity for the Cadou would prove a perfect vessel for Eva's return.
What's this, Karl? Miranda would say, kneeling by his side in a rustle of feathers. She'd stroked his hair with her gilded talons, so delicately her claw points made only icy lines on his skin. Are you making little friends for yourself?
He'd nodded.
Do you need friends? Her fingers had curled, and her claws dug in just a little. Is your mother not enough?
Of course you're enough, he'd told her, quickly. But this helps me to control the gift. To make me stronger.
Good, she'd whispered.
Now show me.
He'd crooked his fingers, making the dolls move in circles across the stone floor. Miranda kept him in her sanctum, the caves beneath the village, great echoing passageways carved deep through the earth. The Black God lived in this place, the thing the boy had always sensed in the caves surrounding the village, had prayed to even before Miranda. Its heartbeat, its great, slow dreams moving like cloud-shadows across the mountainside, vast and inscrutable.
Here, its pulse vibrated through the walls, omnipresent, subtle, such that little Karl had to get used to it or go mad.
He supposed its madness might be something of a gift itself, like the Cadou. Prophets in the holy books often went mad. When the wolf-sickness seized them, were they not holy-touched, as much as any saint? He pressed his hand to the suture down the middle of his chest and wondered if he was holy-touched too.
He didn't feel holy. But Miranda said he was. Maybe he didn't need to believe. Maybe he just needed to believe her.
Now God's heartbeat was a part of him, as much as his power, which slowly, slowly became second nature. When Miranda left to oversee the village, to accept tithes and attend ceremonies and pay visits to Lady Dimitrescu in her castle and poor Lord Moreau in the deep reservoir to the village's southwest, he slipped through the ancient studded doors from her private sanctum and wandered the caves alone.
He levitated a lantern with one hand and a little device, a padlock or radio or pocketwatch, with the other. As he walked he disassembled and assembled it, over and over, letting the click of the metal components and the soft echoes of his own footsteps become a litany, keeping his fear in check as best he could.
The lanternlight played across the distant walls, touching each crag and fold of the caves with shards of light and shadow. Saints' statues swam from the darkness, long-faced and dripping with the water that rushed through this subterranean place, making its own ways, carving its own channels in the village's bedrock.
He searched for small treasures, shards of crystal, shreds of gold. He found a little compass in a niche, by some candles, like a holy offering, and took to wearing it on a cord around his neck, a charm against losing his way down here.
Once he found some ancient monastic enclave built into some deep, deep cave, the crumbling walls forever enclosing the bones of men who'd walled themselves up alive to better contemplate the Black God's dreams. Many of these skeletons bore pointed teeth, the mutagen-twisted features that told the boy they'd succumbed to wolf-sickness, the insides of their cells hatched with scratches that could only have been made by their claws as they lost their minds.
Maybe they'd found what they wanted, in the end. Maybe they were one with the Black God. That was what Miranda said.
It dreams of us all, she told him as she taught him, giving him her holy books to memorize. Every one of us.
Despite all her teachings, he was, even then, a heretical child. Karl had played with the monks' fanged skulls, setting down the lantern so as he puppeted the holy men's heads their shadows flickered over the walls, a whole audience to hear his echoed conversations to himself.
Miranda wouldn't mind because Miranda couldn't hear him. And he learned fast that Miranda didn't like to hear him talk about certain things.
When he couldn't sleep, she always knew. He curled in the blankets and cried, though why, he didn't know. Something chewed at him, some great hollow nothing behind the weight of the Cadou in his chest, but whenever he tried to look at it, to figure out what, it eluded him. Miranda always put it out of his head, anyway. He knew she was there by the rustle of her feathers, the flapping of crows' wings.
His mattress creaked as she settled to his bedside. The bitter sting of her scent, at once chemical and earthy as a new grave.
There's nothing to cry over, she'd whisper, stroking his hair again. She always did that. Maybe, he surmised years later, it was to avoid reminding herself he wasn't really her Eva, to make what was to come easier. His hair would feel like hers. The shape of his face, the heat of his skin- that would be altogether too different. You are mine, now. You have a home, a belonging.
You belong here.
Blood on the snow. The Maiden of War cut stark against a pale gray sky, her blade lifted as if to impale the looming castle on its point. The villagers on their hands and knees, heads bowed, the sound of weeping carried long on the still winter air.
Why would you ever want to leave?
The farmer who'd hidden his family beneath the floorboards rather than let Miranda take his youngest daughter. Karl had stood before him and lifted his hand; his power was there, loyal and eager. At his back, Miranda squeezed his shoulder.
Deep inside-
Now show me.
He couldn't stop his weeping. He had hesitated, resisting Miranda's command, and after the botched execution, she was so angry. She'd injected him with something that made him feel heavy, sleepy, unable to stop her as she carried him to the steel operating table, as she opened up his suture with a single scalpel slash. His Cadou's tentacles whipped free, writhing from his open chest cavity like long, fleshy ribbons, but Miranda paid them no mind. She'd plunged her hands in, as if she could find the source of his hesitation and rip it out.
You're mine now. At his bedside, she leaned down to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her lips were cold. You will be mine forever.
She sang to him. It was in old-tongue, that with which the village grannies spoke, the language the holy books were written in. It was soft and aching, sweet and bitter. The tale of a little girl, lost deep in the forest. Searching and searching, but she never found her way home.
Did she sing this song to Eva? Karl had looked at Miranda, her pale, pretty face in the lamplight, and saw that she was crying.
It was her control, he told himself later, that made him do what came next. The manufactured sympathy and blinding, all-consuming devotion to her she had placed in all of them. It had to be. It had to be, or he would never forgive himself.
He'd reached out to her and took her hand.
And I'll stay with you, he whispered. Forever.
It was a promise he'd broken, like so many promises he'd made over his long, weary life. Now, knee-deep in snow, a sleeping Rose in his arms, he wondered if he'd have to break another.
Her breathing was a low, strangled wheeze, her body hot and cold in flashes. She shuddered; Heisenberg held her tighter, his head down against the next blast of ice wind. It howled past him, knife-sharp, visibility nil. He could make out the shadows of trees, but besides that, there was nothing to tell him what was ground and what was sky. It was all a gray blur.
They were somewhere in Hungary, he thought- they'd crossed some kind of border a few days before, had made their way through countless tiny towns and out of the mountains. They'd hiked through endless woods, past lakes so blue they hurt the eyes to look at, through disused Soviet mining camps, great rusted machinery towering against the sky. Heisenberg wanted to stay and look at these for hours, but the cold was still bitter, and Rose's fingertips began to turn blue if they didn't keep moving.
Despite this, they were doing okay, getting on well. No lycans trailed them after they left Teodora's town, freshly-relieved of its super-sized skyborne threat; they must have learned to back off once their alpha was given the wood chipper treatment. No sign of Dimitrescu, either. Wherever she'd flown off to it was a long way from here. Rose began to chatter nonstop, asking Heisenberg questions about everything- Is that a deer? What kind of rock is this? What's your favorite food? Oh, cool, that sounds yummy. Are you going to eat tons of that once we get to Budapest? Are we gonna live in a house? Can I have my own bedroom? Can I paint the walls green? About seven hours into this barrage Heisenberg began belting out whatever songs he could dredge from his mind, half to shut her up, half to keep a marching beat.
It worked. They made good time. Each day, he kept his eyes on the horizon. Each night, huddled around a campfire, Rose tucked under his coat to keep her warm, he let himself realize, as if for the first time, that he was out.
Miranda was dead.
He was free.
That was before this damn blizzard hit.
Their food supply, given to them by Teodora, was nearly gone, and though she'd provided them with enough cash to keep them afloat for a while, little good that would do if there was nowhere to spend it.
Maybe we should have stayed in town for a while. Stayed with Teodora. Maybe she'd show me her Cadou-enhanced strength again, if you know what I mean, heh. I could have helped rebuild that stupid fucking church, enjoyed the adulation of the townsfolk, maybe got really, really, really shitfaced for a week straight.
But he couldn't stay. He couldn't become for them what Miranda became for the village. He couldn't be a saint, a symbol, a hero. He would only disappoint them. Let Teo become their guardian. She was better-suited for the task, young and willful, without the weight of decades crushing her to the dirt.
And now, the worst.
Something was wrong with Rose.
She was supposed to be healed, supposed to be all right. She'd gotten her medicine, her mutation balanced out, her body's accelerated growth slowed down to normal rates. That wasn't the issue. She'd collapsed in the blizzard, mold spewing from her skin, screaming as it reached her eyes. Heisenberg, help me! He couldn't do anything, could only hold her as she wrestled for control, as the mold became blood, oozing from her mouth and eyes.
That night, shuddering and feverish, she'd begun to chant. Crying out, first, then words, an endless stream of them. Heisenberg recognized some. Miranda's speech patterns, Dimitrescu's, the villagers' gabble, even his own, things he'd said decades ago, things he'd said yesterday.
Rose's eyes flickered behind her lashes; he felt the pulse of her power, strong as the heartbeat of the Black God in its caves. In trying to merge the megamycete with the dissolved Rose, trying to siphon Eva into an inert vessel, Miranda had put the Black God itself in her head. She had made her into this, had impaled her upon a shard of the divine, and now she was bleeding out.
He carried her through the blizzard. Here we are again, kid. Each step grated through him, his joints winched so tight that moving at all was a Herculean effort. The wind roared; he grit his teeth and forced his way on.
Nearly right off a cliff. It yawned before him, snow crumbling from his boot toes, down into an abyss. He stumbled back moments before he'd have walked right out into it, plunged him and Rose alike to their deaths. Breathing hard, he stared out into the sea of snow-fog and flakes blown sideways. The roar was stronger here, was-
Definitely not wind.
Light blazed through the snow. The train rumbled past without warning, a vast dark serpent plunging from the fog and forward along hidden tracks. Cyrillic writing flashed along its sides: a cargo train, laden up with shipping containers. A few of the traincars were for ordinary cargo, smaller boxes, doors padlocked tight.
