y!Gallery commission.
Title: Untitled (Commission part one of two)
Author: pax_morgana
Wordcount: 610 words total (including titles)
Summary: Four 100 (or so) word drabbles based on songs from ruins_of_sodom's novel soundtrack. I was allowed to choose the songs and interpret them as I pleased. All songs are the property of their respective owners, and the writing is my own intellectual property. The only people authorized to repost this are myself and ruins_of_sodom.
Drumming Song - Florence + the Machine
Even when he's far from me, I can hear the low drumming song of his voice against my ear. Every word, its cadence graceful and its tone low and rich, resonates within every inch of me. Give me a moment alone with my thoughts, and his voice is there again, echoing against the cavern of my skull. It's a sweet sort of torture, to hear him when he's so distant, even if it is just a product of my own mind. Perhaps it's a delusion on my part, or perhaps some well-buried skill of magic, but I hear him always as clear as day. He knows it not, and when he's near, laughing at bawdy jokes or singing pretty tunes, he unwittingly drives further the stake of madness into my brain.
Fake It - Seether
The man was a superstar. Everywhere he went, people knew his face and they fell over themselves to be near him and bask in his radiance. He was on billboards and television, in magazines and tabloids; he was in the eye of the world. What no one knew, however, was what he had given up in order to ensure this lasting fame. Often one hears how surprisingly grounded and normal celebrities are, that they don't allow their fame to taint their essence of self. This was not at all true in this case. Here was a man who had morphed so completely that his own parents saw no shred of their son in his face. He had sold his very soul for his stardom, and not even he could divine whether or not he regretted it.
I Hate Everything About You - Three Days Grace
Whenever we fuck, it's after a fight; we don't do it for pleasure anymore, but to get out our aggressions on one another. It's violent and angry, and I feel no real desire for you beyond the desire to bury my fingernails into your back and drag them down your spine. You bite me, and I pull your hair in return. It's always fast and hectic, and sometimes we don't even come, yet the next morning, there's no talk of it. I believe we still love one another, but it's buried so deep, fossilized beneath the crushing layers of rage and disgust we foster. One day, our precarious life will break and everything will change, but for now, even though our passion is a passion of hatred, we cling fast to it, for it is all we have.
Where is My Boy? - Faultline feat. Chris Martin
The child, skinny and wan and blank-eyed, sat watching the crowds go by. He was invisible to everyone as they passed, too intent on their own ignorance and apathy to see a lost and dirty little boy with legs all twisted up and a livid bruise on his cheek. Every so often, someone paused in front of him for a moment, but then shook their heads and moved on, drawing their coats more closely about them. He sat against a wall, crippled legs splayed out before him; people gave him a wide berth but seemed to ignore him otherwise. I saw him there all the time, always in the same clothing and sitting in the same way, but only once did I stop to kneel before him. Are you lost? I asked him, and he looked me dead in the eye and shook his head slowly, deliberately. He smiled a gap-toothed grin. The next day, he was gone, but his face stared at me from the front page of the morning paper: Handicapped Nine-Year-Old Found Murdered.
Title: Untitled (Commission part two of two)
Author: pax_morgana
Wordcount: 2,889 words
Summary: For the second part of the commission, I was asked to write an AU crossover involving my Mordred and ruins_of_sodom's Noah. I made most of it up, combined with our existing headcanon of the two. (Sidenote: I bullshitted most of the Scots I used, but I think that it's mostly contextually correct.) The writing is my own intellectual property. The only people authorized to repost this are myself and ruins_of_sodom.
Mordred's body was twisting and convulsing in ways that no human's body ought to do; the sounds that ripped from his throat were half his own screams of agony and half the demon's taunts. Any "normal" person who might look on would only see a young man in the grips of some hideous seizure, but Noah saw what it really was: he saw the creature, the thing that had his partner in its clutches. Mordred fought it tooth and nail; there was no other way, this time. Sometimes, they could convince a spirit to cross over on its own, or enlist the help of a priest or rabbi or other elder, but this one simply would not go, no matter what they tried. Noah had been against the idea from the start, and hated it even more now that it was underway, but this was all they could do.
