Fic: Theolepsis - Chapter One
Title: Theolepsis: Chapter 1 - Erosion
Author: Locust of Eschaton
Rating this Chapter: PG-13
Pairings: NONE
Warnings: Mentions violence and (psychiatric) drugs. Just not a very happy story in general.
Summary: My account of General Crozier's gradual descent into supernatural mindfuckery. Starts right at the beginning of S2, will continue onward from there. I anticipate no less than three chapters, but no more than five. Also, yes, before you ask; Ravenwood's death being covered up is pretty much canon; there is a newspaper article from the episode P.R. Klok (an S2 episode!) that speaks of him as still being alive. So, yeah.
Something was off; something was just wrong.
Overly-simplistic? Sure, absolutely. Was there anything necessarily wrong with simplicity? He had never seemed to think so. Something was wrong, and it had been wrong ever since he had led the strike on Dethklok's performance at the Gulf of Danzig. That’s why he was at the doctor’s office that day - that is where one goes when something is wrong. He sat on the table and allowed the man to casually examine him, making various remarks and asking various questions in a hushed voice the entire time.
The doctor was a Tribunal affiliate himself (though in much lower standing than someone like his patient), and had known the supposed circumstances of Cardinal Ravenwood’s death. As far as anyone in the Tribunal knew (Crozier included), it was a heart attack. The rest of the world were still being led to believe Ravenwood was alive through the use of an impostor. Crozier could not bring himself to have much of an opinion on this; sure, there was a part of him that was upset by the loss of a colleague, but his cognition was so murky as of late that even he wasn’t always sure of what was and wasn’t real. How could he possibly be in a place to judge others for constructing and believing illusions when his own brain couldn’t consistently tell him where he was when he woke up in the morning? Still, it could give him some sense of relief to know the truth of why his death was being covered up to the public.
As he sat on the doctor’s examination table, he went over in his mind how humiliating the over-all confusion and forgetfulness he was experiencing was to him. He always had prided himself on being someone who was on top of what was going on. Where was that sense of order and control? Where did it go? When was he going to get it back? Most importantly, why was it gone? How did it slip away?
The doctor handed him a prescription, and gave him some instructions to call if he started to get any memories back. The medications were some sort of anti-depressant, and an anxiolytic. He took them regularly after his visit to the doctor. They really didn’t work for dick, but he wasn’t about to call the doctor back and ask to start trying a whole slew of new ones. That sort of shit was for fussy hypochondriacs with monstrous entitlement complexes, at least in his mind.
Sleep didn’t get remotely better. Sure, it came on easier due to the anxiolytics, but the nightmares were worse. His colleague, splayed limp and helpless before him with dark, bloody eye-sockets, gurgling cryptic, esoteric, foreboding messages through a mouth full of his own innards, while Salacia tormented him even more by what appeared to be magic. He would wake up and shake his head thinking “Of course Ravenwood didn’t die that way; nobody looks like that from a heart attack,” or “Of course Salacia can’t use magic; magic isn’t real,” or, most importantly, “It was just a dream; dreams don’t matter.” Still, something felt unshakably off. His thoughts were a slurry, and in the short bursts of time when they would re-solidify, everything would come back to the image of Salacia.
Weeks passed, and the meds still weren’t helping. He wasn’t remembering anything. He was still unfocused (the meds might have made that one worse). He wasn’t feeling any better; if anything, the headaches were getting worse, making it difficult even to be in a well-lit room for more than minutes at a time. One morning, he reached a boiling point, deciding to add the doctor to his long and ever-growing list of people he didn’t trust, and he disposed of all the remaining medications in his frustration.