Heisenberg was already running.
He lunged down the incline and skidded in a plume of gravel, then broke into a flat-out sprint alongside the train. Its horn sounded, a bass bellow in the backs of his teeth, so loud it drowned out thought. He didn't need to think. This train, wherever it was going, was a hell of a lot better than dying in the middle of the woods.
He flung out a hand. The padlock broke in a spray of sparks. Another command ripped open the train door. He splayed his fingers, then clenched them, hooking his power onto the metal. It nearly wrenched his arm clean off; red agony ripped through his shoulder joint, but he hurtled off his feet and onto the train steps, stumbling into the traincar itself, out of the cold.
He jerked his head to the side, slamming shut the door, trapping him and Rose in rattling, vibrating darkness.
Pain throbbed, torn and bloody, deep in his shoulder. He ignored it and set about clearing a patch of floor between the crates. He popped one open and rummaged through. It were full of electronics, not food, but the air in this train was warmer than the outside, and if they were heading to somewhere, at least it wasn't nowhere.
Heisenberg plucked one of the boxes from the crate and studied it, his brow furrowed. What the hell was it? The package said telephone, but this thing was tiny. He tossed it aside, then helped Rose down, bundling his coat around her so she wouldn't have to curl up on the bare metal floor.
He settled down alongside her, holding his arm out as straight as he could bear so his healing factor wouldn't set the tissues all wonky. Fuck, it hurt. He needed a drink. Why couldn't this have been the rubbing alcohol train instead of the stupid tiny telephones train?
"You broke it," Rose murmured.
"Nah. Just a sprain." He grinned at her. "Fuckin' arm wouldn't dare break on me."
"Just like...just like before...so much breaking...he just wanted to save them..." Her words turned mumbly, mushy, sing-song. "...seven times we join our hands, seven times fall down...seven heads will turn all red when Lord Heisenberg's in town..."
"I'm gonna get us somewhere safe, kid. Don't you worry."
"Worry, worry, worry. Don't worry, Mister Heisenberg. I know how to be safe." The mold pooled from her again, writhing over the walls and crates, nosing at Heisenberg's boots. "She won't ever notice..."
"Rose," Heisenberg said, but she had lapsed again, rocking back and forth as she sang and sobbed and called out names he didn't recognize, of the long-dead, of the unborn.
He made himself stay awake, even dug scavenged metal barbs into the side of his neck so the pain would keep him alert, but the past few sleepless nights, the days on the mountainside, the days before in the aftermath of the village, all took their toll. He might have been Lord Heisenberg- once- but he was still human, somewhere deep, deep inside, and it was that part which eventually rose up and succumbed to his exhaustion.
He drifted off. There was no Beneviento garden now, no Claudia or Donna, nothing but oblivion and that song. Miranda's song, drifting through the deep currents of his brain. Lost in the forest, poor little lamb. Witches and wolves await your sweet flesh. Stumble and bleat, but the briars grow swiftly. Home is faraway, and you are so lonely.
You made me this way, he called to the darkness, but there was nothing. An echo; a whisper. You're dead. Let me go. Let us all go.
He woke with a jolt to Rose screaming.
He was next to her in an instant. She streamed mold- it was worse than before, a writhing sea of it, lapping and surging at his hands, black tears pouring from her eyes. His Cadou writhed as if in response, its tentacles straining at his electric organs, straining at the call of its master's vessel. Rose's screams filled the traincar, howling, desperate, and agonized.
"It's too much," she sobbed, between the screams. Heisenberg held her down; his hands were numb, his whole body numb. Somewhere there was rage, but it didn't rise in him to scorch him. All he could think was we were out. She's dead. We're supposed to be free. "It's...too much, it hurts- help me, please, help me-"
"I'm trying," he snarled. He didn't know what to do. A mold-tentacle thudded against the metal wall, shaking the whole car. Years of chopping into corpses, buzz-sawing off limbs, pumping in chemicals and rearranging the intricate machine that was the human body- none of it was any use here. It wasn't her moldy little self that was the problem. It was what waited within, the dreams, the nightmares, the god inside her head.
Miranda, for all her century of research, her lofty claims and prophetess trappings, hadn't truly understood the scope of the megamycete, had been too single-minded and unstable to recognize it for what it was. No single mind could.
And now Rose- Eva- the girl that had been remade from both- held all of them.
Births, and deaths. Lives and losses. Every sorrow, every joy, every moment of anger, every long, bleak stretch of misery, was captured and preserved within her like an insect in amber. Every thought of everything that had ever died and become a part of the Black God's memory, its complete and perfect record of the region's collective human consciousness. Of the other mold outbreaks, too? Heisenberg didn't know. It didn't matter now; ask the philosophers when it did. Here and now, what mattered was that it was tearing Rose apart.
The power flowed from her like a river, bolts of lightning in Heisenberg's nerves. He'd tasted this instability before, though on a lesser scale. He'd seen what it left behind. A dead thing on a floor. A silence that was an ending. After Claudia, he'd become a monster, had lost all empathy for the villagers upon whose dead he'd experimented.
What would he become if Rose-
Don't. Do not think that way. The second you do you might as well throw yourself under this goddamn train.
He had to do something.
There was something.
Wasn't there always, when you were prepared to do anything?
"Rose," he said. A fresh wave of her screams filled the air. Her eyes were squinched shut, but black tears bubbled between her lashes anyway. "Kid, listen to me. You're in my head, right? Got in there with your freaky mind-fuckery and screwed around? I need you to do it again, but this time- this time, I need you to open the door both ways."
He didn't know if she heard him. Didn't know if she could. He'd make her hear him. She had to live. She had to. With a "Sorry, kid," he pressed his hands to both sides of her face, holding her still as she convulsed.
Electricity hummed and crackled, arcing over his body and into hers. The web of mold around them disintegrated, and Rose's screams cut off with a gurgle. Her back arched; her teeth shone slick and black as she gasped for breath.
She slammed back down.
Her eyes sprang open.
They gleamed golden in the lightning, and her face shuddered into a smile, familiar, slicing to Heisenberg's core. He was that little boy again, reaching for Miranda, wanting to comfort her even with her hands gloved in his blood. Fuck, nostalgia was a bitch.
"Karl," Rose whispered, and her voice was Miranda's, not its sound but its essence, the way it coiled around his name.
She blinked, and Rose's real eyes were back, irises pale against her oil-black sclerae.
"Now," she whispered. A crackle thrummed between them, and Heisenberg's Cadou shuddered, the world around him shifting. "Do it now."
So Heisenberg reached down, inside himself, inside Rose. An alien presence, searching, finding, grabbing on. He took hold of her memories, her power, the Black God itself, and he hid it all away. He chained it deep inside her, like Miranda had done to him and the other Lords. The memories of her abduction, her crystallization, Heisenberg and the others taking up her fragments, like pieces of a broken doll. Memories of her mother, Mia, Ethan's ordeal, what Heisenberg had done to him. Memories of who she was, what she was. Last of all, and most importantly: what he had just done to her.
Locked away. Good as gone.
A hollow left behind.
She slumped into Heisenberg's coat with a sigh, out cold. The last of her mold melted into nothingness. She looked almost peaceful.
All Heisenberg could think, all his stupid fucking brain could manage to come up with as he stared down at her, breathing hard, the remnants of his lightning crackling around them both, was a perfect affinity.
Without warning, a shudder passed through the train. The squeal of metal against metal filled the air, the timbre of the engine changing. He felt it in the metal around them, the vibration against his extranormal senses. They were slowing down. Was the train stopping? They were in the middle of nowhere, why the hell would they-
The train ground to a halt. Heisenberg slowly got to his feet, hands splayed. The darkness in the car was absolute.
A screech, a grind of the door's mechanism- and it burst open. Light seared into the traincar, halogen-bright and blinding. Heisenberg flinched back as it stabbed into his unprotected eyes like splinters of glass.
Fuck this shit. He reached out for the metal around him as shouts filled the air-
"He's using his mutation!" A deep voice, a little gravelly around the edges. Familiar. "Fire!"
"Bullets, Redfield?" Heisenberg yelled, with a laugh.
It cut off as a thin streak of metal flashed through his awareness; there was a sting, like a wasp, in the side of his neck. He slapped his hand up to the sting and yanked out-
Ah, fuck. A dart bristling with an orange pom-pom. Out of his neck, now, but it'd had long enough. The sedative kicked like a mule; Heisenberg went rigid as his head swirled, as the floodlight broke apart into kaleidoscopic shards.
Numbness swept over him, and his concentration lapsed. What was this, some world-class extra-strength trank made specially for bioweapons? Knowing the BSAA, probably.
Boots thudded on metal. Heisenberg collapsed onto his knees, his advanced metabolism straining to work through the sedative before it pulled him under. A silhouette stepped in front of the light, built like a fridge beneath his all-black combat gear. Grim-faced, eyes narrowed, Chris Redfield looked down at Heisenberg.
"Bioweapon secure," he said.
He faced Rose. A frown cut the lines on his face deeper. "Shit," he murmured. A strange expression fluttered over his face- relief, confusion, a profound, weary grief. "What did they do to you, Rosemary?"
"Didn't...do..." Black pushed in at the edges of Heisenberg's vision. "Fuckin'...kill you..."
Redfield's eyes flicked back to him. "Heard that before, Heisenberg," he said. "I'm not dead yet."
He spoke to someone behind him, a hazy form in the encroaching darkness. "Wrap him up and move them out. And keep him under. God help us all if he comes to on the chopper."
Fuck, Heisenberg told himself.
That was his last conscious thought for a good long while.
***
"Let me get this straight," Redfield said, rubbing his forehead with one hand, the other arm crossed over his massive pecs. "You thought that hiding out in the next valley, on the other side of the mountain, ostentatiously battling one of Miranda's other bioweapons, becoming a town legend, and vanishing into the wilderness with a child in tow would keep you under the radar?"
"What can I say." Heisenberg spread his arms. "I can't resist a good show."