"Noah-!" Mordred choked out suddenly, his voice horrible and desperate, like nails on a chalkboard magnified tenfold, "Now!" That was all he needed to hear, their signal of sorts. In all truth, a gun was not the way he wanted to send a demon back to Hell - there was no taste to it, and it seemed so mundane - but Mordred insisted that it was the best way: it was fast, and final. Even with a silencer, the single shot was deafening. His partner convulsed one more time and was still, blood bubbling up from the hole in his collarbone. Noah watched as the demon turned in on itself, its presence slackening and ebbing with a long, keening cry that filled the entire building. Then, it was done and Mordred was just himself again, gasping for breath and grinning despite the blood that stained his teeth pink.
"You're a fucking dumbass," chided Noah, the gun trembling in his hand. Sweat had begun to bead on his upper lip - this shit was intense.
"Ay, lad. But the ettle wrocht, div it no?" Mordred's voice was raspy, and Noah detected a hint of barely-suppressed pain beneath the verbal swagger.
"Is English really so hard? Anyway, shut up. You're shot, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Ha! Truelins A am." He tried to laugh, but it transformed into a hiss of pain; his face contorted and Noah heard the faint scrape of Mordred's fingernails against the hardwood as he tried to grasp for purchase. It made him wince, and it made him think about how the hell they got into this sordid situation in the first place.
Mordred MacArthur and Noah Martelino were a small, two-man operation of paranormal investigators. They organization didn't even have a name, really - they were simply known as "MacArthur and Martelino Investigations" (they'd argued for at least a week over the order of their names, but in the end, it had come down to a momentous and utterly dramatic coin-flip, followed by ten minutes of extremely mature, professional gloating). They worked out of their shared apartment in Seattle, which had been Mordred's originally, but his day-job as a copy editor only barely made him enough to pay the rent and the bills and put food on the table. Noah had been his roommate for some time, and even though the younger man was still a student (and therefore perpetually broke; ah, those were the days), it was nice to have the company - and someone to guilt into doing the laundry and grocery shopping.
By and by, the two found that they had very little in common, save a similar gift for irritating the other in catty little ways. That, their preference for men (but not each other, thank you very much), and, they much later discovered, a keen interest in the hereafter. Both of the men were gifted with Sight, though each in very different manners: Noah's Sight was such that he was able to See everything with his own eyes, no matter what sort of entity they might face. On the other hand, Mordred's gift leaned more toward the sensory, what one might call "sensitivity" or "mediumship". Together, they worked surprisingly well, for all that they were at one another's throats in their downtime.
Their first job was a very small affair, a simple haunting that required very little effort, but their clients had been surprisingly influential, and from it their business blossomed slowly but surely. That was in April of 2008; it was now June of 2010, and MacArthur and Martelino Investigations was still a small service but one known for its reliability and results. The two refused to hire, refused interviews and publicity; there was nothing entertaining about the job they did.
No, there was nothing entertaining at all about this, Noah thought grimly, returning his attention back to his partner. He had dropped the gun to the side and knelt next to Mordred, attempting to stanch the bleeding with Mordred's own balled-up jacket. They couldn't call an ambulance for this; what would they say? That Noah shot Mordred because he was possessed? Never mind that it was the truth, they would put Noah away for attempted murder and peg him as a lunatic. No, thank you. Instead, he did what he could to take care of Mordred himself, and it wasn't looking good.
"- you listening? Press harder," Mordred hissed impatiently through his clenched teeth, taking Noah's hand and pushing down against his gunshot wound. It prompted a cry of pain from the man, but he didn't slack. For as much as he got on Noah's nerves, Noah had to appreciate Mordred's badassery in this situation - and "badassery" was not a word he used lightly. "You look like you're - ah, fuck - about to puke. If you do, don't do it on me. There's plenty of floor space."
"Fuck you, Emily Rose." In fact, Noah felt like he might vomit, but he didn't want to admit or acknowledge it. Getting sick now was the worst thing he could do; he couldn't afford to have his attention drawn away from his partner, who, for all his bluster, was becoming increasingly glassy-eyed and feverish. Once, a flash of pain even drew out a bitten-off whimper, which Noah pretended not to hear.
