HELP with fic
Okay, so, NON-DGM people, I have a favor to ask. I wanted to submit a two-page piece to the campus literary magazine, but of course, the problem with fics is that they oftentimes make NO SENSE to a general audience. As such, I was wondering if any of you could read this and tell me whether you felt it was 'complete' enough or left you saying... um, yeah, I don't get it.
Damien’s hair is loose and coated in blood and dirt. There are little twigs and leaves tangled in the fine hairs and a swollen, faintly red bump on the side of his head that promises a large bruise and a nasty headache. Seth watches from a distance as the tattered edges of his clothing, stiff with blood, attempt to ruffle in the wind- and there is blood everywhere. All of it dried, including the one around a large, fist-sized hole in the side of Damien’s armor, where all that gleams now is pale skin, healed by the tattoo under his torn shirt - the relic left behind of a mother trying to save her ailing babe. His face drips blood; as the sweat on his temples runs down his face it gathers the blood dried on it and falls to the ground in great crimson rivulets.
Seven days. Seth was called in yesterday to aid Damien in keeping their land safe from the monsters that sometimes descended from the wastelands. He steps closer and listens. Damien’s breathing is labored, his chest pressing in and out with a questionable wheeze. His frame trembles just so- just enough to give him away, but not enough to interfere with his fight. How it always is with Damien, in Seth’s eyes. Just enough to show his distress, never enough to allow anyone to intervene.
Damien’s pupils are enlarged nearly to the rim, and his eyes become pools of ink that swallow everything save pride and hatred. Seth can almost envision the tattoo over Damien’s breast pulsing as the scratches on his face close up and heal. He can envision it sucking the life out of his friend, claiming years in the future in exchange for gifting him with the life he has now.
When he finally falls, Seth steps forward, sword in hand, and finishes the job. The Minotaur-like creature thuds lifelessly to the ground, a fallen behemoth. Damien looks at him through lidded eyes, too drained and exhausted after seven days to force a voice through his throat, and his body trembles. There is blood pooling beneath him at a gradually slowing rate. It will never reach Seth’s feet. His eyes roll into the back of his head as his tattoo creeps larger over his chest, and then he passes out.
Seth stands over him a moment longer.
“Pitiful Damien. May your soul find salvation.”
He throws Damien over his shoulder and leaves, heading back to the castle.
“Did you know, Damien,” Seth begins, twirling a spoon through a now-empty goblet, attempting to catch the traces of cream at the bottom. He’s leaning against the doorway of the infirmary, watching the gentle rise and fall of Damien’s chest under the stiff blankets. “That your soul is stuck?”
Damien’s glazed eyes watch him blankly under the morphine.
Damien moves like a phantom in the darkness, eerie white, his dark hair reflecting the torchlight in odd angles. His body is fluid, but that is the only part of him that runs free. Seth watches, sees the sweat and concentration, sees the strain on a not-yet-healed body. Hours and hours in, Damien crashes to one knee on the ground, holding his sword for support, his hands tight-knuckled and his lips mouthing nonsense. Seth pipes up.
“There is tar going all the way up to its waist. It flails around, but can’t get free. Did you know that, Damien?”
Damien shoots him a wearied look, stands, and continues. He does not believe in souls or salvation. He does not believe that Seth’s eyes can see more than the average human’s. He believes only in his own power.
Damien eats alone, in the corner of the mess hall. The time of other knights attempting to sit with him is long gone. Each time he had taken his leave of them. Now only Seth remains, the one who spurred him onto the noble mission of becoming knights for the kingdom of Aster. Damien does not indulge in nostalgic childhood memories of boys playing with toy swords. His pupils are always too large, and his face always too pale. His mouth is always set to a frown.
“Do you know what that tar is made of, Damien?” Seth whispers in his ears as he passes by. “Pride.”
It is harder to wake him up now. Seth shakes his shoulder and calls his name, when it only used to take the creak of the door to wake him up for morning training. Seth traces the shadows under his eyes, and only once he reaches the mark on his chest, feeling the subtle difference between the tattooed skin and the natural flesh surrounding it, does Damien stir. It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings, where before he could rise, ready for an attack, in the blink of a eye.
“Sinking quickly, Damien,” Seth calls out as he leaves the room and waits outside.
In a parody of contemporary art, blood flecks cover the pristine white of the washing bowl. The tips of Damien’s hair, dripping into it, are coated in scarlet. His arms shake with the effort of holding his body over the bowl. His back is smooth and unmarred, but strained, pulled tight over the bones and becoming tighter and tighter every day. His waist thins out and his hair doesn’t have the same sheen as before. He sways, and his breathing hurts to hear. Each expulsion of breath brings blood to drip from his nose and mouth.
Seth places a hand on Damien’s shoulder, where the tendrils of his mark creep over to reach his back, as if attempting to encircle his heart from all sides and swallow him alive. It has almost accomplished that task - the very mark that gave him life as a sickly child now takes it away before due time. Seth’s wish is to find a way to undo this blessing-turned-curse. But only if Damien lets him.
Damien’s voice is raspy, dragging through the air. “What… do I do?”
