I shouldn't be allowed to write anymore
WOAH DEPRESSING SHIT ON CHRISTMAS
Okay so... Animus had an event where people were sent back to their worlds, except whatever their worst nightmare was would happen or had already happened there. And I started to write a thing for it and realized it would've just... ksjdf broken him... But I still liked the idea, so I finished the thing that would have been the opener and now I'm posting it here instead????
lkajdf warnings for violence and abuse and shit. This is really hideous /face in hands
He opens his eyes, in the night, with the moonslight mixing and turning over the clouds. He is alone. This is quite disconcerting! He has found it both beneficial and quite informative to stay amongst his soldiers as much as possible.
They must be nearby though. He never strays far from them, even on those occasions when he’s needed to be alone - the death of his first moirail, the time they lost hundreds, early on, in an instant for underestimating the enemy; there are others, similar - so he finds the nearest source of light flickering between the tree branches and sets off towards it.
He does not suspect anything. This is terribly silly and rather stupid of him when he looks back on this moment, the way he reacted to the sudden wooping and thrashing behind him with a smile. He had just been happy to be back amongst his people, but then there are bodies slamming into him, hands slinging a rope around one horn and pinning him in a second. He doesn’t need to see them to know who they are, greenblooded bounty hunters here to collect the reward on his head and he was stupid enough to not fight. He struggles now but they are more and stronger besides.
And anyway, just as suddenly as they’ve pinned him, there’s a blade against the base of one wing. The other five are stomped on, pressed down, and the stark and ragged pain of the first coming away takes his fight with it. He doesn’t even make it through the second before his vision’s stung blurry and the ground tilts sickly underneath him.
The dark that collapses over him is a blessing, though it is the worst he has ever gotten.
--
He wakes to a noose around his throat and a razor against the back of his neck. He fights back, despite every muscle protesting, but it is no good. He is weak from pain and fear, and they hold him down while they shave his hair off.
It’ll come in black again. He knows this is part of the process to take him down to nothing except lowblood fodder. He has been through this before, the first time he was sold. He was too young for branding, back then, but this time they cut his clothes all away and the metal scars a great red line through the air as it leaves the forge. He imagines the highblood underneath the welding mask is grinning as his arms are bound up over his head and she presses the brand against his side.
His nose fills with the smell of roasting meat, and darkness closes over him once again. He doesn’t even get to scream.
--
For awhile he drifts in and out as he’s moved on to the next set of handlers. They tie him down too as they set a deep blue ink into the new brand.
Eventually he’s bandaged, back and sides. They grumble in hushed voices about how much trouble he is. About how he’ll almost certainly get infected and die before he can be any use to them at all. His stomach turns and he fades out again.
--
He used to have daymares, you know? Where the highbloods finally caught him and his cavalreapers and they made him sit back and watch as every single one of his followers was murdered slowly right in front of him.
He finds this is worse, the way he wakes up untied and alone and aching. He already knows this is a trap, but he is too stubborn to let the chance go. Everything spins and wobbles, goes oddly grey and shimmery as he forces his body to move. He imagines he will die in the wild if he does escape, but that is better then staying here where the barn animal smell breathes hot and oppressive over his shoulders. The ground won’t stay still. His knees keep going out. He gives up on dignity before long and crawls the last several feet to the door where he can pick himself up again by the frame.
It is only when he has steadied himself and prepares to take the last step back into the world that the overseer steps around the corner and strikes him across the face. He falls.
These people have been doing this for centuries, of course. It’s second nature to them, the way they set in wait, the way this greenblood hold him down with a hoofbeast prod against his throat. Electricity rolls through him so long he is sure he’s going to die, but they let up just as he’s about to black out again and he’s left shaking and gulping at the air, pupils dilated so wide everything’s gone fuzzy at the edges.
He’s losing himself. He can already feel everything slipping, the things that have defined him coming away under their hands. His hair. His wings. His will to talk back when he’s dragged up off the ground and they call him lowblood, shitstain, worthless.
They use his old name as they throw him into a cell, and they laugh when he corrects them - the Summoner - like he’s just an old fairytale. Like rebellion and equality are things only little wigglers believe in. They intend to break him and they are already succeeding.
The dawn light filters down through the high window and he finds a corner to curl into and wait it out. He can feel the first hints of fever turning his thoughts prickly and indistinct, and he is not sure he cares so much anymore.