The room echoed around them: featureless and chill, lights too bright, concrete walls and floor painted white. Still in his filthy trench coat, he'd left a ring of grime around his chair, marring the pristine floor simply by sitting over it. No metal anywhere. Everything was polymer or an alloy, non-ferrous, out of his control. Guards in full combat gear stood at the single door out, and a vent breathed dry, cold air into the room, keeping the temperature hovering somewhere just above arctic.
Smart, he had to admit. His Cadou was sluggish in this cold, and only its occasionally-pulsating weight in his chest told him it was still alive at all. Maybe it was nervous. He'd certainly got a kick of adrenaline when he awoke to find the pressure of a collar around his neck.
A shock collar, he'd been informed, with enough voltage to detonate his heart like a grenade, electric organs or no. He didn't much appreciate it. He didn't like collars except under very specific circumstances.
Redfield sat on the opposite side of the table. Bisecting it, and by extension the whole room, was a sheet of stout glass. A faint, drilling hum in the backs of his teeth told him it was electrified. If he touched it, bye-bye eyebrows. A few holes in the glass allowed sound. Heisenberg was almost flattered. Even without the use of his power, they were still leery he might lunge across the table and throttle the legendary Chris Redfield with his bare hands.
He'd done his research on the guy when he'd done his research on Ethan, heard the Hound Wolf Squad was rolling into Romania, smuggled in the info by means of the Duke, like he did most of his outside reading material.
He knew a thing or two more about the outside world than the rest of the Lords- Dimitrescu kept herself isolated by choice, focusing on the snow-globe-life she'd cultivated under Miranda's thumb, while Moreau he wasn't sure was capable of expanding his horizons, preferring shitty, schmaltzy movies to concrete information.
And Donna...
To think about her still elicited a clutter of emotions, from revulsion to longing. She'd cut herself off in her own way, had regressed to a state of childlike mourning after Claudia's death became the final nail in the coffin of her sanity.
Heisenberg had kept tabs on the BSAA's movement, Redfield's little cadre splintering off from it to conduct their own, somewhat less sanctioned, operations. Other stuff too, all the way back to a certain mansion in a certain mountain range in North America. Now, he took stock of the man himself. His main takeaway was weariness. The fluorescent lighting did him no favors, and past the muscle and the flinty eyes he could see the exhaustion that lay over him like a shroud. He'd spent the last three years protecting Ethan Winters and his family, after all. And now, now, in the span of less than a month, all of it was gone.
Had to suck at least a little.
Heisenberg leaned back in his chair as much as his zip-tied hands would allow and surveyed Redfield down his nose.
"And you couldn't let us go on our merry way," he went on. "Had to protect and serve against the big, bad monsters. That S.T.A.R.S training still kicking around your brain, somewhere past all the meat blocking your synaptic activity?"
That didn't get so much as a rise. Redfield simply folded his other arm over his chest and let out his breath.
"The girl you kidnapped was the whole damn point of the whole damn operation," he said. "All of this was to extract her, rescue her. And you're a hostile bioweapon whose hobby is manufacturing soldiers from infected corpses on an industrial level. So, yeah. I couldn't let you...go on your merry way. Where were you and Rosemary headed, while we're on the subject? Nowhere but an icy grave, from the looks of you two."
"You underestimate me, Chris. I always find a way out."
"Yes, you do." He leaned forward. "We've been running tests on Rosemary-"
"Rose," Heisenberg said.
Chris's expression didn't shift, but Heisenberg sensed he was waiting for him to continue.
"Kid likes to be called Rose," Heisenberg said with a shrug. "No need to make a song and dance about it."
"On Rose," Redfield went on, slowly. "My squad observed Miranda's ceremony, Rose's reconstitution from the megamycete's mutagen slurry. We knew that such a process would leave its host...unstable. Her sporadic growth spurts have ceased- your doing?"
He wasn't about to blab about Teodora. Last thing she needed was a strike team conking her on the head and dragging her to a facility like this. "More or less."
"-But there was little to be done about the mind-archive transfer. That amount of data, all in an already unstable brain...it was a wonder she didn't suffer a full cerebral collapse the moment she came out of the Mold."
"She's a tough little thing, that's for damn sure."
Redfield was silent for a long moment.
Then-
"We know you stabilized her, Heisenberg," he said. "That you repressed her abilities so they wouldn't overwhelm her."
Heisenberg said nothing.
"Easier to just let her die. Unless, of course, you had plans for her once you reached civilization. Your metal army's gone, so I get it. Cut your losses, flee the village with the next best thing. Use Rose to start up your own little prayer circle, use her as the next...what did Miranda call the megamycete? The Black God?"
Heisenberg snorted. "Like I want a bunch of morons in bathrobes sucking me off."
"Why, then? Surely she's more trouble than she's worth."
"Loads. Give me a cigar and I might tell you about it."
"Cut the bullshit, Heisenberg."
"You first, Chris," Heisenberg told him. He reached up and gave his shock collar a little tug. How long did it take to activate, he wondered. "If you're looking to wring a drop of decency from me, you're gonna be looking for a long damn time."
Redfield's hand slammed down on the tabletop, shaking it, shaking the entire pane of electrified glass. "We want to help her!" he snapped. "Understand? And you screwing with us is stopping us from getting her the help she needs."
At last Heisenberg sensed the rift, the hairline fracture in his stolid composure. He wanted to help her, too.
Well, well. Was this to be a truly honest man?
"The BSAA is prepared to cut you a deal," Redfield went on. "You cooperate, and this doesn't end in your permanent calcification."
Heisenberg kicked a boot up on the table. This was gonna be good. "Go on."
"We take control of Rose-"
"No."
"-And keep you on-site as a consultant for matters relating to the megamycete, Miranda, her years of research I know you were at least somewhat privy to. I read the documents in her laboratory. She had contact with Umbrella before it was even Umbrella. That research is the key to all of this, to understanding the Mold, to stopping the next outbreak, and the next. Stopping more biomatter massacres like the one in the village. Stopping more infectees from suffering like you and your- your siblings- suffered-"
"All at the cost of Rose's freedom," Heisenberg said.
"All with the aim of preserving her safety. Don't you see she's safest in BSAA custody?"
You're safe with me, Miranda had whispered to him. You're safe here now, Karl. Do as I say, and I'll always protect you.
"Yeah, I've heard that shit before," Heisenberg said. "Still don't believe it."
"Listen-" Redfield cut off, then began again. "This kind of treatment isn't my first choice. But this isn't my call, either. It's the best I could negotiate with the higher-ups, and believe me, what they first wanted to do with Rose when we pulled you two in..."
He shook his head. "This isn't your world anymore, Heisenberg. I don't say that as a threat. I say it as a warning. If you care about any piece of Rose, take my deal. It's the best one you're gonna get."
Heisenberg stared at him for a while, eyes half-lidded, letting the atmosphere in the room tense up and up.
"I want to see her," he said, suddenly.
"You-"
"I want to see her or there's no deal, Redfield. I know you want all my info on Miranda, so you're not gonna grab the shotgun and send me to the glue factory unless it's the last resort." He tipped his head to the side, regarding Redfield through a curtain of grimy gray hair. "Let me see her or I'll force the issue, and all that research, that century of insight into the Mold..."
He clicked his fingers as best he could with his hands bound.
"Gone," he said. "Just like poor Ethan."
Redfield's jaw quivered. Ever the professional, he didn't march over to Heisenberg's side and deck him. Heisenberg admired his restraint. He'd sure as hell deck him. Instead Redfield drew a long breath, then glanced to the guards and nodded.
"Ten minutes," he said.
"Best behavior," Heisenberg agreed.
Out they went. Winding hallways, pale and featureless. Guards in black at every door, an egghead in a white coat at his side, syringe at the ready at the first twitch of Heisenberg's power. Redfield strode ahead, giving nods to all those he passed, but Heisenberg got the impression- something in his posture, in the way his eyes settled on the faces of the occasional scientist walking by- that he wasn't fully comfortable here, either.
It's the best I could negotiate with the higher-ups, he'd said. Fascinating. Even the great boulder-punching Chris Redfield himself was under someone's thumb.
They reached a doorway that opened with a keycard into what looked like a residential section. The halls here were painted a bland beige, a few prints on the walls, the lighting far less harsh. Still, there was no escaping the omnipresent hum of a generator somewhere, the faint chill and smell of chemicals. His guards pushed him through a nondescript doorway and into a small, dim room, one wall set with an enormous pane of glass.
A one-way mirror, Heisenberg realized. On the other side was a bedroom, and in it was a woman and a girl.
The girl was Rose, curled on the bed. Sensors were attached to her head, bundles of cables snaking away to ports in the walls. The woman Heisenberg recognized, too. Miranda had brought her to the village some weeks before, had flung her into a cell in her lab, had done things to her that sent screams echoing through the caves for hours on end.
Heisenberg had listened outside the door, hand clenched around his hammer, thinking now. Now. She's distracted. Set the metal army on her, crush her to the dust. Kill her in her lab, heh, that would be poetry, wouldn't it?
But he didn't. She was still too powerful, still too wary. When she brought the kid to town, at the height of her perceived victory, bringing her down would be all the sweeter. Eventually she left the lab, giving a nod to Heisenberg waiting at the door. He'd bowed, touching his hat brim, laying it all on a little too thick.
Inside the lab, the smell of fresh blood and mutagen rose thick and sweet from the operating table, scalpels scattered in kidney dishes, glistening like rubies in the medical lighting. The woman was curled in the corner of her cell, knees to her chest, her dark hair hanging over her face. As Heisenberg's shadow fell over her, she'd looked up with a gasp, eyes wide, hands clenched on her knees.
You. You're one of...one of hers, aren't you? I saw you when she...when she brought me here...you have to help me, she's...doing things to me, she wants Rose-
Heisenberg took a slow drag off his cigar. Rose, huh?
My baby. My daughter. Oh, god, she's in there with them...I have to get to them, warn them... She'd scrabbled in the scattered straw on the flagstones, as if searching her cell for a key that wasn't there. Her eyes were too-bright, unfocused, feverish. Heisenberg glimpsed the dark stains on her clothes, the old blood that had dried and soaked in and dried again.