"You know you're going to have to cut the bullet out," the older man rasped, his words losing their sardonic edge as his control wavered, "Better it be sooner rather than later. Have anything sharp on you?" Noah snorted and rolled his eyes, unwilling to give into the growing sense of anxiety about the whole situation. The grin he threw Mordred's way was fake, and he knew Mordred could tell, but neither of them called the bluff.
"Well, yeah. I've got a stingray tail, a kris, and a flip knife - take your pick." It was Mordred's turn to roll his eyes.
"And you say I'm ridiculous. Just use the knife. Shame we can't sterilize it, but I think if I can survive being possessed and shot in the same day, being stabbed by a dirty knife can't be much worse, ay?" The urge to slap him was returning; even wounded, he could be infuriating! Ah, but it was better this than watching him writhe and whimper in pain, at least, so Noah steeled himself against the stupid remark and slowly lifted the blood-soaked jacket from Mordred's clavicle. He could see bone, which made his stomach turn, but he could also see the bullet, which he surmised was a good thing. Slowly and carefully, with Mordred's instructions (which were surprisingly steady, given his current condition), he dug out the small piece of metal. When he did, the wound began to bleed more freely, and he pressed the jacket back down, prompting a startled sound from his partner, but no further complaint. Now came the hard part: getting out of the house unseen. It had been difficult enough getting in, but for very different reasons.
"Shit, this house is fucked up," was Noah's first remark upon reaching the location of their newest job. They hadn't even gotten out of the car yet, and the tension was already so thick one could cut it with a knife. Mordred simply grunted in agreement. The two of them shared a long, wordless look before finally deciding to step out; there was an instant wash of dread, and they found themselves walking a little closer together as they approached the front door. The owner had given them a key (she was sleeping in a hotel for the duration) but when Mordred slipped the key into the lock, it wouldn't turn. Both of them tried it multiple times, but it simply would not work, so in the end, they were forced to kick down the door - and agreed that the damages would come out of their commission. Once inside, the two men wanted to run back out again, the presence of evil was so strong. Mordred saw Noah watching things only he could see; the Scot could only imagine the horrors present before his partner's eyes.
"You okay?" he muttered, nudging the younger man gently on the shoulder, "You're not going cold on me, are you?" Noah shook his head, but it was slow and unconvincing. Nevertheless, the two started forward almost in unison; they walked close together, practically shoulder-to-shoulder, until they reached the center of the living room. The silence was complete but for their shallow, nervous breathing, then there was an echoing thud: the door, which had been knocked half off its hinges, suddenly righted itself and locked audibly. Noah mumbled something incomprehensible, which Mordred nudged him to repeat.
"This isn't a ghost. It's a -" His words were cut off with a gagging sound, and Noah's eyes bulged for a moment before he was released. There was a hissing sound, two, actually: one like a wounded animal, the other like sizzling flesh. The glint of the cross pendant around Noah's neck caught Mordred's eye, and it all came clear: they were dealing with a demon.
"You're not that tricky," he said to the air in front of him, smirking darkly, "I don't fear you. I may not be a Christian, but I can and will command you. You do not touch my partner. You do not touch me. My partner knows your ilk, and he can see you. You're not invisible to us." A cold chill snaked along Mordred's spine, and Noah's gaze continued to follow the demon as it moved about. The demon, in the younger man's eyes, was a grotesque, towering thing with black skin and four curving ram's horns crowning its head. It stood on two legs that seemed like a goat's in shape, but the feet were three-toed and clawed. Its hands were likewise adorned, and the demon currently had these hands wrapped around Mordred's throat - wrapped, but only at rest. It didn't squeeze or choke as it had Noah. It was a dare. The demon turned its head and met Noah's gaze: the face was a hideous amalgam of a man's, a cat's and a boar's, and when it grinned, it exposed several rows of tiny, jagged teeth similar to those of a great white shark.
Imagine, a dark multitude of voices rang out, rippling through the air and through the minds of the two investigators, A pair of pretty little Seers in our house, and the baby one with a true Sight at that. My, but we are lucky.
"This isn't your house. You're an intruder here." This was Noah, standing tall with no fear present in his face or his posture. He locked eyes with Mordred, who told him wordlessly to tread with caution.
