(no subject)
Yes, I am rediscovering my Medicine Seller muse. My idea of his origin/backstory. Warning for some gore?
Death creates clichés. The unknown, the unexplainable is too scary, too disconcerting to deal with, so instead simple, trite ideas are created to try and pare it down to something that can be comprehended, something that can be swallowed. Little lies told to the dying, trying to ease the fear of death, waiting for little saying to save them.
He doesn’t remember his name by now, but he remembers the moment, hard steel shoved deep into his belly, the feeling of icy metal, mixed with the wet heat of blood flowing down the front of his robes. The packed earth is hard against his cheek, the dust from the scuffle rising it from it, tickling at his nose.
“You should have taken that bribe.” Laughter. Then echoing footsteps then nothing.
He doesn’t feel any of those things, any of those simple, trite feelings that were supposed to come with death. What he feels instead is rage, choking in its intensity, seeping into his bones. He wasn’t ready for this, it isn’t time yet. His fingers scrabble in the dust, and he tries to drag himself forward, pitiful, futile. His body leaves a trail of dark red, deeply staining the ground.
The trail is less than a foot long when he appears, just there, and of course he was always there.
youre perfect
They’re not words; they’re not thoughts even, just feelings, remnants of emotions, the scraps of people’s lives stitched together to convey a message. It hurts so badly and he screams with pain, except that he keeps on moving forward and his mouth is sealed shut.
youre perfect and i need you
He stops at that, trembling, panting against the ground as his life continues to seep from him. He parries back with his own life, his own emotions.
ive been watching i know your life I know youre not ready to die you wont have to die your will shall continue your will my will ours
Black teeth darker than night gleam out, golden markings flash and a darkly tanned hand dips into the scarlet paint of his blood, fingertips sliding under his eyes, marking and tracing. There’s more pain but it doesn’t matter because he’s dying, his life slipping away, painted upon his face.
please
Or maybe he’s not dying. Maybe he’ll come back; maybe he’ll be given this impossible chance. He nods his head once, just once, and those black teeth smile at him, a fierce joy painted across the unearthly features.
There’s a crack, like a fine porcelain cup splitting, or maybe it’s a snap of two halves coming together as a whole. But either way that doesn’t matter, because it’s happened, easier than he thought, harder than life. He sits up now, the pain gone, and he reaches down, pushing his fingers into the bloody hole in his robes, stroking at the smooth, unblemished skin underneath. He stands, easy and graceful, and shrugs the dead judge’s robes from his shoulders. That’s not important now. Or rather, it’s vital, but in a different way. The bloody cloth slides from his slender form, the sodden cloth not staining his skin.
Except for the marks around his eyes. He reaches up, stroking at the marks, not needing to see them to know that they’ll be there for the rest of forever.
Death creates clichés. The unknown, the unexplainable is too scary, too disconcerting to deal with, so instead simple, trite ideas are created to try and pare it down to something that can be comprehended, something that can be swallowed. Little lies told to the dying, trying to ease the fear of death, waiting for little saying to save them.
He doesn’t remember his name by now, but he remembers the moment, hard steel shoved deep into his belly, the feeling of icy metal, mixed with the wet heat of blood flowing down the front of his robes. The packed earth is hard against his cheek, the dust from the scuffle rising it from it, tickling at his nose.
“You should have taken that bribe.” Laughter. Then echoing footsteps then nothing.
He doesn’t feel any of those things, any of those simple, trite feelings that were supposed to come with death. What he feels instead is rage, choking in its intensity, seeping into his bones. He wasn’t ready for this, it isn’t time yet. His fingers scrabble in the dust, and he tries to drag himself forward, pitiful, futile. His body leaves a trail of dark red, deeply staining the ground.
The trail is less than a foot long when he appears, just there, and of course he was always there.
youre perfect
They’re not words; they’re not thoughts even, just feelings, remnants of emotions, the scraps of people’s lives stitched together to convey a message. It hurts so badly and he screams with pain, except that he keeps on moving forward and his mouth is sealed shut.
youre perfect and i need you
He stops at that, trembling, panting against the ground as his life continues to seep from him. He parries back with his own life, his own emotions.
ive been watching i know your life I know youre not ready to die you wont have to die your will shall continue your will my will ours
Black teeth darker than night gleam out, golden markings flash and a darkly tanned hand dips into the scarlet paint of his blood, fingertips sliding under his eyes, marking and tracing. There’s more pain but it doesn’t matter because he’s dying, his life slipping away, painted upon his face.
please
Or maybe he’s not dying. Maybe he’ll come back; maybe he’ll be given this impossible chance. He nods his head once, just once, and those black teeth smile at him, a fierce joy painted across the unearthly features.
There’s a crack, like a fine porcelain cup splitting, or maybe it’s a snap of two halves coming together as a whole. But either way that doesn’t matter, because it’s happened, easier than he thought, harder than life. He sits up now, the pain gone, and he reaches down, pushing his fingers into the bloody hole in his robes, stroking at the smooth, unblemished skin underneath. He stands, easy and graceful, and shrugs the dead judge’s robes from his shoulders. That’s not important now. Or rather, it’s vital, but in a different way. The bloody cloth slides from his slender form, the sodden cloth not staining his skin.
Except for the marks around his eyes. He reaches up, stroking at the marks, not needing to see them to know that they’ll be there for the rest of forever.