He'd read about her, too. All the files on Dulvey, Louisiana, the crash of the Annabelle, the mutamycete colony of which she'd been part. Another twisted little family. Other stuff. A photo of her, standing with her hand on the shoulder of a dark-haired little girl radiating mold tentacles like Rose's. A redacted past nearly as atrocity-filled as his own.
She whirled, suddenly, and hauled herself up the bars. Let me go, she begged, reaching between the bars, her bloodied fingertips brushing his arm. Please, I'll do anything.
Anything?
Anything-
Heisenberg had leaned in, and the hope in her face was a gutting thing.
Sorry, sweetheart, he'd told her. Mommy says no.
It was practical, he told himself later. She got out, Miranda would know someone on the inside was less than loyal, and it didn't take many leaps in logic to land on him. By the time he'd sent the army up against Miranda, had mutated himself and faced her lycan army mano-a-mano, Mia Winters was gone from the lab and the point was moot.
"You sprung the mom, I assume?" he asked Redfield.
He nodded. "She told us a lot, after her release. You were mentioned. I think her exact words were smug fucker with a hammer."
"Cute and has a way with words. Single, too." Redfield's look to him could have frozen fire. "When can I talk to Rose?"
"Talking to Rose was never part of the deal."
"Hm," Heisenberg said. "Unfortunate."
This next part would sting a bit.
He whirled. Guns cocked as Heisenberg cracked his elbow into the syringe-wielding scientist at his shoulder, knocking her back before she could plunge the needle into his neck. A knife sprang into Redfield's hand, its blade made of hardened polymer. Heisenberg rushed him with a maniacal laugh, his hand closing around Redfield's neck, wrenching the guy off his feet and into the air-
His skull exploded. That was how it felt, anyway; the inside of his head sheeted white. Heat seared a ring around his neck where the shock collar touched him. He smelled his own hair burning. Nasty, he thought, even as the world fell away and he hurtled once more into unconsciousness.
***
It was later that Miranda made him perform more executions. He was older, then, and his dolls became far more complex, mechanical marvels that skittered and moved on multiple legs, ticking over the flagstones. His hair grew shaggy over his face, his scars increasing by the week; his healing factor closed his accidental wounds, but always left behind a mark.
Miranda had stopped soothing each new cut, had stopped trimming his hair herself with a pair of long silver scissors and matching bowl, like some holy woman tending a child saint. After that first hesitation, after Karl had refused to kill the farmer who'd disobeyed her, the knife merely gashing the man over the cheek rather than over the throat, he'd sensed a new coldness in her.
Worse than that- a disappointment. He was no longer her special child, her perfect vessel. Like Alcina, like Salvatore, he was flawed. He became wild. Tempestuous. Cruel. No longer a child saint, but a demon-thing, savage and bloodthirsty as a newborn lycan. He pushed his power to its limits, not caring when he drew in lightning to strike the wooden buildings in the village, not caring when the villagers cowered under the power of his onslaught.
Miranda let him range where he liked, as long as he stayed within the village limits. Through the woods which had once been his sanctuary.
He found dead things. He remade them. Now the machines that had skittered on mechanical legs shambled and slouched, crawling along on decaying paws until their metal components tore their flesh ones apart.
When Miranda summoned him to her side and bestowed her presence upon the village, he no longer felt fear as the villagers shrank to their knees before them. Just a kind of numb, blank pity.
And when Miranda ordered him to lift his hammer over the head of a heretic, he didn't feel anything at all.
Years it took for him to feel again. Anything. Had she stolen his emotions along with his memories? Had she reached inside him and simply turned them off? Maybe it was better that way; then it was her fault, not his.
The sanctum began to reek of dead things, bad enough that Miranda banished Karl under the guise of reward to the ramshackle, disused factory on the village outskirts, surrounded by a vast war-era junkyard and built over a particularly extensive wing of the Black God's cave system. This was the one-time empire of House Heisenberg, she explained, and thus his birthright.
He took the name and pinned it to himself like a badge. Anything, for identity. Alone in the rusty, echoing darkness, exploring the complex like he had once explored the Black God's tunnels, he began to think about bodies. His own, cut open and rearranged. The ones he'd made. The ones he'd found, maggots squirming in their ribs. Making them move. If he could make them move, he could make them do anything at all. Anything he wanted.
Just like her.
It seemed she'd taught him well.
Miranda's focus had turned from him, as it always did. This time, though, it didn't settle on one of the villagers, but on the two daughters of the Beneviento family to the northwest of the village. Descendants of royalty, of one of the ancient kings of the valley, the original settlers of this lonely mountain place. Clever folk, all of them, quick with their hands and their wits. Too clever to live, as it turned out. Recently the family had dwindled to two. The parents were dead, consumed by the waterfall that thundered outside their mist-shrouded mansion. Maybe the sound had driven them mad. Maybe the Black God had whispered its darkest dreams to them, and it had cracked them, deep inside.
Maybe Miranda had paid them a visit.
Go to them, she ordered Heisenberg. He might have fallen from her favor, but he still had his many uses. She circled him, a hiss of feathers against the shadows. Watch them. The younger girl in particular. She's a special one, that Claudia. Watch her, and tell me what you see.
He'd hefted his hammer higher on his shoulder. Like a hawk.
I know you will.
She'd stopped before him and trailed one claw down his cheek, gently brushing his lower lip with her thumb.
You're still perfect, you know.
That was Miranda's mistake. Assuming she had absolute control. Assuming that control was unassailable. But the strong would always destroy the weak- that was the way of the world. And in the end, she was no match for the strength of his vengeance.
***
Redfield wore a choker of bruises in the shape of Heisenberg's right hand.
"Heh," Heisenberg said. "Pretty necklace."
"You know how much clout it took to convince my superiors not to crystallize you on the spot?" he muttered. Heisenberg could imagine. He looked like he'd aged years over the previous night. After Heisenberg had attacked, he'd been wrestled to a cell made for rampaging bioweapons, bolted down, and subjected to repeated flashes of blinding light to further fuck his brain into black goo. A nice little injection of tranquilizers later, and he was on the train to sleepy town.
"This won't end well for you," Redfield said. "No matter the outcome. Rose belongs here. What kind of life did you think you were gonna give her, anyway? As your protege? As part of another family, like Miranda's, like the Bakers, the two of you against the world?"
"Better than being locked in that depressing fucking room in this depressing fucking place," Heisenberg said.
"You seriously think that? There are organizations out there who would use her for...inconceivable horrors. Both against her and against everyone. What she is, who she is- there's never been anything like it before. People will want that kind of power. They'll hunt her down like an animal. Here, she'll be treated like a person."
Heisenberg laughed, slow and bitter. He kept going for so long that Redfield began to look a little unnerved.
"Shit," Heisenberg said, at last. "They really have screwed you around, haven't they? You really believe that? You do, don't you?"
"It doesn't matter if I do or not," Redfield said, stolidly. "I'll make sure of it."
"Do you know what it's like?" Heisenberg said. Redfield's eyes narrowed. "To be taken? To be reached inside? To be looked at like a monster, like a god, like both, until you don't know what you are, until your mind's so broken all you can bear is do as you're told or destroy everything around you?"
He leaned forward, collar scraping at his neck. The guards shifted in the corners, adjusting their grip on their polymer weapons.
"I'll fight until I'm glittery dust so that can never happen to her," Heisenberg said. "I'll run forever, kill anyone who gets in my way, so she doesn't have to live through that humiliation. That desecration. So she can be who she wants to be. Not what the world makes her into."
Redfield touched the handprint bruise on his neck. He glanced at a guard and nodded. "So you've decided," he said.
There it was again- that crushing weariness. Heisenberg sympathized. Mostly. The door to the interrogation room opened and in came an aide carrying a tray with a plastic water bottle and a cup on it. He set it down by Redfield, who set about pouring the water.
"Yeah," Heisenberg said. "I've decided. Not the original plan, but, hell, you wore me down."
Redfield's eyes cut toward him. "I'll try to have them make it quick."
"Me too," Heisenberg said.
"What?"
The aide who'd brought the water swayed, hand fluttering to his chest. His brow creased in confusion.
Heisenberg smiled.
"My plans might all fall to shit, Redfield," he said, "but you can't deny I'm a fantastic improviser. You shouldn't have said all that about Rose. You shouldn't have threatened me. And you really shouldn't have brought in the guy with the pacemaker."
Redfield blinked.
Then realization struck, and Heisenberg was rewarded with the most glorious look of oh, SHIT he'd experienced for a long, long time.
With a jerk of his head, the aide's chest exploded, a blast of gore and bone fragments. Metal shards rocketed from his gaping chest cavity as he collapsed; one went straight into the lights, plunging the entire room into darkness. The others slashed over the guards' throats before they could activate his shock collar; he'd noticed the delay the night before, the instant between their reaction and the jolt of electricity in which he had plenty of time to do his thing.
The electrified glass shattered under multiple impacts. A metal shard sliced past him at bullet speed, cracking off the fastener of his collar. He tore the thing off and flung it, then vaulted the table, slamming boots-first into Redfield's chest. He went down hard, the back of his skull cracking against the floor. Heisenberg ground his boot heel into his wrist.
Bones went snap, crackle, pop.
"Shhh," he told Redfield. A metal shard darted forward, stopping centimeters from Redfield's eye. The man breathed hard, sharp, quick, pants, not looking away, not blinking. "Key card for Rose's cell. Now."
"You- bastard-"
"Not what I asked for."
Redfield surged under him, shoving him off before he could pop his eyeball like a water balloon. Shit, he was strong. What did he eat for breakfast? Nukes? Heisenberg ducked his swing, a right hook that might have well taken his head clean off. Outside the cell, an alarm started up, blaring and insistent.
They'd have company, and soon.
Redfield tore his sidearm from its holster and leveled it at Heisenberg's chest. Metal flashed: the pacemaker components, pressed into a blade. The gun fell apart, its barrel sliced cleanly off. The trigger went click. Redfield sucked in a breath.