Much like the medications he had just thrown away, the Tribunal meetings he would have to attend in the following weeks improved nothing. He had suspected, as he then said to the doctor, that he “just needed to get back to work.” However, even work didn’t have the grounding, solidifying effect on him it once did; that he had expected it to. There was new blood there - Vater Orlaag (really, it was ostensible if he was truly “new” at all; he seemed to have information about people and situations that one would generally only amass after being with the Tribunal for some time). He and Crozier were often seated side by side, making their natural distrust for one another all too conscious. Orlaag added another dimension to Salacia’s sullen strangeness with his sharply analytical remarks about every topic that was brought up. Another distraction; another thing to cloud Crozier’s mind. Somehow, everything in the environment he had once valued as a strong, stabilizing institution was quickly becoming as murky and amorphous as his own mind was. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but something deep inside him told him to “be careful”; in addition to that, he was not so sure how he would word these questions, or how exactly he should approach anyone who was worth asking them to. Crozier was no coward, not by a long shot, but Salacia was so imposing that Webster could use his portrait to illustrate the definition of the word. Orlaag had a slightly more genial (if rather cool) nature, but it was probably wise not to get on his bad side.
He decided he would approach Orlaag and try to glean some information - as calmly and politely as possible, of course. He would not let on about any suspicion he had regarding Salacia; the two seemed close somehow, or in any case, the man was fiercely loyal to their leader. He called the “spiritual and political expert” into his office, gesturing for him to sit down.
“What is it, General Crozier?”
“I just have a few questions I feel you may know the answers to.”
“Go ahead.”
“You understand you have essentially replaced Cardinal Ravenwood, correct?”
“Yes, I do, and I, too, am deeply sorry on behalf of all for the loss of that man.”
Crozier nodded, not fully believing the man’s words. “Did you know that those in this organization are, as far as I know, the only ones who know him to be dead?”
Orlaag’s eyes turned up toward the ceiling contemplatively. “Yes. Unfortunately, the masses are not equipped to handle news of the death of a religious figure, particularly one who had been affiliated with us…particularly one who appears to have died helping you, General Crozier. We do not want the public turning against those of our own, I am sure you understand.”
Crozier clenched his fists under the desk at the tall, thin man’s smarmy tone and insincerity, but he decided that to press him any further would only cause trouble. He dismissed Orlaag, waiting for him to fully exit the office before clutching his head in his hands as yet another sudden headache locked him into its grip.
Author: Locust of Eschaton
Rating this Chapter: PG-13
Pairings: NONE
Warnings: Mentions violence and (psychiatric) drugs. Just not a very happy story in general.
Summary: My account of General Crozier's gradual descent into supernatural mindfuckery. Starts right at the beginning of S2, will continue onward from there. I anticipate no less than three chapters, but no more than five. Also, yes, before you ask; Ravenwood's death being covered up is pretty much canon; there is a newspaper article from the episode P.R. Klok (an S2 episode!) that speaks of him as still being alive. So, yeah.
Something was off; something was just wrong.
Overly-simplistic? Sure, absolutely. Was there anything necessarily wrong with simplicity? He had never seemed to think so. Something was wrong, and it had been wrong ever since he had led the strike on Dethklok's performance at the Gulf of Danzig. That’s why he was at the doctor’s office that day - that is where one goes when something is wrong. He sat on the table and allowed the man to casually examine him, making various remarks and asking various questions in a hushed voice the entire time.
The doctor was a Tribunal affiliate himself (though in much lower standing than someone like his patient), and had known the supposed circumstances of Cardinal Ravenwood’s death. As far as anyone in the Tribunal knew (Crozier included), it was a heart attack. The rest of the world were still being led to believe Ravenwood was alive through the use of an impostor. Crozier could not bring himself to have much of an opinion on this; sure, there was a part of him that was upset by the loss of a colleague, but his cognition was so murky as of late that even he wasn’t always sure of what was and wasn’t real. How could he possibly be in a place to judge others for constructing and believing illusions when his own brain couldn’t consistently tell him where he was when he woke up in the morning? Still, it could give him some sense of relief to know the truth of why his death was being covered up to the public.
As he sat on the doctor’s examination table, he went over in his mind how humiliating the over-all confusion and forgetfulness he was experiencing was to him. He always had prided himself on being someone who was on top of what was going on. Where was that sense of order and control? Where did it go? When was he going to get it back? Most importantly, why was it gone? How did it slip away?