Okay so... Animus had an event where people were sent back to their worlds, except whatever their worst nightmare was would happen or had already happened there. And I started to write a thing for it and realized it would've just... ksjdf broken him... But I still liked the idea, so I finished the thing that would have been the opener and now I'm posting it here instead????
lkajdf warnings for violence and abuse and shit. This is really hideous /face in hands
He opens his eyes, in the night, with the moonslight mixing and turning over the clouds. He is alone. This is quite disconcerting! He has found it both beneficial and quite informative to stay amongst his soldiers as much as possible.
They must be nearby though. He never strays far from them, even on those occasions when he’s needed to be alone - the death of his first moirail, the time they lost hundreds, early on, in an instant for underestimating the enemy; there are others, similar - so he finds the nearest source of light flickering between the tree branches and sets off towards it.
He does not suspect anything. This is terribly silly and rather stupid of him when he looks back on this moment, the way he reacted to the sudden wooping and thrashing behind him with a smile. He had just been happy to be back amongst his people, but then there are bodies slamming into him, hands slinging a rope around one horn and pinning him in a second. He doesn’t need to see them to know who they are, greenblooded bounty hunters here to collect the reward on his head and he was stupid enough to not fight. He struggles now but they are more and stronger besides.
And anyway, just as suddenly as they’ve pinned him, there’s a blade against the base of one wing. The other five are stomped on, pressed down, and the stark and ragged pain of the first coming away takes his fight with it. He doesn’t even make it through the second before his vision’s stung blurry and the ground tilts sickly underneath him.
The dark that collapses over him is a blessing, though it is the worst he has ever gotten.
--
He wakes to a noose around his throat and a razor against the back of his neck. He fights back, despite every muscle protesting, but it is no good. He is weak from pain and fear, and they hold him down while they shave his hair off.
It’ll come in black again. He knows this is part of the process to take him down to nothing except lowblood fodder. He has been through this before, the first time he was sold. He was too young for branding, back then, but this time they cut his clothes all away and the metal scars a great red line through the air as it leaves the forge. He imagines the highblood underneath the welding mask is grinning as his arms are bound up over his head and she presses the brand against his side.
His nose fills with the smell of roasting meat, and darkness closes over him once again. He doesn’t even get to scream.
--
For awhile he drifts in and out as he’s moved on to the next set of handlers. They tie him down too as they set a deep blue ink into the new brand.
Eventually he’s bandaged, back and sides. They grumble in hushed voices about how much trouble he is. About how he’ll almost certainly get infected and die before he can be any use to them at all. His stomach turns and he fades out again.
--
He used to have daymares, you know? Where the highbloods finally caught him and his cavalreapers and they made him sit back and watch as every single one of his followers was murdered slowly right in front of him.
He finds this is worse, the way he wakes up untied and alone and aching. He already knows this is a trap, but he is too stubborn to let the chance go. Everything spins and wobbles, goes oddly grey and shimmery as he forces his body to move. He imagines he will die in the wild if he does escape, but that is better then staying here where the barn animal smell breathes hot and oppressive over his shoulders. The ground won’t stay still. His knees keep going out. He gives up on dignity before long and crawls the last several feet to the door where he can pick himself up again by the frame.
It is only when he has steadied himself and prepares to take the last step back into the world that the overseer steps around the corner and strikes him across the face. He falls.
These people have been doing this for centuries, of course. It’s second nature to them, the way they set in wait, the way this greenblood hold him down with a hoofbeast prod against his throat. Electricity rolls through him so long he is sure he’s going to die, but they let up just as he’s about to black out again and he’s left shaking and gulping at the air, pupils dilated so wide everything’s gone fuzzy at the edges.
He’s losing himself. He can already feel everything slipping, the things that have defined him coming away under their hands. His hair. His wings. His will to talk back when he’s dragged up off the ground and they call him lowblood, shitstain, worthless.
They use his old name as they throw him into a cell, and they laugh when he corrects them - the Summoner - like he’s just an old fairytale. Like rebellion and equality are things only little wigglers believe in. They intend to break him and they are already succeeding.
The dawn light filters down through the high window and he finds a corner to curl into and wait it out. He can feel the first hints of fever turning his thoughts prickly and indistinct, and he is not sure he cares so much anymore.