[Doctrine of Labyrinths]: Black Black Heart
I am a human shaped blight; I kill everything I touch. Beautiful things wither under my hands. Things break, are lost, fall apart around me. Conscious or unconscious, the fruits I bear are rotten.
That is the end of it.
Shannon could tell you more - Shannon who I teased and danced with and loved, who would moan my name and run his hands through my hair, who smelled like sweet roses and had skin like velvet.
Shannon who I slapped, who I lied to, who hated me before we were done and hates me still, believes everything he was told of me and insists to his highbred friends that he never knew anything of my perversions. Shannon could tell you more, and bitterly, because of course I wounded him as well. The mark of my ring on his cheek stands out in my memory.
I can try to excuse myself, but it would be foolish to do so. Foolish, and worse than foolish - arrogant, pretentious. I cannot pretend to be something less than what I am.
Vincent could tell you more. Vincent who grew up with me, who slept tangled together on nights when we both hurt and needed something gentler, who understood my fears and my terrors and took care of me when I was wounded, who I trusted.
Vincent who I threatened to manipulate, Vincent who fears me and my poisonous touch, Vincent who knows me too well to trust me, Vincent who would not give up one bed for another and could not take my promises that I would never force him. Vincent who still bears the same scars that I do and deeper, who watches me with wariness and fear that is only what I deserve.
I know that fear; recognize it from myself from the days when I was Malkar’s thrall. Sometimes I think I was his student in more than I knew. Sometimes this thought disgusts me. Always it terrifies me. What could I become, if I do not watch myself? What horrors could my hand work if given the room to do so?
Gideon could tell you more. Much more, of madness and sanity, of our attempts to share a bed, of the way he took care of me when I was mad and kept me from death, listened to me, cared for me. Of how he gave his voice and part of himself to see me sane again. And how in return, he could tell you, of how it was not I who saved him, but my brother, of how I was a cruel and capricious lover, of how I lied and danced and pretended at love in cruelty. He could tell you of leaving me, of befriending Mildmay and of my abuse of him. He could tell you more than anyone else could, perhaps, of my faults and flaws and the pain that follows me as a shadow follows most. He could, were he not dead, used in a tool to rid my enemies of me. Even in death, I followed him - even in death, it is my spectre that strangled him; because of me he died.
I would like to be sorry for Gideon and what happened to him, would like to be able to feel pain or grief or sorrow. But I do not deserve these things, not for Gideon. I have no right to pretend at such niceties. Pain is for worthy souls, and I am nothing if not unworthy.
And Malkar, Malkar could tell more, more of the ways in which I am damaged, more of the ways in which I mirror him, more of the ways in which I have become like him. My mentor more than anyone could tell of me, for he knows me inside and out, better than I know myself. He knows the darkest corners of my soul that even I dare not touch, and these has he explored and holds to himself, knowing that all he must ever do is crook a finger to summon me because I will always come to him.
Malkar could tell more. Malkar who I cannot speak of in the past tense, who will always be alive, somewhere in me, because as long as I live the creature he wrought in his image lives as well. Because I am his, always his, and his hands are mine, his touch is mine. The things I poison are leeched with his venom, the things I kill I lay at his feet as tribute. My dark god. My master, always and ever, made in his image.
Malkar would tell you of my flaws.
But more than anyone who could tell you of me and the ways in which I destroy, Mildmay, my brother, my shadow. Who will say nothing ill of me no matter how I twist and tear and break him, who apologizes for his anger when I berate him for something that is my fault, who does what he is told simply because I am his brother. Mildmay who is loyal as no one has ever been loyal to me, who does not waver or hesitate and refuses to give up on me, who stays with me even past when the most faithful dog would turn tail and run. I am cruel to him without question; I hurt him in every way I can except physically, and he does not fight back. Mildmay could tell you of my charm and my arrogance, my spite and my anger.
Mildmay could tell you more of the ways in which I can wither things, destroy things. Mildmay who has watched me and known me, followed me for god knows what reason. Mildmay could tell you more, but he never would, and never will.
I do not think he could speak ill of me.
I know better.
I know how I can wound. I know how I can poison. I know how I can ruin and tear down whatever can be built. Those who follow me are lost; those who touch me are hurt. I wish I had the courage to live alone; but I cannot help but crave the company of those I kill.