The doctor handed him a prescription, and gave him some instructions to call if he started to get any memories back. The medications were some sort of anti-depressant, and an anxiolytic. He took them regularly after his visit to the doctor. They really didn’t work for dick, but he wasn’t about to call the doctor back and ask to start trying a whole slew of new ones. That sort of shit was for fussy hypochondriacs with monstrous entitlement complexes, at least in his mind.
Sleep didn’t get remotely better. Sure, it came on easier due to the anxiolytics, but the nightmares were worse. His colleague, splayed limp and helpless before him with dark, bloody eye-sockets, gurgling cryptic, esoteric, foreboding messages through a mouth full of his own innards, while Salacia tormented him even more by what appeared to be magic. He would wake up and shake his head thinking “Of course Ravenwood didn’t die that way; nobody looks like that from a heart attack,” or “Of course Salacia can’t use magic; magic isn’t real,” or, most importantly, “It was just a dream; dreams don’t matter.” Still, something felt unshakably off. His thoughts were a slurry, and in the short bursts of time when they would re-solidify, everything would come back to the image of Salacia.
Weeks passed, and the meds still weren’t helping. He wasn’t remembering anything. He was still unfocused (the meds might have made that one worse). He wasn’t feeling any better; if anything, the headaches were getting worse, making it difficult even to be in a well-lit room for more than minutes at a time. One morning, he reached a boiling point, deciding to add the doctor to his long and ever-growing list of people he didn’t trust, and he disposed of all the remaining medications in his frustration.
Much like the medications he had just thrown away, the Tribunal meetings he would have to attend in the following weeks improved nothing. He had suspected, as he then said to the doctor, that he “just needed to get back to work.” However, even work didn’t have the grounding, solidifying effect on him it once did; that he had expected it to. There was new blood there - Vater Orlaag (really, it was ostensible if he was truly “new” at all; he seemed to have information about people and situations that one would generally only amass after being with the Tribunal for some time). He and Crozier were often seated side by side, making their natural distrust for one another all too conscious. Orlaag added another dimension to Salacia’s sullen strangeness with his sharply analytical remarks about every topic that was brought up. Another distraction; another thing to cloud Crozier’s mind. Somehow, everything in the environment he had once valued as a strong, stabilizing institution was quickly becoming as murky and amorphous as his own mind was. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but something deep inside him told him to “be careful”; in addition to that, he was not so sure how he would word these questions, or how exactly he should approach anyone who was worth asking them to. Crozier was no coward, not by a long shot, but Salacia was so imposing that Webster could use his portrait to illustrate the definition of the word. Orlaag had a slightly more genial (if rather cool) nature, but it was probably wise not to get on his bad side.
He decided he would approach Orlaag and try to glean some information - as calmly and politely as possible, of course. He would not let on about any suspicion he had regarding Salacia; the two seemed close somehow, or in any case, the man was fiercely loyal to their leader. He called the “spiritual and political expert” into his office, gesturing for him to sit down.
“What is it, General Crozier?”
“I just have a few questions I feel you may know the answers to.”
“Go ahead.”
“You understand you have essentially replaced Cardinal Ravenwood, correct?”
“Yes, I do, and I, too, am deeply sorry on behalf of all for the loss of that man.”
Crozier nodded, not fully believing the man’s words. “Did you know that those in this organization are, as far as I know, the only ones who know him to be dead?”
Orlaag’s eyes turned up toward the ceiling contemplatively. “Yes. Unfortunately, the masses are not equipped to handle news of the death of a religious figure, particularly one who had been affiliated with us…particularly one who appears to have died helping you, General Crozier. We do not want the public turning against those of our own, I am sure you understand.”
Crozier clenched his fists under the desk at the tall, thin man’s smarmy tone and insincerity, but he decided that to press him any further would only cause trouble. He dismissed Orlaag, waiting for him to fully exit the office before clutching his head in his hands as yet another sudden headache locked him into its grip.