[fic] Hieroglyphics
Rating: K+
Summary: So, apparently. His body remembers how to make an angel booty call. [Ariel-centric; implications of Ariel/Ada]
Note/s: Written for iu_fanfiction's 36th challenge // prompt:: Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. Ariel/Ada is an AU pair as we know it. So it means that this really sketchy shit of a one-shot is an AU of an AU, Angel-Demon verse, the classic stuff. Demon-turned-human!Ariel and still-Angel!Ada. Yeah, we went there.
Also ahhh no, research? Research what's that is that edible. As I've said, really messy stuff. A few things here are based loosely on the TV series Supernatural and as for the rest, well-- pardon my personal headcanons.
Ada's character belongs to moonsergeant.
-
He finds himself stepping inside an old derelict warehouse.
For a place so discarded, there is still a truckload of things to take note of. What little of the grey American light has to give percolates through the cracks peppered across the rundown walls, bringing an austere sense of solemnity onto the floor marred by dust and splinters of a variety of materials- and a distant whiff of something fluid, earthly. The crescent moon indistinctly peers through a fractured window glass- and in the interim, ever since he found himself stumbling upon this deserted place, the trifling sight never fails to imprison his attention quite well.
But tonight, he wrings his dagger out, and nonchalantly watches as a few figures that merely mashed against each other to form one fuzzy image flashes along the length of it, made more pronounced by the moonlight seeping through a medium-sized window behind him.
He slowly delivers a cut into his left forearm. Nothing too deep, but something enough to go wasting with on this certain recklessness in his part. He pins his stare on the blood almost densely oozing from the cut, his eyes the deadest shade of green.
(He remembers the same thing carved onto one’s skin.)
He crouches down and begins to trace a collection of symbols and words with only a scrap of memory to guide his hand, something dug out deep from what his body, not the mind, can recall. He maps out a piss-poor excuse of a circle for the binding ring, and further extends the contours and lines inside it to draw something akin to a star (created to constrict otherworldly beings, perhaps, although this can be blamed mostly on his mere gut feeling).
The bloodied piece is now a pentacle in its fragmentary entirety.
He scrupulously works with the Enochian characters that can either be Greek or Hebrew or both or whatthefuckever next, starting from left to right, his hand still entirely falling victim to whatever his body dictates. He doesn’t know (north) if he’s abiding by a universal order (west) of the world- if ever there is one, but shortly (east) figures that he frankly doesn’t (south- the last of the principal directions) care. He writes the foreign letters, one by one, and strings them together to form a name, the object of his summoning. One he feels like he’s always known, and yet cannot make any sense out of. And this. This. The hushed frustration ripples inside him, then, his piqued curiosity further riveting his fingers onto the virtual solidness of the floor. He makes it a point not to miss a beat, the littlest step, anything, faintly aware of the fact that the smallest flaw will screw this up ultimately.
He proceeds to inscribe everything else, the characters that stand for a shitload of things he can no longer understand, the symbols that doesn’t give out anything, not even a bout of a clue. There’s a certain limit to his conscious knowledge, and he.
He can only impassively stare at his workings.
He ever-so-casually works with the last of this shit with a certain unaccountable dexterity to his act, for what is presently being scrawled down onto the plane of filth and salt and earth is reminiscent of something unfathomable to humans.
A piece of knowledge the human mind of a very human vessel shouldn’t contain.
Not exclusively consciously, anyway, given his case.
He stoops his upper body down further by a degree, a flicker of pain now freshly pooling on his wounded forearm, as he inspects the blood-spattered characters spanning the patch of ominous area there within the parameters of the pentagram painted on the floor. He tries to read them only in his mind, as he gradually comes to terms with far-off emotions that, given his grand ability to not give a fuck about practically anything, are annoyingly paramount.
So he makes sense out of that one. Regret. He wires his eyelids down to half-mast, internally warding off whatever shit that stands for that particular emotion. He moves his eyes past another character, and finds, shit, Misery. He feels an ounce of fear spike within him, then, but still insists on proceeding to another foreign letter in hopes of discovering the fundamentals of this and. And he does, he does- he feels the immensity of this knowledge weighing down hard on the crevices of his heart; he senses it now thudding against his ribcage as he spells, Danger.
He presses his palm flat on the middlemost portion of the pentagram, in a fit of genuine anxiety, and feels a stinging surge of power underneath his skin, feels it all the way up to his arm, shoulder, neck. He does not let go, but only widens his eyes, as he directs them up to where his North points, and dimly sees someone hidden in a cloak of shadows.
The name he initially can’t seem to lay a finger on rips out of him, then, in a form of a whispery disbelief; whispery, but clear.
He remembers the same goddamn thing carved onto one’s skin.
Ada. Written on a patch of grime on the sigil and on her skin.
