IT!
Did a short rambling little Furfur fic for IT. :)
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Furfur paced about his cell, guitar in his hands. It was always in his hands, these days. He felt naked without it, unsafe, lost. If someone made the accusation that it had become his security blanket, he'd only shrug and sigh. Mostly because they'd be right.
It made him laugh, sometimes, especially when the pain was real bad. Of all the Princes in Hell, Furfur had dared to claim that the truth hurt enough to be necessary, and he wanted it served hot and fresh into the face of every wishy-washy coward who slunk in shadows and whispered lies to make everything better. The truth hurt, and you could never lie to yourself about the pain of reality. That was Hardcore.
Even if he wasn't Hardcore anymore, he still told himself the truth. And it hurt. But he kept telling himself, even if it confused him and made him ache and want to scream.
When news that Nybbas had become an Archangel reached him, Furfur had to sit down for a day and ask himself if it wasn't some bizzare dream. If Asmodeus hadn't caught him, locked him in a cell, and let Beleth and Nybbas tease him with visions of madness while Fleurity pumped liquid dreams into his veins.
But the pain forced him to accept this was happening. First Wrenchial, his only friend and most trusted Duke, and now Nybbas. Both angels. Both beyond Hell. Like Lilith, they had given up what they were, and became something...
...more.
It made some sense to say that. He didn't know why, but that was the truth, and it hurt. Furfur was really alone now; Belial was dead. Lilith had always been an illusion. Wrenchial and Nybbas had redeemed. And Asmodeus? Asmodeus was nothing now without his precious Game. Furfur didn't know that for a fact, but when he had his Word, he could practically smell the Djinn's insane devotion to his concept, and were it to be stripped away, Furfur was sure that the Game Master would lose all sense of self, and... perhaps go comatose, like Haagenti, or simply cease to exist.
Furfur kicked at the ground a little, and sighed more. Where did he go from here? Was there anywhere to go? Dominic still hadn't called him to trial. Nobody came to visit (save that disgusting flower-crowned whore of a Cherub, and he had spat at the ground and turned away, and she had simply shrugged and had yet to came back, and he hated that), and Furfur couldn't think of anyone to speak to. With no friends, no enemies, no Word, no cause, and everything he had taken for granted pulled out from underneath him like a tablecloth, he had become completely paralyzed with indifference.
Sometimes, Creationers sat outside his cell and recorded him playing his guitar. He wanted to yell at them and tell them to go away (not fuck off, that was Hardcore, but even foul language seemed empty and too much effort now) and leave him alone. But he didn't. It was attention, it wad validation, it was something he didn't want to let go of. He shrugged when one of them suggested he try playing the giant organ upstairs. He said he'd think about it, and then ignored them until they left.
Maybe that was his fate. To become a minor tourist attraction for the lesser celestials. He had once been a Cosmic Principle, a being of overwhelming power (nevermind he was the smallest of such things, a speck before the greater ones, older than time itself). He had shaken things up. Commanded respect. Inspired hate. Dared to be different. And now, he was nothing, had nothing, and seemed forgotten by everyone.
It was being left behind, Furfur admitted, that hurt the most. Like a kid who never grew up, watching his friends leave and move on to change the world while he sat alone on the playground.
Worse, worse, worse than all of that wild rambling lonliness and isolation, was that Furfur couldn't get angry about it. About anything. It was truth, cold and sharp, and it stabbed him and left him bleeding on the side of the road, motionless. He couldn't come to terms with that. He couldn't understand why it had all ended this way.
Shaking his head, Furfur pushed the pain and introspection aside, and began to play a new song that had been forming in his head. Something slow and simple. Something that made sense.
As he played, he vaguely wondered if an organ would sound good with a guitar.
Maybe he'd ask tomorrow.
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Furfur paced about his cell, guitar in his hands. It was always in his hands, these days. He felt naked without it, unsafe, lost. If someone made the accusation that it had become his security blanket, he'd only shrug and sigh. Mostly because they'd be right.
It made him laugh, sometimes, especially when the pain was real bad. Of all the Princes in Hell, Furfur had dared to claim that the truth hurt enough to be necessary, and he wanted it served hot and fresh into the face of every wishy-washy coward who slunk in shadows and whispered lies to make everything better. The truth hurt, and you could never lie to yourself about the pain of reality. That was Hardcore.
Even if he wasn't Hardcore anymore, he still told himself the truth. And it hurt. But he kept telling himself, even if it confused him and made him ache and want to scream.
When news that Nybbas had become an Archangel reached him, Furfur had to sit down for a day and ask himself if it wasn't some bizzare dream. If Asmodeus hadn't caught him, locked him in a cell, and let Beleth and Nybbas tease him with visions of madness while Fleurity pumped liquid dreams into his veins.
But the pain forced him to accept this was happening. First Wrenchial, his only friend and most trusted Duke, and now Nybbas. Both angels. Both beyond Hell. Like Lilith, they had given up what they were, and became something...
...more.
It made some sense to say that. He didn't know why, but that was the truth, and it hurt. Furfur was really alone now; Belial was dead. Lilith had always been an illusion. Wrenchial and Nybbas had redeemed. And Asmodeus? Asmodeus was nothing now without his precious Game. Furfur didn't know that for a fact, but when he had his Word, he could practically smell the Djinn's insane devotion to his concept, and were it to be stripped away, Furfur was sure that the Game Master would lose all sense of self, and... perhaps go comatose, like Haagenti, or simply cease to exist.
Furfur kicked at the ground a little, and sighed more. Where did he go from here? Was there anywhere to go? Dominic still hadn't called him to trial. Nobody came to visit (save that disgusting flower-crowned whore of a Cherub, and he had spat at the ground and turned away, and she had simply shrugged and had yet to came back, and he hated that), and Furfur couldn't think of anyone to speak to. With no friends, no enemies, no Word, no cause, and everything he had taken for granted pulled out from underneath him like a tablecloth, he had become completely paralyzed with indifference.
Sometimes, Creationers sat outside his cell and recorded him playing his guitar. He wanted to yell at them and tell them to go away (not fuck off, that was Hardcore, but even foul language seemed empty and too much effort now) and leave him alone. But he didn't. It was attention, it wad validation, it was something he didn't want to let go of. He shrugged when one of them suggested he try playing the giant organ upstairs. He said he'd think about it, and then ignored them until they left.
Maybe that was his fate. To become a minor tourist attraction for the lesser celestials. He had once been a Cosmic Principle, a being of overwhelming power (nevermind he was the smallest of such things, a speck before the greater ones, older than time itself). He had shaken things up. Commanded respect. Inspired hate. Dared to be different. And now, he was nothing, had nothing, and seemed forgotten by everyone.
It was being left behind, Furfur admitted, that hurt the most. Like a kid who never grew up, watching his friends leave and move on to change the world while he sat alone on the playground.
Worse, worse, worse than all of that wild rambling lonliness and isolation, was that Furfur couldn't get angry about it. About anything. It was truth, cold and sharp, and it stabbed him and left him bleeding on the side of the road, motionless. He couldn't come to terms with that. He couldn't understand why it had all ended this way.
Shaking his head, Furfur pushed the pain and introspection aside, and began to play a new song that had been forming in his head. Something slow and simple. Something that made sense.
As he played, he vaguely wondered if an organ would sound good with a guitar.
Maybe he'd ask tomorrow.