Isn't it, Baby Seer? chuckled the demon, We think that you and your pretty friend here are more like the intruders. Ahh, but we don't mind - we should very much like to play with you both. Here, the demon stepped away from Mordred and approached Noah, still grinning. The young Filipino backed away a step, but stood his ground after, silently chiding himself for showing even that minute sliver of fear. He locked eyes with his partner briefly, and Mordred blinked twice in rapid succession: a silent signal.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake -"
You do not intimidate us, Baby Seer. We do not fear your God. Noah didn't so much as blink; he only raised his voice. The demon, despite its words, seemed transfixed; this left Mordred a space to prepare.
"- Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me..." As Noah recited the rest of the Psalm, Mordred produced four candles from the backpack he'd brought along - one of white sage, one of lavender, one of yarrow, and one of mugwort - and placed them at the four cardinal points around himself, Noah, and where he perceived the demon to be: north, south, east, west. Lighting them all in turn, the last caught as Noah completed his prayer. Without wasting a second, Mordred took up an invocation of his own.
"In the name of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, you are commanded to give your name. By mote of earth, fire, water, and air, you are commanded. Thrice I command you, thrice I bind you, and thrice again I banish you. Heed you now my ninefold decree, speak your name, and begone." In response, there was only silence, which hung in the air for a stretch of several long minutes. Noah opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted when the candles all were extinguished simultaneously, leaving the room in darkness. Again, there was silence.
"Mordred...?" Noah ventured after a moment. Nothing. "I think it's go - oh, fuck me."
"What are you going to do now, Baby Seer?" The demon spoke through Mordred's mouth, in Mordred's voice, with a whispering echo behind it. "Your pretty friend made a fool's mistake, and now he belongs to us." The demon-as-Mordred grinned, showing off its pointed teeth; the sight made Noah want to vomit. In their years as a team, both of them had done stupid and dangerous things, but this was by far the worst - and something Noah wasn't sure he could fix. If Mordred had planned for this, there was no way the Filipino could divine what it was. He just had to act, and fast, or else his friend was lost.
"You know," he began, trying to sound cool and nonchalant. He succeeded, for the most part, to his pleasure, "Just because I work with the guy doesn't mean I wouldn't kill him if I could. So keep talking, and see what happens." The demon laughed back, a hideous and grating sound, and stepped forward until he was barely half an inch away from Noah. Mordred's shorter stature didn't make the demon any less terrifying. The Scot's grey eyes had gone black, from sclera to pupil, and were chilling to look into.
"You're a foul liar," purred the demon. Its breath smelled like sulfur, "But brave to try. We like that, so we'll give you a reward. Your friend asked for our name: it is Deumos." Noah didn't reply, for as Deumos spoke, Mordred's eyes flickered briefly back to their normal state: he was fighting. Deumos seemed to notice this as well, for a hand flew to Mordred's throat as the Scot's voice choked out: "The - bag - a gun -"
That was all Noah needed: he dove for Mordred's satchel and found the handgun after a moment's digging. Meanwhile, the demon and Mordred had begun their hideous struggle for control, while Noah could only watch and take aim.
"Leave the bag, idiot," snapped Mordred as the two shuffled awkwardly for the door. The Scot, bled white and shaking, was forced to lean on Noah for support, which made for slow (and noisy) going, "And the gun. What, do you want to be seen?" The Filipino rolled his eyes.
"I could leave you, y'know. Now shut the hell up and walk." The trek out to the car was arduous, but they eventually made it. With Noah in the driver's seat and Mordred lying in the backseat, they peeled out of the driveway and back to the apartment. As per usual, they lobbed casual insults back and forth the entire way, tacitly agreeing to speak nothing more of the incident in the house except that, when the time came to collect their payment, they would demand that their client pay their fee plus half again for their trouble.
"Fuck, let's just raise our prices. God knows we deserve it, with the shit we go through." Mordred snorted in response to this.
"An we willna git ocht haundlins. Things're scrimp sae it is. Daena be geenyoch."
"English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?" Noah snapped, though his annoyance was merely superficial and they both knew it.
"Whan A want, ay. Nou haud yer wheesht an hurl."