Heisenberg moved his fingers.
The blade flicked to Redfield's throat.
Heisenberg leaned in and snagged his keycard off his belt. "No hard feelings, Chris," he said, amiably. "But next time I see you, I'm killing you real slow."
He flashed him a grin, then split the blade in half and clamped the metal strip around Redfield's wrist, welding it in a spray of blue sparks to the table.
The door came open with a flash of his brand-new keycard. Heisenberg kneed it open, about to step into the red-lit corridor.
"She'll never forgive you," Redfield called. "When she finds out the truth."
Heisenberg hesitated.
"Then we'll see how much better off she is," Redfield told him.
Heisenberg said nothing. He left Chris Redfield in the interrogation room and plunged into the maze of corridors beyond.
BOW breach detected. The automated voice droned on and on, even as waves of shock troops hit him, riot shields and electric batons, polymer guns and the kitchen sink. Heisenberg tore free everything he could use. Fillings in the teeth. Buckles and aglets. Even someone's bellybutton ring; ooh, that one sounded like it hurt. Scrap orbiting him, he tore through the base, lightning crackling from his skin, searing blackened scars into those pristine white walls.
BOW breach detected. Past labs, red-lit and churning with chaos, scientists evacuating through side door boltholes, fleeing him in droves. Screams lit the air as they saw him coming, wreathed in lightning and metal shards, tearing their facility and security alike apart.
Heisenberg didn't fucking care. They weren't his concern right now. Let these mortals run off and do their little science experiments. None of them understood real power, the kind he wielded, the kind that had destroyed him. They'd take it and dissect it, lock it in chains, find its beating heart and pin it on a board.
One of the scientists scrambled into a corner as he moved past. Heisenberg stopped just ahead of him, then turned back, staring at him with brows raised through the screaming and the fleeing.
"No!" the scientist cried as Heisenberg ambled toward him. "Please- no- I have a family-"
"Nice," Heisenberg said. "I love a cliche."
He knelt, grinning, and plucked off the scientist's round sunglasses. Not exactly the same kind as his- those were vintage, dammit- but they'd do. He slid them on his nose, gave the man a salute, then continued on his rampage.
He scaled a lift shaft and emerged into the upper corridors he recognized from before, the beige hallways with their boring bucolic prints. Now, they were darkened, lights out. In here, the alarm was muffled, the automated voice distant. Silence rang, all the more eerie for the thunder of gunshots and screams that had filled Heisenberg's head minutes before.
He pressed forward. All the goddamn doors looked the same. He tried a few, peered into empty rooms, a gymnasium, even a swimming pool. At last he found the observation room, unlocking it with a swipe of Redfield's keycard.
Its one-way mirror was like a pane of pure darkness. The lights in the room beyond were out. He saw his own reflection in the glass, his shades agleam, the rags of his trench coat streaked in gore. He broke the glass with a chunk of metal and watched the glass rain away from the dark room on the other side.
"Rose?" he called. "Kid?"
"You're not taking her!"
The voice burst from the darkness, raw as a scraped knee. Heisenberg saw her, then. Mia Winters stood in the middle of the room. Behind her, Rose still lay on the bed, still hooked up to that octopus of wiring, still seemingly out cold. Mia's face shone pale, pinpoints of blue from Heisenberg's lightning reflected in her eyes.
She held one hand clenched, the other canted slightly behind her back, out of Heisenberg's view. Some kind of makeshift weapon, he assumed. Smart girl. She was no stranger to a brawl, he knew, nor to surviving by any means necessary.
He strolled forward, stepping over the divide between the rooms, splaying his hands. His orbiting metal scrap tightened around him, points aimed straight for Mia like a halo of daggers. She held her ground, her face set, that too-bright gleam still in her eyes. She looked like some kind of feral animal, halfway to snapping, halfway to gnawing her own leg to the bone.
"What was that, sweetheart?" Heisenberg said.
"Take her and I'll kill you," Mia snarled. "I've already lost my husband. I'm not losing my daughter, too."
"You already lost her once. What's a second time?"
"And I've executed bioweapons before," Mia said. Her voice was low, slightly choked, bitter. Like she was using the words both as threat and punishment. "What's another?"
Heisenberg chuckled. "Cute." He flicked his hand. One of the metal shards rose between them, point glittering, poised between Mia's clavicles. "I don't especially want to kill you, but-"
She struck with a scream, faster than Heisenberg expected. Her weapon flashed: a polymer knife, too-sharp on the business end. Had she whittled it into a weapon once she heard the alarms sound, once she knew Lord Heisenberg was coming? The metal shard sliced over her shoulder as she ducked it, impaling itself with a crack in the opposite wall.
Her arm arced down. Heisenberg caught it in one palm. She was stronger than she looked, her teeth bared, her eyes gleaming through a curtain of hair. She strained, throwing all her strength, all her weight against him; the knife shook in her hand, point still aimed for the side of Heisenberg's neck.
"Good one," Heisenberg told her. "Still, gotta critique you on-"
Force slammed him right in the side. He cut off with a snarl and looked down. Another utensil- the handle of a polymer fork- stuck out of his stomach. Mia gripped it tight. In a swift movement she ripped it out and stabbed him again. Blood and mutagen spattered the floor.
"Bitch," Heisenberg told her, appreciatively, and flung her. She spun through the air with a cry and struck the wall, sprawling to the floor in a crumpled heap. Metal shot toward her, twisting around her wrists, her ankles, her throat, and pulling tight, cutting off her breathing to a pained whistle. She gasped for air, but Heisenberg didn't let up on his restraints.
"Stay down," he told her.
He went to Rose on the bed and scooped her up, snapping the wiring from her head with a wave of his hand. She stirred as he cradled her to him, brushing his hand over her cheek.
"C...can't...take...her..."
He turned. Mia twisted against her bindings. Tears streaked her face. "Please," she said. "Give her...back to me..."
Heisenberg made a sound like tch.
"I know all about you, Mia," he told her. "All about your fine work in America. All about the E-Series, all about sweet little Eveline. You really think you deserve another child after what you did to her?"
And he turned, and strode out, followed for a long, long time by the sound of her screaming Rose's name.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
song, ii
The room smelled strongly of incense, hanging thick in the air like a promise, punctuated by notes of the hearth’s fire and fresh roses blooming on the vine. Sin sat on the chair set off to one corner, shirtless and exposed with all of his scars like a litany of pain across his skin.
His guitar lay across his lap, his fingers moving slowly across the keys, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere; he was watching Archelaos undress. The divinity that rolled off of the old man -- something that would have repulsed or driven him to the dark -- made his focus become as intent as a hunting dog’s, and when his voice spilled from his lips it came as a low, ugly rumble.
“I want to be where all the stupid shit I say sounds so romantic and true-- ‘cause I'd rot in hell with you. If you’d just ask me to..”
Sin’s eyes caught the light like a cat in the dark as the old inquisitor turned around, the brightness of his blue eyes making his dead heart seize in fear. His fingers kept moving across the frets as he watched Archelaos walk closer to him, each step an impending threat.
“I love the shitty things we do together, live with me in this sin forever: hell and you. I know, you want it too--”
Archelaos’ strong fingers, rugged with callouses and scars alike, grasped Sin by the chin and lifted it upward until his eyes had no place to look but the still-healing brand on the old man's chest. How easily the fear in his heart became hunger at the sight of it, and how easy that hunger became lust, and bone-deep affection.
“I hope you take the shot, see this chance -- feel the fire, and let me have this dance with you..”
Sin’s fingers stilled on the strings as Archelaos’ hand curled around his throat, a promise and a threat in equal measure. The san’layn’s eyes narrowed and his lips parted as he felt himself tugged up and up until his mouth crashed against the inquisitor’s with the same ugly hunger he was beginning to understand all too well.
The guitar fell away from his lap, clattering and forgotten on the ground. The violent embrace of the Holy Light, awash with the intent of Archelaos Redright, descended upon him like a white-hot sun. Sinvyrin wished to do nothing but welcome it.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
actually i think my favorite thing ever is accidentally discovering interesting rabbit holes. like today i looked up the litany against fear & clicked on some random website to read it. there was a link to go back to the homepage, and it didn’t look like a quotes site, so i clicked out of curiosity and was met with this:
he’s just really into railroads and trains. this was last updated in 2005. i’m kind of fascinated
but i think the coolest one i’ve found was from a few months ago i believe; i was planning a hypothetical road trip to visit my favorite place (the st. louis city museum) so i was looking up landmarks & stuff in st louis & found cementland. the name intrigued me so i looked up what it was and found out it was an “incomplete public art exhibit” made by bob cassilly. clicked on bob cassilly’s wikipedia page link & BOOM. he’s the guy who made the city museum!! i didn’t even know that! what a cool rabbit hole! BUT THERE’S MORE. i started reading through his wikipedia page. apparently he was in rome on his honeymoon when laszlo toth vandalized the pietà and was the first one to act to subdue him. which is cool as fuck imagine being able to tell that story. he made a shitton of sculptures for st. louis as well, some of which i recognized but hadn’t known the sculptor of. and then he started working on cementland. and i’ll just.. leave this here
so i was like. hello. oh my god. i have to solve this murder case now. but there’s like no one talking about it! i remember i found like one single true crime podcast episode on it and that was pretty much it.
this post doesn’t really have a point i just love rabbit holes like these. everyone please reblog with your favorite accidentally-discovered rabbit holes
#also i got so fucking into the who what at my wedding podcast#just the right amount of funny trivial shit i can tell people about + mystery & intrigue#i was literally so invested & was soo disappointed by the ending 💀#long post#ghost rants
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
Petrichor Chapter 17: Evening
Chapter 17: Evening
Note: Sorry for any mistakes. My editing software probably didn't catch them all, and I wrote this on my phone and it loves to willfully ignore what I just typed and automatically change words I’ve already typed as “editing” or even change words all together. Or I click on a word to change it and it doesn't change but removes itself from the list of errors. It’s madness. So yea, just a heads up for any obvious issues. I’m sorry!