Seth rubs a strand of brittle, graying hair between his fingers and glances at the mirror, where the shadow of a great man now stands. “Pray, Damien, pray to God. And I will help you.”
Truly appreciated <3
Damien’s hair is loose and coated in blood and dirt. There are little twigs and leaves tangled in the fine hairs and a swollen, faintly red bump on the side of his head that promises a large bruise and a nasty headache. Seth watches from a distance as the tattered edges of his clothing, stiff with blood, attempt to ruffle in the wind- and there is blood everywhere. All of it dried, including the one around a large, fist-sized hole in the side of Damien’s armor, where all that gleams now is pale skin, healed by the tattoo under his torn shirt - the relic left behind of a mother trying to save her ailing babe. His face drips blood; as the sweat on his temples runs down his face it gathers the blood dried on it and falls to the ground in great crimson rivulets.
Seven days. Seth was called in yesterday to aid Damien in keeping their land safe from the monsters that sometimes descended from the wastelands. He steps closer and listens. Damien’s breathing is labored, his chest pressing in and out with a questionable wheeze. His frame trembles just so- just enough to give him away, but not enough to interfere with his fight. How it always is with Damien, in Seth’s eyes. Just enough to show his distress, never enough to allow anyone to intervene.
Damien’s pupils are enlarged nearly to the rim, and his eyes become pools of ink that swallow everything save pride and hatred. Seth can almost envision the tattoo over Damien’s breast pulsing as the scratches on his face close up and heal. He can envision it sucking the life out of his friend, claiming years in the future in exchange for gifting him with the life he has now.
When he finally falls, Seth steps forward, sword in hand, and finishes the job. The Minotaur-like creature thuds lifelessly to the ground, a fallen behemoth. Damien looks at him through lidded eyes, too drained and exhausted after seven days to force a voice through his throat, and his body trembles. There is blood pooling beneath him at a gradually slowing rate. It will never reach Seth’s feet. His eyes roll into the back of his head as his tattoo creeps larger over his chest, and then he passes out.
Seth stands over him a moment longer.
“Pitiful Damien. May your soul find salvation.”
He throws Damien over his shoulder and leaves, heading back to the castle.
“Did you know, Damien,” Seth begins, twirling a spoon through a now-empty goblet, attempting to catch the traces of cream at the bottom. He’s leaning against the doorway of the infirmary, watching the gentle rise and fall of Damien’s chest under the stiff blankets. “That your soul is stuck?”
Damien’s glazed eyes watch him blankly under the morphine.
Damien moves like a phantom in the darkness, eerie white, his dark hair reflecting the torchlight in odd angles. His body is fluid, but that is the only part of him that runs free. Seth watches, sees the sweat and concentration, sees the strain on a not-yet-healed body. Hours and hours in, Damien crashes to one knee on the ground, holding his sword for support, his hands tight-knuckled and his lips mouthing nonsense. Seth pipes up.
“There is tar going all the way up to its waist. It flails around, but can’t get free. Did you know that, Damien?”
Damien shoots him a wearied look, stands, and continues. He does not believe in souls or salvation. He does not believe that Seth’s eyes can see more than the average human’s. He believes only in his own power.
Damien eats alone, in the corner of the mess hall. The time of other knights attempting to sit with him is long gone. Each time he had taken his leave of them. Now only Seth remains, the one who spurred him onto the noble mission of becoming knights for the kingdom of Aster. Damien does not indulge in nostalgic childhood memories of boys playing with toy swords. His pupils are always too large, and his face always too pale. His mouth is always set to a frown.
“Do you know what that tar is made of, Damien?” Seth whispers in his ears as he passes by. “Pride.”
It is harder to wake him up now. Seth shakes his shoulder and calls his name, when it only used to take the creak of the door to wake him up for morning training. Seth traces the shadows under his eyes, and only once he reaches the mark on his chest, feeling the subtle difference between the tattooed skin and the natural flesh surrounding it, does Damien stir. It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings, where before he could rise, ready for an attack, in the blink of a eye.
“Sinking quickly, Damien,” Seth calls out as he leaves the room and waits outside.
In a parody of contemporary art, blood flecks cover the pristine white of the washing bowl. The tips of Damien’s hair, dripping into it, are coated in scarlet. His arms shake with the effort of holding his body over the bowl. His back is smooth and unmarred, but strained, pulled tight over the bones and becoming tighter and tighter every day. His waist thins out and his hair doesn’t have the same sheen as before. He sways, and his breathing hurts to hear. Each expulsion of breath brings blood to drip from his nose and mouth.
Seth places a hand on Damien’s shoulder, where the tendrils of his mark creep over to reach his back, as if attempting to encircle his heart from all sides and swallow him alive. It has almost accomplished that task - the very mark that gave him life as a sickly child now takes it away before due time. Seth’s wish is to find a way to undo this blessing-turned-curse. But only if Damien lets him.
Damien’s voice is raspy, dragging through the air. “What… do I do?”
Seth rubs a strand of brittle, graying hair between his fingers and glances at the mirror, where the shadow of a great man now stands. “Pray, Damien, pray to God. And I will help you.”
Truly appreciated <3