"Yeah, you make me want to hurl."
Author: pax_morgana
Wordcount: 610 words total (including titles)
Summary: Four 100 (or so) word drabbles based on songs from ruins_of_sodom's novel soundtrack. I was allowed to choose the songs and interpret them as I pleased. All songs are the property of their respective owners, and the writing is my own intellectual property. The only people authorized to repost this are myself and ruins_of_sodom.
Drumming Song - Florence + the Machine
Even when he's far from me, I can hear the low drumming song of his voice against my ear. Every word, its cadence graceful and its tone low and rich, resonates within every inch of me. Give me a moment alone with my thoughts, and his voice is there again, echoing against the cavern of my skull. It's a sweet sort of torture, to hear him when he's so distant, even if it is just a product of my own mind. Perhaps it's a delusion on my part, or perhaps some well-buried skill of magic, but I hear him always as clear as day. He knows it not, and when he's near, laughing at bawdy jokes or singing pretty tunes, he unwittingly drives further the stake of madness into my brain.
Fake It - Seether
The man was a superstar. Everywhere he went, people knew his face and they fell over themselves to be near him and bask in his radiance. He was on billboards and television, in magazines and tabloids; he was in the eye of the world. What no one knew, however, was what he had given up in order to ensure this lasting fame. Often one hears how surprisingly grounded and normal celebrities are, that they don't allow their fame to taint their essence of self. This was not at all true in this case. Here was a man who had morphed so completely that his own parents saw no shred of their son in his face. He had sold his very soul for his stardom, and not even he could divine whether or not he regretted it.
I Hate Everything About You - Three Days Grace
Whenever we fuck, it's after a fight; we don't do it for pleasure anymore, but to get out our aggressions on one another. It's violent and angry, and I feel no real desire for you beyond the desire to bury my fingernails into your back and drag them down your spine. You bite me, and I pull your hair in return. It's always fast and hectic, and sometimes we don't even come, yet the next morning, there's no talk of it. I believe we still love one another, but it's buried so deep, fossilized beneath the crushing layers of rage and disgust we foster. One day, our precarious life will break and everything will change, but for now, even though our passion is a passion of hatred, we cling fast to it, for it is all we have.
Where is My Boy? - Faultline feat. Chris Martin
The child, skinny and wan and blank-eyed, sat watching the crowds go by. He was invisible to everyone as they passed, too intent on their own ignorance and apathy to see a lost and dirty little boy with legs all twisted up and a livid bruise on his cheek. Every so often, someone paused in front of him for a moment, but then shook their heads and moved on, drawing their coats more closely about them. He sat against a wall, crippled legs splayed out before him; people gave him a wide berth but seemed to ignore him otherwise. I saw him there all the time, always in the same clothing and sitting in the same way, but only once did I stop to kneel before him. Are you lost? I asked him, and he looked me dead in the eye and shook his head slowly, deliberately. He smiled a gap-toothed grin. The next day, he was gone, but his face stared at me from the front page of the morning paper: Handicapped Nine-Year-Old Found Murdered.
Title: Untitled (Commission part two of two)
Author: pax_morgana
Wordcount: 2,889 words
Summary: For the second part of the commission, I was asked to write an AU crossover involving my Mordred and ruins_of_sodom's Noah. I made most of it up, combined with our existing headcanon of the two. (Sidenote: I bullshitted most of the Scots I used, but I think that it's mostly contextually correct.) The writing is my own intellectual property. The only people authorized to repost this are myself and ruins_of_sodom.
Mordred's body was twisting and convulsing in ways that no human's body ought to do; the sounds that ripped from his throat were half his own screams of agony and half the demon's taunts. Any "normal" person who might look on would only see a young man in the grips of some hideous seizure, but Noah saw what it really was: he saw the creature, the thing that had his partner in its clutches. Mordred fought it tooth and nail; there was no other way, this time. Sometimes, they could convince a spirit to cross over on its own, or enlist the help of a priest or rabbi or other elder, but this one simply would not go, no matter what they tried. Noah had been against the idea from the start, and hated it even more now that it was underway, but this was all they could do.