-
END
Summary: So, apparently. His body remembers how to make an angel booty call. [Ariel-centric; implications of Ariel/Ada]
Note/s: Written for iu_fanfiction's 36th challenge // prompt:: Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. Ariel/Ada is an AU pair as we know it. So it means that this really sketchy shit of a one-shot is an AU of an AU, Angel-Demon verse, the classic stuff. Demon-turned-human!Ariel and still-Angel!Ada. Yeah, we went there.
Also ahhh no, research? Research what's that is that edible. As I've said, really messy stuff. A few things here are based loosely on the TV series Supernatural and as for the rest, well-- pardon my personal headcanons.
Ada's character belongs to moonsergeant.
-
He finds himself stepping inside an old derelict warehouse.
For a place so discarded, there is still a truckload of things to take note of. What little of the grey American light has to give percolates through the cracks peppered across the rundown walls, bringing an austere sense of solemnity onto the floor marred by dust and splinters of a variety of materials- and a distant whiff of something fluid, earthly. The crescent moon indistinctly peers through a fractured window glass- and in the interim, ever since he found himself stumbling upon this deserted place, the trifling sight never fails to imprison his attention quite well.
But tonight, he wrings his dagger out, and nonchalantly watches as a few figures that merely mashed against each other to form one fuzzy image flashes along the length of it, made more pronounced by the moonlight seeping through a medium-sized window behind him.
He slowly delivers a cut into his left forearm. Nothing too deep, but something enough to go wasting with on this certain recklessness in his part. He pins his stare on the blood almost densely oozing from the cut, his eyes the deadest shade of green.
(He remembers the same thing carved onto one’s skin.)
He crouches down and begins to trace a collection of symbols and words with only a scrap of memory to guide his hand, something dug out deep from what his body, not the mind, can recall. He maps out a piss-poor excuse of a circle for the binding ring, and further extends the contours and lines inside it to draw something akin to a star (created to constrict otherworldly beings, perhaps, although this can be blamed mostly on his mere gut feeling).
The bloodied piece is now a pentacle in its fragmentary entirety.
He scrupulously works with the Enochian characters that can either be Greek or Hebrew or both or whatthefuckever next, starting from left to right, his hand still entirely falling victim to whatever his body dictates. He doesn’t know (north) if he’s abiding by a universal order (west) of the world- if ever there is one, but shortly (east) figures that he frankly doesn’t (south- the last of the principal directions) care. He writes the foreign letters, one by one, and strings them together to form a name, the object of his summoning. One he feels like he’s always known, and yet cannot make any sense out of. And this. This. The hushed frustration ripples inside him, then, his piqued curiosity further riveting his fingers onto the virtual solidness of the floor. He makes it a point not to miss a beat, the littlest step, anything, faintly aware of the fact that the smallest flaw will screw this up ultimately.
He proceeds to inscribe everything else, the characters that stand for a shitload of things he can no longer understand, the symbols that doesn’t give out anything, not even a bout of a clue. There’s a certain limit to his conscious knowledge, and he.
He can only impassively stare at his workings.
He ever-so-casually works with the last of this shit with a certain unaccountable dexterity to his act, for what is presently being scrawled down onto the plane of filth and salt and earth is reminiscent of something unfathomable to humans.
A piece of knowledge the human mind of a very human vessel shouldn’t contain.
Not exclusively consciously, anyway, given his case.
He stoops his upper body down further by a degree, a flicker of pain now freshly pooling on his wounded forearm, as he inspects the blood-spattered characters spanning the patch of ominous area there within the parameters of the pentagram painted on the floor. He tries to read them only in his mind, as he gradually comes to terms with far-off emotions that, given his grand ability to not give a fuck about practically anything, are annoyingly paramount.
So he makes sense out of that one. Regret. He wires his eyelids down to half-mast, internally warding off whatever shit that stands for that particular emotion. He moves his eyes past another character, and finds, shit, Misery. He feels an ounce of fear spike within him, then, but still insists on proceeding to another foreign letter in hopes of discovering the fundamentals of this and. And he does, he does- he feels the immensity of this knowledge weighing down hard on the crevices of his heart; he senses it now thudding against his ribcage as he spells, Danger.
He presses his palm flat on the middlemost portion of the pentagram, in a fit of genuine anxiety, and feels a stinging surge of power underneath his skin, feels it all the way up to his arm, shoulder, neck. He does not let go, but only widens his eyes, as he directs them up to where his North points, and dimly sees someone hidden in a cloak of shadows.
The name he initially can’t seem to lay a finger on rips out of him, then, in a form of a whispery disbelief; whispery, but clear.
He remembers the same goddamn thing carved onto one’s skin.
Ada. Written on a patch of grime on the sigil and on her skin.
-
END