(-~-)
Next to nothing had changed in the few minutes since the adjudicator had offered to answer his companions' questions.
Remaining at the table, the duo looked at each other in silence for a few minutes, continuing to eat their meals as they seemed to linger in a state of limbo. Sirrus seemed to consider everything that might be brought up, a palpable sense of discomfort radiating off of him at the very idea. He had volunteered, but that didn't mean that he was entirely comfortable with the notion. He simply realized that it was something that needed to be done in order to have any hope of things returning to normalcy between them. And V? Well, he wasn't even entirely sure where to start. He had so many questions that he could ask that he wasn't sure which ones were worth actually delving into. Which ones could be seen as offensive? Which ones might burn bridges between them. But after a few minutes of eating in awkward silence with nothing but the clicking of utensils against ceramic dishes and the quiet chugging of the train to keep them company, he decided to start small. That was the wisest thing he could do given the litany and breadth of the options presented to him.
"Well, we can start with last night." V said, finishing the remainder of his food before speaking. He might indulge in a bagel and perhaps a second cup of tea at some point in the future, but for now he had finished everything on his plate. "What happened to you? I remember you telling me that the moon had a strange effect on you, but what I saw last time was nothing like the first time."
"You're quite right. Normally it doesn't affect me as severely as it did last night. I'm still weak from the injuries I sustained against Agreus. I may seem physically fine, but as you can tell, I'm only now regaining certain facets of my power." Sirrus raised a few locks of his long locks out of his left eye to illustrate his point, obviously pointing out the shift in the color. V had noticed this previously and had been working under the assumption that his powers had at least mostly recovered since he had told him that overuse of his abilities had drained the pigment from his hair in the first place, but now he knew definitively that that was the case. But that in of itself raised a different question for the young summoner.
"Are you alright?" V said softly, the concern in his eyes prevalent. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that this entire situation had been a stressful ordeal for him, but at the same time, he wanted to make sure that his companion was all right. He had never feared for his life, but he had feared for Sirrus's well-being. He knew that his friend would not willingly put him in danger, especially without telling him. That had been something he had never doubted. But coming to the realization that he was still operating in a weekend state was something that came as something of a surprise to him. He himself was still not in the best shape, but he was confident that should he need to, he could hold his own in a fight at the moment. And while he was certain that Sirrus could, too, he got the impression that it would take a larger toll on him.
Why did his friend's power take so much longer to restore itself than his own did?
Sirrus gave him a soft look, nodding as he blinked slowly. That tiredness that he had carried with him since he had awoken after his extended state of unconsciousness lingered in his eyes, but he was willing to believe his friend's nonverbal confirmation. He might not be in the best condition at the moment, but that didn't mean he wasn't all right. It just meant that he needed more time to fully recover. "I am. Thank you. Your concern is flattering, but I will manage. And I'm sure you have other questions."
"I do. A few, in fact. The first of which being why your powers seem to take so long to return to you in full. I cannot be fully certain that I've recovered just yet, but you seem to be a bit behind me." Realizing that that might come off as passive-aggressive, the young summoner took a moment to reassure his friend that that wasn't what he meant. He knew that he wouldn't be offended by it more than likely since they had just gone over that fact, but he still felt the instinctive need to clarify. It was simply who he was. "No offense meant. I'm simply baffled."
Sirrus took a sip of his tea, his eyes betraying the state of deep thought that he was in. He seemed to be considering the best way to word something, or perhaps weighing the merits of what all he should reveal. But after making direct eye contact with the V for a long lingering moment, he closed his eyes and swallowed his drink, setting the cup aside. There was no getting around it, and no compelling reason as to why he shouldn't just say what he knew he needed to say. He trusted V. Implicitly. There was no point in keeping it a secret anymore. It was time to explain things in a bit more depth.
"Can you keep a secret?" He said, his tone clearly serious despite the obvious answer to that question. Both he and V knew that the young devil-hunting summoner with the white hair could indeed keep a secret. He'd kept several of his own and quite literally taken them to the grave. No one was getting anything out of him until he decided they should know it. But perhaps Sirrus just needed to hear him say it one more time to ease his own nerves. It was clear that whatever he was about to reveal was deeply personal, and V saw no reason as to why he should be surprised by the inquiry.
"Yes. It's one of the few things I am confident I can do." V said, the humor in his tone at odds with the seriousness of his facial expression. He meant every word that he had said, even if he had said it in a more humorous tone than he might have normally. But keeping this conversation somewhat lighthearted was the only thing that made it bearable.
"Good. In truth, I already know that. I suppose I just needed to be more than 100% sure. I shouldn't project my insecurities onto you. You've done nothing to earn them." He sat back in his seat and cleared his throat, closing his eyes as he leaned his head against the window and took in a breath slowly. He then exhaled equally as slowly before opening his eyes again and making eye contact with V, not moving any other part of his body aside from his continued breathing causing his chest to raise and lower ever so slightly. He was clearly in a state of turmoil.
V took notice of his friend's silent but obvious anxiety, putting up his hand slowly to indicate that he'd like to interrupt. He didn't want to force him to reveal anything that he felt he shouldn't. That was not how they should go about this. This is a conversation that had to be had under the pretense of willingness and mutual understanding of their limits. Otherwise, it simply felt like he was blackmailing him or holding something against him as ransom, and he didn't like that any more than he was sure that Sirrus liked the idea of divulging personal information.
"Then I would also hope that you know you don't have to tell me anything, Sirrus. While an explanation would be preferable, it is not a prerequisite to our continued friendship. And I certainly don't want it to be at your expense." His tone was firm but compassionate, making it known that he was serious about what he had just said. The last thing he wanted was to make his friend divulge information that he felt shouldn't be known by others just for his sake. He didn't want him to live in constant fear that this information would somehow be spread to the wider world. He didn't want him to have to worry that people who shouldn't know would. V understood what it was like to be afraid of the judgment of others, and he didn't want him to go through that.
"I do." He said softly, his tone full of sincerity and his eyes full of appreciation. It was clear that he held much adoration for V and his propensity towards honesty. His willingness to put his friend before his own desires were genuinely touching to him. It wasn't something that he was used to. "All the more reason that now I wish to tell you of my own accord.
"Then I am curious to see what you have to say. Genuine." V said, folding his arms as he leaned forward, nothing to distract him. He wanted to make it clear that Sirrus had his full attention.
Seemingly catching note of this fact, the adjudicator nodded his head, seemingly thinking for a moment before speaking. This wouldn't need to be a long conversation, but it would certainly be comprehensive. After all, every answer he gave would probably lead to more questions. That was simply the nature of who and what he was. And although he didn't mind giving him the answers at this point, it was still a whole other thing entirely to physically move his lips and make the syllables required to form the words that would convey the message. It just felt wrong, physically and mentally.
"Part of the reason my powers seem to be taking so long to return to me is because half of my nature is suppressing the other half at the moment, fighting fruitlessly for control it will never have. One half of who I am has an affinity towards the moon, the other toward the sun. My own body treats portions of itself as cancer to be cut out. A weakness to be removed. It tries to eradicate itself, but it cannot change its own DNA. For how can I soul gain purchase upon itself? How can fire and ice commingle in the same form?" He said, turning his eyes away for a moment as he glanced out across the expanse of open land on this side of the train. They were passing through a gap in the forest. No doubt the trees would return shortly.
V seemed to consider his friend's words for a moment. That was a fair point if the young summoner had ever heard one. How was one supposed to reach homeostasis and exist in a state of balance if the two halves of their nature were fighting one another? But for the two halves of their nature to be at odds with one another then that meant that they had to be opposites, did they not? Or at least somewhat opposed. Otherwise, there would be no state of conflict. But then that meant…
… What in the world was he?
Nodding in confirmation, V quietly waited for his friend to continue speaking. He had nothing to interject just yet, but he was sure that he would have something to ask soon enough. He was considering what he should ask at the moment, fully listening but still lost in his thoughts to a certain degree. It was like trying to fish a piece of paper out of an ever-shifting river, and the only questions worth asking were on that paper. But the further you waded out into the river, the more overwhelmed you became simply by the act of considering what could go wrong. The tide was rising after all. But he knew that this perceived pressure was in his own mind, more than likely the product of too many questions raising through his mind all at once. He needed to slow down and take this one at a time. But where to start when there was such a long list? That was the real issue that he was struggling with. How did one discern quality when presented with so much quantity?
Perhaps it was best that he simply go with the most obvious and pressing question of all.
"If your two natures are at odds with one another, then I suppose that raises one significant question for me," V said as he unfolded his arms, trying to appear casual but unsure as to how to do so. It wasn't every day that he got to practically interrogate someone like this. He simply hoped that he wasn't completely overstepping. It felt a little rude even to mentally comprehend the question he was about to ask. "... What are you, Sirrus? I remember you telling my father and uncle once that you were like them but different. If they are half human and half demon alike, and you are like them but unlike them in kind, then what does that make you?"
"The product of a union that should have never been. Of a bitterness that still remains between two houses. Of two opposing elements that should have never been combined." The sorrow was palpable in his tone as he looked down at the table for a moment, his eyes lingering on his mostly empty cup. He paused for a moment to slowly lift it and take a sip before swallowing it and sitting the cup aside, now empty. He then looked up again at V, clearly ready to get something off of his chest. And the young summoner was eager to help in any way that he could. "I'm a product of turmoil and dare I say eugenics… and I embody that same turmoil, dysfunction, and fundamental wrongdoing in every way that I wish I didn't."
V remained silent, I'm sure as to what he could say in response to a statement like that. He didn't personally feel that anything was wrong with Sirrus, but he didn't feel what he felt on a day-to-day basis. He didn't know what it was like to be him. To have experienced everything that he had experienced and to live the life that he lived. And so he believed that it was best, for now, to wait and hear what he had to say about himself first before jumping to any conclusions. But that still didn't stop him from reaching across the small table and resting his hand gently upon the forearm of his companion, his long sleeves thin and his cold skin radiating its chilliness through the fabric. But he did not recoil. How could he even dare think of doing so at a time like this? His friend needed him, and he wanted him to know that he was here for him.
