Evil Interlude One-Shot
Apos thought he remembered, somewhere in his too long life, that there had once been a time where he’d carved wood to occupy himself.
In the process of carving he’d lost himself to creation and his own thoughts. If he held the block between his thighs, sometimes the gouge would slip and the mallet would fall, the metal tool would slice into his thigh and a brilliant kind of pain would shoot throughout him. He’d cry out, tasting his first true slice of pain and just how delicious it could be, experienced by himself, by others, it really didn’t matter.
He knew that his mind had deteriorated. Physically nothing about him had changed since he’d grown into his adult body, yet still, his mind had been unable to bear the strain of the sickness of mind that had been with him since birth. His memories, and ones he had a morbid interest in consuming, eventually became a scattered mess of pain and pleasure, man and woman, god and servants. Morality was a stupid concept, something that had always been difficult to understand. Though his brain may heal along with his body, and it did, again and again, his mind was another matter entirely.
Looking down at the block of wood he’d taken from one of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, he smiled down at the chess piece he was almost finished creating. Before him stood a table that seemed to have appeared on its own, much like most of the things in his room, or the wardrobe that had supplied some of the most intriguing outfits. Resting on the table were numerous lumps of wood, and one chessboard that he’d already carved and coloured.
He added some details to the piece in his hand, blew away the shavings and began to smooth out the wood with sandpaper. He thought the likeness of the man was quite well done. Then again, it hadn’t been all that hard to capture the man’s eyes, he’d seen the look more times over than he could count. He’d gotten bored of it, in the past, and so he’d started blinding those women who came to him, searching for death. The look had made him sick in the past, and yet now the sensation of disgust merely added that sweet little something to it.
He’d evolved yet again, he thought, as he placed the sandpaper by his side and stood, walking from his window seat to the table before him.
“Ah, where to place you, Chairman...”
Second row from the back. He placed him in the centre, occupying the position of one of the many pawns. Means to an end, all of them.
His eyes flitted to the half-carved figures of his other playmates; the Peddler, the Fox, the Samurai, the Bat, the Hacker, the Country, and, most recently, the Blade. There were others, of course, but he hadn’t met them yet, or they hadn’t been interesting enough to hold his attention for long. Granted, there were blocks of wood for them, just in case.
His fingers flickered out over the wooden blocks, as if attempting to divine their truths. “Hm, which of you shall be King, I wonder? Who shall become the bishops, the knights?”
So far, he had great hopes for the Samurai, Yukimura, and the Fox, Sensei--Kurama. Both knew how to hurt, both screamed at him to be hurt. And oh, how he wanted to. He wanted to trap them and fill them with so much hate he could take their memories from them and live off their pain, their hatred.
He looked at the book resting in a patch of sunlight on the floor by the window. The book had told him much, and, it seemed, that this place and its magic would be quite generous. It was possible, here, for the memories of these strange immortal men to be taken. Whether they could be consumed as well as stored was something that he needed to test.
He shifted to stand on the other side of the board, placing his finger atop his King, a well-carved immortal-angel. Unlike those on the opposing side, this one had nothing impaling it, no bondage, no expression of pain.
Now...how to start this game, this war, properly?
In the process of carving he’d lost himself to creation and his own thoughts. If he held the block between his thighs, sometimes the gouge would slip and the mallet would fall, the metal tool would slice into his thigh and a brilliant kind of pain would shoot throughout him. He’d cry out, tasting his first true slice of pain and just how delicious it could be, experienced by himself, by others, it really didn’t matter.
He knew that his mind had deteriorated. Physically nothing about him had changed since he’d grown into his adult body, yet still, his mind had been unable to bear the strain of the sickness of mind that had been with him since birth. His memories, and ones he had a morbid interest in consuming, eventually became a scattered mess of pain and pleasure, man and woman, god and servants. Morality was a stupid concept, something that had always been difficult to understand. Though his brain may heal along with his body, and it did, again and again, his mind was another matter entirely.
Looking down at the block of wood he’d taken from one of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, he smiled down at the chess piece he was almost finished creating. Before him stood a table that seemed to have appeared on its own, much like most of the things in his room, or the wardrobe that had supplied some of the most intriguing outfits. Resting on the table were numerous lumps of wood, and one chessboard that he’d already carved and coloured.
He added some details to the piece in his hand, blew away the shavings and began to smooth out the wood with sandpaper. He thought the likeness of the man was quite well done. Then again, it hadn’t been all that hard to capture the man’s eyes, he’d seen the look more times over than he could count. He’d gotten bored of it, in the past, and so he’d started blinding those women who came to him, searching for death. The look had made him sick in the past, and yet now the sensation of disgust merely added that sweet little something to it.
He’d evolved yet again, he thought, as he placed the sandpaper by his side and stood, walking from his window seat to the table before him.
“Ah, where to place you, Chairman...”
Second row from the back. He placed him in the centre, occupying the position of one of the many pawns. Means to an end, all of them.
His eyes flitted to the half-carved figures of his other playmates; the Peddler, the Fox, the Samurai, the Bat, the Hacker, the Country, and, most recently, the Blade. There were others, of course, but he hadn’t met them yet, or they hadn’t been interesting enough to hold his attention for long. Granted, there were blocks of wood for them, just in case.
His fingers flickered out over the wooden blocks, as if attempting to divine their truths. “Hm, which of you shall be King, I wonder? Who shall become the bishops, the knights?”
So far, he had great hopes for the Samurai, Yukimura, and the Fox, Sensei--Kurama. Both knew how to hurt, both screamed at him to be hurt. And oh, how he wanted to. He wanted to trap them and fill them with so much hate he could take their memories from them and live off their pain, their hatred.
He looked at the book resting in a patch of sunlight on the floor by the window. The book had told him much, and, it seemed, that this place and its magic would be quite generous. It was possible, here, for the memories of these strange immortal men to be taken. Whether they could be consumed as well as stored was something that he needed to test.
He shifted to stand on the other side of the board, placing his finger atop his King, a well-carved immortal-angel. Unlike those on the opposing side, this one had nothing impaling it, no bondage, no expression of pain.
Now...how to start this game, this war, properly?