"Noah-!" Mordred choked out suddenly, his voice horrible and desperate, like nails on a chalkboard magnified tenfold, "Now!" That was all he needed to hear, their signal of sorts. In all truth, a gun was not the way he wanted to send a demon back to Hell - there was no taste to it, and it seemed so mundane - but Mordred insisted that it was the best way: it was fast, and final. Even with a silencer, the single shot was deafening. His partner convulsed one more time and was still, blood bubbling up from the hole in his collarbone. Noah watched as the demon turned in on itself, its presence slackening and ebbing with a long, keening cry that filled the entire building. Then, it was done and Mordred was just himself again, gasping for breath and grinning despite the blood that stained his teeth pink.
"You're a fucking dumbass," chided Noah, the gun trembling in his hand. Sweat had begun to bead on his upper lip - this shit was intense.
"Ay, lad. But the ettle wrocht, div it no?" Mordred's voice was raspy, and Noah detected a hint of barely-suppressed pain beneath the verbal swagger.
"Is English really so hard? Anyway, shut up. You're shot, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Ha! Truelins A am." He tried to laugh, but it transformed into a hiss of pain; his face contorted and Noah heard the faint scrape of Mordred's fingernails against the hardwood as he tried to grasp for purchase. It made him wince, and it made him think about how the hell they got into this sordid situation in the first place.
Mordred MacArthur and Noah Martelino were a small, two-man operation of paranormal investigators. They organization didn't even have a name, really - they were simply known as "MacArthur and Martelino Investigations" (they'd argued for at least a week over the order of their names, but in the end, it had come down to a momentous and utterly dramatic coin-flip, followed by ten minutes of extremely mature, professional gloating). They worked out of their shared apartment in Seattle, which had been Mordred's originally, but his day-job as a copy editor only barely made him enough to pay the rent and the bills and put food on the table. Noah had been his roommate for some time, and even though the younger man was still a student (and therefore perpetually broke; ah, those were the days), it was nice to have the company - and someone to guilt into doing the laundry and grocery shopping.
By and by, the two found that they had very little in common, save a similar gift for irritating the other in catty little ways. That, their preference for men (but not each other, thank you very much), and, they much later discovered, a keen interest in the hereafter. Both of the men were gifted with Sight, though each in very different manners: Noah's Sight was such that he was able to See everything with his own eyes, no matter what sort of entity they might face. On the other hand, Mordred's gift leaned more toward the sensory, what one might call "sensitivity" or "mediumship". Together, they worked surprisingly well, for all that they were at one another's throats in their downtime.
Their first job was a very small affair, a simple haunting that required very little effort, but their clients had been surprisingly influential, and from it their business blossomed slowly but surely. That was in April of 2008; it was now June of 2010, and MacArthur and Martelino Investigations was still a small service but one known for its reliability and results. The two refused to hire, refused interviews and publicity; there was nothing entertaining about the job they did.
No, there was nothing entertaining at all about this, Noah thought grimly, returning his attention back to his partner. He had dropped the gun to the side and knelt next to Mordred, attempting to stanch the bleeding with Mordred's own balled-up jacket. They couldn't call an ambulance for this; what would they say? That Noah shot Mordred because he was possessed? Never mind that it was the truth, they would put Noah away for attempted murder and peg him as a lunatic. No, thank you. Instead, he did what he could to take care of Mordred himself, and it wasn't looking good.
"- you listening? Press harder," Mordred hissed impatiently through his clenched teeth, taking Noah's hand and pushing down against his gunshot wound. It prompted a cry of pain from the man, but he didn't slack. For as much as he got on Noah's nerves, Noah had to appreciate Mordred's badassery in this situation - and "badassery" was not a word he used lightly. "You look like you're - ah, fuck - about to puke. If you do, don't do it on me. There's plenty of floor space."
"Fuck you, Emily Rose." In fact, Noah felt like he might vomit, but he didn't want to admit or acknowledge it. Getting sick now was the worst thing he could do; he couldn't afford to have his attention drawn away from his partner, who, for all his bluster, was becoming increasingly glassy-eyed and feverish. Once, a flash of pain even drew out a bitten-off whimper, which Noah pretended not to hear.