For better or for worse. Regardless of what he was. It didn't matter to him now, and it never had. If meeting his family had taught him one thing it was that who you are was a part of what you were, but what you were born as did not determine who you would become. His own existence was evidence of this, and Sirrus's continued defiance only served to further embellish that belief. And to embolden him.
He gave Sirrus a sincere look, nodding quietly to show that he was still listening and that he could continue when he was ready. And with a soft sigh, the adjudicator closed his eyes and exhaled heavily after taking a deep breath to study himself. He then opened his eyes and made direct eye contact with the young summoner, his expression difficult to quantify.
"My mother who I derive my last name from was born of a dark bloodline. My father, sullied and tainted beyond the scope of the limitations of his kind, quite literally fell from grace into a darkness of his own, but his blood maintained the light that he was born into. Banishment cannot alter genetics. And of that union, I was their only child. A being of half dark and half light that Hell will not welcome and Heaven can only shun." He suddenly stopped talking, clearly lost in thoughts of his past and the pain that lay within it. There was clearly a lot of trauma there, but V got the impression that even if he asked, Sirrus wouldn't tell him about that. Some things were too personal. That was something they both shared, but he genuinely wished that wasn't the case. He didn't wish a broken childhood on anyone. "There is a word for what I am, but I am not sure due to my lineage that I even fit within those limitations. But it’s the best thing I have to work with. I’m unique, for better or for worse. And in my countless years of existence, I have only met one other who was even remotely like me, and that sense of alienation is something that I have carried with me my entire life. I never felt as though I fit in anywhere when even a fraction of what I am became known to others…"
He paused and blinked slowly, his eyes lingering shut for a moment as he took in another deep breath and exhaled heavily before opening his eyes again, a single tear running down his cheek and making contact with the table. And as it did, they broke the tree line and the once distant lake became all-encompassing, the locomotive they rode upon crossing a low bridge and allowing water to become the only thing that could be seen for miles in any direction. A low fog obscured the distant mountains on the other side of the water in the direction they were headed to. It was just the two of them and the vastness of the water. And the gravity of the words that had just been spoken.
"Until I meet you, V. I think that reintroductions are in order." His posture straightened from the slumped position that he had slowly slid into during their conversation. He then placed his hand atop of V's, just allowing it to lay there as his friend's hand rested upon his arm. He appreciated this small bit of comfort. It was an anchor in a vast storm that he had suddenly steered herself into. But then again, V always had been that for him, even if he had known him for too small of a fraction of his own lifetime to even attempt to quantify. But that didn't matter to him. The only thing that he cared about right now is this moment but how much relief he felt to finally be able to talk to someone about this without even the slightest bit of fear that he could not trust them. "My name is Sirrus Sanguine, formerly Sangusaint at the time of my birth before it was shortened for more modern times. And to answer your question, I believe the closest thing to what I actually am that has a name would be a Nephilim."
(-~-)
I know this will probably be quite the revelation to some of you, and some of you are probably going to be like "I KNEW IT" so I would absolutely LOVE to know what you think. It truly is the closest thing to naming what he is. I actually checked online and what he truly is in the book I've been meaning to write (which isn't what he is in this book) doesn't even have a name! That kind of excites me, honestly!
As for the other being that he said is kind of like him, she's a half-demon. She just comes from a different branch of his unique bloodline, but their parentages couldn't be more different. Just wanted to clear that up in case anyone was confused. I'll see you guys on Friday! Take care! It's been a little cooler this last week where I live, so I'm hoping that it's cooling down for all of you guys, too!
#Petrichor#V#Sirrus#OC#DMC#DMC5#DMCV#Devil May Cry#Devil May Cry 5#Devil May Cry V#Post DMC5#Post DMCV#Post DMC AU#My Post DMC5 AU#My Post DMCV AU#My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU#My Post Devil May Cry V AU#DMC AU#My DMC AU
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
@deathburns asked;
“ i trust you with parts of myself i’m afraid to show anyone else. ” / “ you make me feel brave. ” [ jazzhands bellatte agenda ]
► ❪ AFFECTIONATE ❫
Greenery thrived on the isles elevated among the sea of clouds. The long expanse of years upon years allowed isolated ecosystems to flourish new life in the sky, but not to this extent. Removal of limited space and a change in altitude made all the difference, a staggering contrast highlighting what one celestial picked up on soon after her descent. Earthen flora spilled over into countless varieties, and Ellatte found herself falling in love with each new one stumbled across, another entry to her expanding journal.
A lively bouquet / parting gift from the owner of a flower shop the town over secured in the crook of her arm as she gave her usual greeting to Bellion. It didn't take long for a question about the flowers' presence to wind up with him holding them as she launched headfirst into enthusiastic rambling.
Maybe in another life, she could have focused on caring for plants, immersing herself in wondrous botany rather than readying herself for battles lying in wait. A fear born from the guillotine poised over the exposed necks of her people, constructed thousands of years ago by the litany of demons. But there's more to their presumed executioners than meets the eye.
( would she still know bellion in that type of world, personally, dare she say almost intimately ? would he occupy the same space in her life he guarded now ? )
A gentle tune punctuated the lull in her explanations, a voiceless melody reverberating in a soothing hum as she took in his countenance. The easygoing posture as he reclined against a thick, weathered branch of one of many oaks of the forest. The expression he watched her with.
It's hard to describe the look she's seen on him more often than not as of late, to varying degrees. Thinking, consideration. A touch stifling in its focus / searching / intensity. But the heated edges were softened by... she's unsure.
It felt like he's testing something. Surveying her reactions.
Sometimes it’s a prelude to bursts of odd behaviour. Like the times he brought her heaps of food ( more than she knew what to do with / the majority of it ends up given to the villagers ), or he'd say something strange. Missing proper context, connotations she failed to grasp, it sailed right overhead. A blank stare in response may force him to backtrack and offer tentative reasonings or simple, evasive denials to requests of further insight. A confusing blend of distant yet overly affectionate. Why the hell did he make himself both open and hard to read at the same time ? The avenue of mixed messages waltzed in far too easily than it had any right to.
It frustrated Ellatte, yet also tragically endeared her. But she wouldn't dare be caught telling him as much; he's prideful enough already. The last thing he needed was any type of ego boost courtesy of her.
❝ You almost look like a completely different person when you let yourself relax. ❞ A genuine observation and a past one often kept to herself. It's verbalized this time, slipping through the cage of idle thoughts with ease. She's almost aghast at how freely it's aired but he seemed none too bothered by it.
❝ I trust you with parts of myself I'm afraid to show anyone else. ❞
It's spoken casually to the point she wondered if his words were conjured up by the imagination. A demon placing any measure of faith in a goddess. I trust you, like he's commenting on something utterly mundane. I trust you, like a simple natural fact, rather than the gravity of what it inherently carried. Trust. A precious component underlying the bridge of connection formed between two entities, sometimes paving the way for the unthinkable to happen.
Colour crept up from her neck, cheeks gaining a rosier tint as the basest urge to glance away from his vivid scrutiny seized her, a refusal to show flustered reaction in full, ❝ I'm glad that you can tell me that. I really am ! But you shouldn't say such things so lightly. That... It's... ❞
It's treading unknown waters.
He trusted her.
Ears burned under the force of the heat brewing beneath skin. A fist pressed against her chest, a silent plea sent to a heart picking up its pace to cut it out at once. Mind quickly redirected before it could fasten itself to the train of thought. If allowed to sit and set roots, it'd making her think. It’d make her... wonder.
It's hard to imagine Bellion as getting scared over anything. He's Bellion. A high ranking demon entire armies followed into battle. The surviving leader of the former six knights of black, terrifying figures carved into the celestials’ history and spoken of long after in hushed, wary tones as evil, ferocious monsters without fear, the impure who murdered and devoured life. The strong — if at times lax — front he presented rarely faltered. The pillar of almost insurmountable strength he represented in her eyes felt ironclad. What could shake the foundations of his heart ?
Some tension's expelled as she forcefully loosened the tight knot sitting firm within her chest, whitened knuckles regaining colour as fingers slowly unfurled. A sigh transitioned into a miffed huff mid breath and she pushed hair out of her eyes, tucking stray strands of white behind the shell of an ear.
Her feathers needed to smooth out. She shouldn't be so blatantly thrown off balance by this. He's her friend. Of course she's happy he trusted her. To hear him say that gave a certain warmth, a lightness to her chest like it could walk on clouds. It's not any different from when Solaad chose to confide in her and having the knowledge that it's because she could be relied on.
The faint flush of pink lingered from the earlier flood of happiness on the apple of her cheeks and tips of the ears, heart a touch upbeat from baseline but poise was restored for the most part. Hopefully the brief interlude of silence from her end as she collected her thoughts didn't come off as abnormal. She chanced a glance up.
He's there. What once spanned a few strides had been reduced to mere steps as he stood before her, not wreathed in hellbent wrath but surrounded by the embrace of flora, taking her hand in his once he regained her wandering attention. He did nothing but hold it, something like a smile playing on the corner of his lips, and with him closer she found she couldn't look away as easily. So unnecessarily close, and tender, and fond, and strange. Bellion, forged from war and yet... she began to think. This might be a version of him that maybe no one else ever quite had the opportunity to witness, and she’s painfully aware of how lucky she was to have been given this chance.
Then almost as fast as it came into existence, the almost smile disappeared, replaced by something she didn't recognize. Something that almost looked like longing.
❝ You make me feel brave. ❞
The bricks of composure painstakingly built up... she could see crumbling into dust as indiscernible emotions railed into them at full force. He's...!
Ellatte retracted her hand from his grip, cutting the advancement short, unwilling to allow the feelings to fully take hold and petrify her into another round of stunned, flustered silence. Uncertainty bit, clamping down like a wild thing. ( what would looking upon him again reveal ? rejection's far from her intent, but she didn't want to feel the if only brief sting of whatever emotion she could've wrought by pulling away ). Closed lungs were forced to work, to speak through the spun sugar oh so sweet on the tongue and threatening to clog the throat.