That is all there is.
That is the end of it.
Shannon could tell you more - Shannon who I teased and danced with and loved, who would moan my name and run his hands through my hair, who smelled like sweet roses and had skin like velvet.
Shannon who I slapped, who I lied to, who hated me before we were done and hates me still, believes everything he was told of me and insists to his highbred friends that he never knew anything of my perversions. Shannon could tell you more, and bitterly, because of course I wounded him as well. The mark of my ring on his cheek stands out in my memory.
I can try to excuse myself, but it would be foolish to do so. Foolish, and worse than foolish - arrogant, pretentious. I cannot pretend to be something less than what I am.
Vincent could tell you more. Vincent who grew up with me, who slept tangled together on nights when we both hurt and needed something gentler, who understood my fears and my terrors and took care of me when I was wounded, who I trusted.
Vincent who I threatened to manipulate, Vincent who fears me and my poisonous touch, Vincent who knows me too well to trust me, Vincent who would not give up one bed for another and could not take my promises that I would never force him. Vincent who still bears the same scars that I do and deeper, who watches me with wariness and fear that is only what I deserve.
I know that fear; recognize it from myself from the days when I was Malkar’s thrall. Sometimes I think I was his student in more than I knew. Sometimes this thought disgusts me. Always it terrifies me. What could I become, if I do not watch myself? What horrors could my hand work if given the room to do so?
Gideon could tell you more. Much more, of madness and sanity, of our attempts to share a bed, of the way he took care of me when I was mad and kept me from death, listened to me, cared for me. Of how he gave his voice and part of himself to see me sane again. And how in return, he could tell you, of how it was not I who saved him, but my brother, of how I was a cruel and capricious lover, of how I lied and danced and pretended at love in cruelty. He could tell you of leaving me, of befriending Mildmay and of my abuse of him. He could tell you more than anyone else could, perhaps, of my faults and flaws and the pain that follows me as a shadow follows most. He could, were he not dead, used in a tool to rid my enemies of me. Even in death, I followed him - even in death, it is my spectre that strangled him; because of me he died.
I would like to be sorry for Gideon and what happened to him, would like to be able to feel pain or grief or sorrow. But I do not deserve these things, not for Gideon. I have no right to pretend at such niceties. Pain is for worthy souls, and I am nothing if not unworthy.
And Malkar, Malkar could tell more, more of the ways in which I am damaged, more of the ways in which I mirror him, more of the ways in which I have become like him. My mentor more than anyone could tell of me, for he knows me inside and out, better than I know myself. He knows the darkest corners of my soul that even I dare not touch, and these has he explored and holds to himself, knowing that all he must ever do is crook a finger to summon me because I will always come to him.
Malkar could tell more. Malkar who I cannot speak of in the past tense, who will always be alive, somewhere in me, because as long as I live the creature he wrought in his image lives as well. Because I am his, always his, and his hands are mine, his touch is mine. The things I poison are leeched with his venom, the things I kill I lay at his feet as tribute. My dark god. My master, always and ever, made in his image.
Malkar would tell you of my flaws.
But more than anyone who could tell you of me and the ways in which I destroy, Mildmay, my brother, my shadow. Who will say nothing ill of me no matter how I twist and tear and break him, who apologizes for his anger when I berate him for something that is my fault, who does what he is told simply because I am his brother. Mildmay who is loyal as no one has ever been loyal to me, who does not waver or hesitate and refuses to give up on me, who stays with me even past when the most faithful dog would turn tail and run. I am cruel to him without question; I hurt him in every way I can except physically, and he does not fight back. Mildmay could tell you of my charm and my arrogance, my spite and my anger.
Mildmay could tell you more of the ways in which I can wither things, destroy things. Mildmay who has watched me and known me, followed me for god knows what reason. Mildmay could tell you more, but he never would, and never will.
I do not think he could speak ill of me.
I know better.
I know how I can wound. I know how I can poison. I know how I can ruin and tear down whatever can be built. Those who follow me are lost; those who touch me are hurt. I wish I had the courage to live alone; but I cannot help but crave the company of those I kill.
That is all there is.