"You know you're going to have to cut the bullet out," the older man rasped, his words losing their sardonic edge as his control wavered, "Better it be sooner rather than later. Have anything sharp on you?" Noah snorted and rolled his eyes, unwilling to give into the growing sense of anxiety about the whole situation. The grin he threw Mordred's way was fake, and he knew Mordred could tell, but neither of them called the bluff.
"Well, yeah. I've got a stingray tail, a kris, and a flip knife - take your pick." It was Mordred's turn to roll his eyes.
"And you say I'm ridiculous. Just use the knife. Shame we can't sterilize it, but I think if I can survive being possessed and shot in the same day, being stabbed by a dirty knife can't be much worse, ay?" The urge to slap him was returning; even wounded, he could be infuriating! Ah, but it was better this than watching him writhe and whimper in pain, at least, so Noah steeled himself against the stupid remark and slowly lifted the blood-soaked jacket from Mordred's clavicle. He could see bone, which made his stomach turn, but he could also see the bullet, which he surmised was a good thing. Slowly and carefully, with Mordred's instructions (which were surprisingly steady, given his current condition), he dug out the small piece of metal. When he did, the wound began to bleed more freely, and he pressed the jacket back down, prompting a startled sound from his partner, but no further complaint. Now came the hard part: getting out of the house unseen. It had been difficult enough getting in, but for very different reasons.
"Shit, this house is fucked up," was Noah's first remark upon reaching the location of their newest job. They hadn't even gotten out of the car yet, and the tension was already so thick one could cut it with a knife. Mordred simply grunted in agreement. The two of them shared a long, wordless look before finally deciding to step out; there was an instant wash of dread, and they found themselves walking a little closer together as they approached the front door. The owner had given them a key (she was sleeping in a hotel for the duration) but when Mordred slipped the key into the lock, it wouldn't turn. Both of them tried it multiple times, but it simply would not work, so in the end, they were forced to kick down the door - and agreed that the damages would come out of their commission. Once inside, the two men wanted to run back out again, the presence of evil was so strong. Mordred saw Noah watching things only he could see; the Scot could only imagine the horrors present before his partner's eyes.
"You okay?" he muttered, nudging the younger man gently on the shoulder, "You're not going cold on me, are you?" Noah shook his head, but it was slow and unconvincing. Nevertheless, the two started forward almost in unison; they walked close together, practically shoulder-to-shoulder, until they reached the center of the living room. The silence was complete but for their shallow, nervous breathing, then there was an echoing thud: the door, which had been knocked half off its hinges, suddenly righted itself and locked audibly. Noah mumbled something incomprehensible, which Mordred nudged him to repeat.
"This isn't a ghost. It's a -" His words were cut off with a gagging sound, and Noah's eyes bulged for a moment before he was released. There was a hissing sound, two, actually: one like a wounded animal, the other like sizzling flesh. The glint of the cross pendant around Noah's neck caught Mordred's eye, and it all came clear: they were dealing with a demon.
"You're not that tricky," he said to the air in front of him, smirking darkly, "I don't fear you. I may not be a Christian, but I can and will command you. You do not touch my partner. You do not touch me. My partner knows your ilk, and he can see you. You're not invisible to us." A cold chill snaked along Mordred's spine, and Noah's gaze continued to follow the demon as it moved about. The demon, in the younger man's eyes, was a grotesque, towering thing with black skin and four curving ram's horns crowning its head. It stood on two legs that seemed like a goat's in shape, but the feet were three-toed and clawed. Its hands were likewise adorned, and the demon currently had these hands wrapped around Mordred's throat - wrapped, but only at rest. It didn't squeeze or choke as it had Noah. It was a dare. The demon turned its head and met Noah's gaze: the face was a hideous amalgam of a man's, a cat's and a boar's, and when it grinned, it exposed several rows of tiny, jagged teeth similar to those of a great white shark.
Imagine, a dark multitude of voices rang out, rippling through the air and through the minds of the two investigators, A pair of pretty little Seers in our house, and the baby one with a true Sight at that. My, but we are lucky.
"This isn't your house. You're an intruder here." This was Noah, standing tall with no fear present in his face or his posture. He locked eyes with Mordred, who told him wordlessly to tread with caution.