❝ Flowers can hold so many meanings. It's another language entirely, and I may be a novice at it but I think I'm getting better at speaking it. Look here at this one. ❞ Leaning closer, ever mindful of the proximity, a particular flower's separated from the rest and she plucked it from the bouquet, thumb caressing vibrant petals, ❝ It's a freesia. I've been told while others can imply similar things, this flower is the only one that symbolizes trust. ❞
Stem tucked between two fingers, she reached out to him this time. Catching his hand in her own set, both folded around it in a gentle yet firm hold. ❝ I carried it here after I heard that because when I looked at it I thought of you. ❞ She didn't lift her face yet, letting her gaze fall upon their joined hands, the blossoming flower sprouting from that connection.
A goddess and a demon, bound not by the violence expected of them but instead trust. A nigh unthinkable engagement between the clans, meaningful chances for such long since torn apart with ashes scattered to the winds, leaving behind inherent hatred and instinct to draw blood before one's own met that fate. A willingness to engage in those acts may have been there originally — natural after the nature of their circumstances — but it too, like all things, dissipated with time.
Those days were behind her now. While the future's more uncertain than before, she's all the more ready to confront it. With Bellion here, it seemed...a little bit easier to take that step. What was bravery, if not the will to continue despite shackles of doubt and fear and doubt plaguing one's resolution ?
Silver crown tilted forward, bringing forehead to rest against his torso, an action gingerly done in execution with the barest of force behind it. A light tap more than anything / a silent apology for moments before. The wide margin of height placed the flowers a scant breath away from a small smile that softened features, the bright petals reflected glow casting a mosaic of colour as leaves brushed against skin. The freesia truly did look beautiful.
Face prickled ever so slightly with the hint of the returning blush, lips shifting into something just shy of stupidly joyful. ❝ I'd like to be brave too. ❞
#deathburns#➥ options. ┊ answered.#➥ job class sel. ┊ ellatte.#➥ story quest. ┊ ic [ellatte].#➥ game mode. ┊ voyager of the land.#➥ bond. — ellatte ┊ blank moments line pages of a fleeting story; maybe there are no words for us [bellion / deathburns].#( *replies a year later* hi#tacks another to the post hug / pre confession era#where bellion is making her feel things & she doesn't know what to do about it#i feel at some point bellion just gets more calculating about his approach lmao#like demon tactics for telling someone you like them aren't exactly clear to her#so he starts finding ways she /can/ understand and then#*ellatte.exe stopped working*#i mean its effective but she's kinda a mess adfsfgkl#I took forever because I kept rewriting and rewriting parts of it but???#here it is! )
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Intro -- from "V" / "--II" [excerpt]
will you be needing anything else
.
(he was collapsing in on himself. a speck in his high chair. his knuckles clenched like fore-hooves on flamingo legs.
he sat like he was trying to hide his neck with his face. he sat like he was trying to hide his face with his profile.
he wasn’t handsome. it made you want to stare. his features, as individual components, were striking on their own, but could not belong to the same face. you could intuit imaginary surgical scars where one man’s eye had been grafted onto place in another man’s socket, to contrast a brow and cheek belonging to still another and another.
this strained dramaturgical mask he used for a face could transmit nothing but its own anguished bombast, and was unsuitable even for that by nature of its shoddy craftsmanship.
perhaps, as was the custom for the fathers of our democracy to wear masks on stage, perhaps we, as the children of that democracy, ought pay our respects by making it our custom to wear them to court.
the way he spoke. it made you sick.
he knew the power of the word. he knew the power of love. knew what a word could stir in sentimental hearts. knew every heart needed only a brush to be battered and broken.
he knew the fear of law. he knew the fear of god. knew what a word could bludgeon in the minds of men without learning. knew the mind of every man was glass, fit only to be bashed and molten.
- thank you. thank you, ladies and gentlemen. thank you, friends of all dimensions, hues and planes. it warms my heart to see all of you here today. that we, as a continuum of shapes and colors across space, could all be here today :-- that we could partake in this activity with one another present. that we could stand here today in defiance of our natural variance and partake in this shared act :-- this crown jewel of civility which is co-existence despite the evident reality of our difference :-- that some of us were cursed with grace, elegance and tact. some of us better breeding, some of us sufficient health, some of us radiant beauty. while still so many others remain merely distinguished.
a stain upon civility, the cultivation of the distinguished.
the way he spoke. it made you rage.
his every word was a falsity. in the reverb of the square, his litany of forgeries hung with an echo vaster than any cathedral. he saw the weakness in men and nourished it with his every squirt of sugary corruption. for you, who were like a child to him, needed only love.
the love he offered. the love you had been so cruelly denied. that love which hushed. that love which had other ideas. that love which could extend only as far as concerns of schedule and slate.
- civility, it is my pleasure to assure you, is the reason we stand here today, germs and germophiles, oh yes. civility. one must never mistake civility for the sin of vanity, oh no. most never. ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, spermatophores and matter whores. to uphold decorum for its own sake is not -- as certain snide individuals whose brains do not warrant certification by a specialist, let alone a splattering against the square –
though i hear all, i’m afraid i find myself unable to condone a word.
- might claim. yes. as you can see -- civility. vanity. they are not the same. they are self-evidently quite different, and yet this difference spurs debate. consult any dictionary. there are certain structural similarities, certain phonetic similarities, but for anyone to claim they are the same is absurd. the wirds are different. the concepts they express different. it is wretched, ladies and so on and so forths, absolutely wretched that a man should use his position of cultural and artistic influence to sully the minds of our children with his foul wordplay.
i intend to hold the bulk of my wordplay until after the lecture.
- we do not want any more confusion, oh no. we want certainty. we want commitment. we want passion. we know how in short-supply these things are these days, expressions and expressos, oh yes. we know that we have no time to wait around, oh no. if we see one man -- one single solitary man -- who looks like he might make the next four years, the next five months, the next six days --anything. if he can make you crawl out of bed tomorrow, he’ll do. that’s power, ladies and other friends. if you managed to crawl out of bed today, it is statistically likely that you will continue to do so tomorrow. nobody can take that away from you. you didn’t press the cone of bio-oxycodone obliterator to your skull, oh no. it was a lilac-colored air-powered hair-torch by margueritte minimarges, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and other fine materials -- well-suited to affairs of state and discretion, it’s the perfect gadget for any aspiring baroness on the go. though it is set to retail next week at their store in canto of shopping strata plaza for 1,400 scrupules there will be a kiosk in the former genealogy of records office where a limited quality may be purchased for today’s one day discounted price of 1,600 scrupules -- you may also care to inquire about the bevy of specialty cocktails on the menu this morning -- my personal favorite being a little number by the name of the man dragon of angora which is mellichson’s lime spirits stirred into rule of hard knocks oxblood sorbet liqueur sprinkled with dragonscale bitters and served in a flute of cherry red rubber glucose rimmed in a cowlick of spun sugar -- completed by a slim shaving of a rather mellow nightshade, handpicked from our specialty greenhouse, courtesy of the prison re-vegetation project. the bars will be closed for the duration of the sentencing, so make absolutely sure you hurry! ... inventory isn’t liable to last long, and i can assure you the day’s opening ceremonies shall begin with a bang.
you could hear them. in his strained and dulcet tones. that denial which is the hatred of life. the same sickness of the opium eaters.
-- con strator -- con censure -- con sense us –
may the rings of contestants come span
out come cents us.
they were moving. blood cells through clotted veins.
who were these people, you wondered, hearing voices in their heads. voices that weren’t their own? coming in over the speakers, the monitors. who were they when they weren’t here?
could you picture them content at home with real eyes? what could they see in what you saw through? if you could see the things they see...
what would you want to say?
- there is a correct way to be a response, friends. a well-tread path makes for cozy autumn eves. the beckoning of those branches which snag, those leaves which crunch underfoot, they are not worth the stain upon the gloss of your patent leather. those equestrian style ankle gauntlets in which loveliness manages to find you at last, oh no. you ought keep your leather clean, little darlings. only the leather belonging to the man of the house may be dirty. only his most esteemed’s leather may warrant a good polishing by a spitlick of your caliber :-- i know how bad you want to get down there, youngblood. i know how hard you salivate upon the thought of his every earthy note :-- the smokiness of the billiard cloth flavoring the mellow creases of his flayed and tanned hide. that hide in which the tremendous pillars of his calf and thighs are wrapped and softly beckoning, yes. you crave it :-- you are all good little cucks for daddy. daddy will love you when you serve him. perform flawlessly for him. obey his every tyrannical, incestuous, borderline incomprehensible whim you may take a huff of your adrenochrome pouch when you see the spikes of daddy’s codpiece on the monitor. oh, he makes your dicklits so hard, boys. the sign of the sterling, little losers :-- i have a clittie. you all have dicklits. you know how to fight. you know how to die. good boys who go to war have dicklits. good for nothing fags will only ever have clitties -- good for nothing but signing daddy’s edicts into law. you need to think about daddy’s big fat bull cock and heavy breeder balls next time you take the life of an enemy combatant :-- think about the swampy saltlick of daddy’s fat cock flavoring your tongue next time you end the life of an enemy of the state. once there had been a thing called subtext. now there is only dom [ ] { } [ ] text. the kid gloves are off. i have thrown them in the fire. these hands will at last be sullied with bread and water. open your hearts. drink deep my wine.
there is always some risk to be had when one makes the bold -- though some may say careless -- attempt to observe a single strand of e. coli through a jeweler’s lens.
stand up straight. eyes forward.
#V#--II#[excerpt]#golden retriever instincts#uniform#body warm leather#brainworm#dog brain#woof woof
5 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
bigjeansss
bigjeansss
vv-julian
julian
acn-newswire
ACN Newswire
bigjeansss
bigjeansss
hornynipples1234
HornyNipples Teased&Denied