Isn't it, Baby Seer? chuckled the demon, We think that you and your pretty friend here are more like the intruders. Ahh, but we don't mind - we should very much like to play with you both. Here, the demon stepped away from Mordred and approached Noah, still grinning. The young Filipino backed away a step, but stood his ground after, silently chiding himself for showing even that minute sliver of fear. He locked eyes with his partner briefly, and Mordred blinked twice in rapid succession: a silent signal.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake -"
You do not intimidate us, Baby Seer. We do not fear your God. Noah didn't so much as blink; he only raised his voice. The demon, despite its words, seemed transfixed; this left Mordred a space to prepare.
"- Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me..." As Noah recited the rest of the Psalm, Mordred produced four candles from the backpack he'd brought along - one of white sage, one of lavender, one of yarrow, and one of mugwort - and placed them at the four cardinal points around himself, Noah, and where he perceived the demon to be: north, south, east, west. Lighting them all in turn, the last caught as Noah completed his prayer. Without wasting a second, Mordred took up an invocation of his own.
"In the name of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, you are commanded to give your name. By mote of earth, fire, water, and air, you are commanded. Thrice I command you, thrice I bind you, and thrice again I banish you. Heed you now my ninefold decree, speak your name, and begone." In response, there was only silence, which hung in the air for a stretch of several long minutes. Noah opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted when the candles all were extinguished simultaneously, leaving the room in darkness. Again, there was silence.
"Mordred...?" Noah ventured after a moment. Nothing. "I think it's go - oh, fuck me."
"What are you going to do now, Baby Seer?" The demon spoke through Mordred's mouth, in Mordred's voice, with a whispering echo behind it. "Your pretty friend made a fool's mistake, and now he belongs to us." The demon-as-Mordred grinned, showing off its pointed teeth; the sight made Noah want to vomit. In their years as a team, both of them had done stupid and dangerous things, but this was by far the worst - and something Noah wasn't sure he could fix. If Mordred had planned for this, there was no way the Filipino could divine what it was. He just had to act, and fast, or else his friend was lost.
"You know," he began, trying to sound cool and nonchalant. He succeeded, for the most part, to his pleasure, "Just because I work with the guy doesn't mean I wouldn't kill him if I could. So keep talking, and see what happens." The demon laughed back, a hideous and grating sound, and stepped forward until he was barely half an inch away from Noah. Mordred's shorter stature didn't make the demon any less terrifying. The Scot's grey eyes had gone black, from sclera to pupil, and were chilling to look into.
"You're a foul liar," purred the demon. Its breath smelled like sulfur, "But brave to try. We like that, so we'll give you a reward. Your friend asked for our name: it is Deumos." Noah didn't reply, for as Deumos spoke, Mordred's eyes flickered briefly back to their normal state: he was fighting. Deumos seemed to notice this as well, for a hand flew to Mordred's throat as the Scot's voice choked out: "The - bag - a gun -"
That was all Noah needed: he dove for Mordred's satchel and found the handgun after a moment's digging. Meanwhile, the demon and Mordred had begun their hideous struggle for control, while Noah could only watch and take aim.
"Leave the bag, idiot," snapped Mordred as the two shuffled awkwardly for the door. The Scot, bled white and shaking, was forced to lean on Noah for support, which made for slow (and noisy) going, "And the gun. What, do you want to be seen?" The Filipino rolled his eyes.
"I could leave you, y'know. Now shut the hell up and walk." The trek out to the car was arduous, but they eventually made it. With Noah in the driver's seat and Mordred lying in the backseat, they peeled out of the driveway and back to the apartment. As per usual, they lobbed casual insults back and forth the entire way, tacitly agreeing to speak nothing more of the incident in the house except that, when the time came to collect their payment, they would demand that their client pay their fee plus half again for their trouble.
"Fuck, let's just raise our prices. God knows we deserve it, with the shit we go through." Mordred snorted in response to this.
"An we willna git ocht haundlins. Things're scrimp sae it is. Daena be geenyoch."
"English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?" Noah snapped, though his annoyance was merely superficial and they both knew it.
"Whan A want, ay. Nou haud yer wheesht an hurl."
"Yeah, you make me want to hurl."