The Night Mare: The True Self Part 2
OOC: Reaction threads go in the comments to this entry! Please remember that your characters will have experienced these dreams as one long, continuous dream.
Dreams may contain adult material and scenes of violence! You have been warned!
You open your eyes, greeted by your room - not the one you have in Demeleier, that you share with a rabbit and an elf, but the one you grew up in, in a little hut in the middle of the forest. You're in your own bed, with your own things spread around you, your books and your clothes and your old stuffed animal that still sits on the dresser. And although you know you fell asleep in Demeleier, the change of scenery hasn't really fazed you. The bed is comfortable and the sun is shining in through the window.
You straighten, stretch, get out of bed. You didn't fall asleep in your day clothes, but you're wearing them anyway, and you go to open the door and begin your day....
You don't remember coming here, but again, you're not worried about it. Obviously you traveled here somehow, since you're here now. It doesn't really matter, right? The buildings are solid and somehow otherworldly. Almost like Shattrath - yes, you must be in Shattrath, that broken but beautiful city on another world, home to many races and peoples.
Some are crouching by a fire, talking and eating. They're orcs - a few children and a few adults, telling stories, enjoying each other's company, as the cook waves a spatula to encourage passerby to join.
But when you approach, the children stare up at your face, as though it puzzles them, and one of the adults spots you and looks faintly annoyed. The group goes quiet. A woman looks up at him, distressed, almost disgusted.
You've forgotten that you aren't like them. No, you're far too small and skinny for an orc, even a young one, and your face is wrong. No orc has the remnants of tendrils on their chin, or a forehead accented by ridged bumps. It's obvious that your blood is tainted by other races.
You move away.
If you are not accepted by the orcs, perhaps you have a place among the humans. It is true that no human could look like you - they aren't green, and their eyes don't glow, and they don't have little fangs in their mouths - but you've spent your life with a human caretaker, and you feel closest to their culture. You have lived in human territory your whole life. Many of your friends are human.
There is a tavern nearby, and a group playing cards. They are young, teenagers or just barely men, and playfully rowdy. The barkeep looks over at them, slightly annoyed by the ruckus. It reminds you of when your guardian would find you getting into some sort of mischief - something exasperated, but still fond, and very unsurprised by what's happened.
But when she turns to you, her grip tightens on the glass she's cleaning, and something in her eyes sparks, turns fiery and frightened and angry. On cue, the boys look over as well, and uncertainty creeps into their faces, laughter fades. One of them glances at the others, and at the sword by his side. Perhaps wondering if it will be needed.
The wounds of the wars between orcs and humans are still too fresh. Too many have lost their lives or their loved ones to those they consider primitive, barbaric, alien. Monsters who were led here by demons, who intruded on their world and had no right to settle there, even if they had nowhere else to go. And although you are more human than orc, some part of you is clearly orcish, and that is not accepted here.
You leave the tavern.
If there is no place for you among humans, perhaps you can find refuge with the draenei. The Holy Light accepts all, and the draenei are renowned for their connection to the Light. Although your own family was heavily abused by the demon-maddened orcs, your uncle has shown nothing but love for you and your halfbreed mother. Your face is clearly that of a draenei, if a rather unusually stunted one. If any know forgiveness, it is them.
There is a temple nearby, small and somewhat makeshift, because this is the Lower City, but homey and serene nonetheless. A priestess is sitting on the inner steps, leading a child in prayer. She is pure and lovely, and the boy in her lap looks up into her face with adoration.
But when the child notices you, his expression turns fearful. The priestess turns to see what is wrong, casts her gaze over your deformed face, and recoils. A smooth face interrupted by fright. You’re not a mind-reader, but you can imagine what is going through hers. ’What is this creature and what does it want?’ You are not clearly draenei; you are clearly a freak. There is no other person who looks like you do. Not even your mother’s face is so ambiguous.
You slink out the door.
What other place is there to go but home? Your family accepts you, even if no other group does. You know that it isn’t a solution to your problem. You can’t become a shut-in, a hermit who is seen only by the dwindling number of relatives he has. You just aren’t that sort of person. You want to be out there. You want to know people. You want to help people.
But for now, this is the only place you have, isn’t it?
Even though this is not the little house you woke up in.
It is both familiar and uncomfortable, and you aren’t aware of when your home changed from the little house to this much bigger house, but this is certainly where you are meant to be. You know the way to your father’s study, through the winding hallways and up many flights of stairs, across the grand library that could really use some tidying up, but your father is eccentric and would rather leave it to an apprentice or an assistant. Later you will recall that you have never been here before, and wonder how your mind formed this path.
But for now you are focused on finding a family member to be with, someone to share your solace with. Your father is in a large, comfortable chair, facing away from the door, his hands and sleeves visible on the arms, face in shadow. Again it is familiar and yet uncomfortable - you love your father (of course), but you haven’t spent much time with him. Still, family is family, and you don’t have much else, so you won’t shy away.
“Come closer, Med’an.”
Your father has often been called perceptive. He has not looked in your direction, and yet he has sensed your approach.
You obey, wishing to see his face, hoping that the recognition will help you feel more at ease. Yet he does not turn to you as you approach. He seems as still as a statue.
This is….not making you feel more at ease…
“Father?”
“Is something wrong, child? Come to me.”
Finally, there is movement, a hand turned and opened to receive your own. For some reason the space between the doorway and the chair is longer than it looks. But you feel encouraged nonetheless and you reach out for your father’s hand…
A low sound reaches your ears, but you are too shocked by the almost burning sensation in your arm to recognize it at first. His hand is warm - hot, far too hot for a human being. The sound….the sound is laughter, dark and menacing, not your father’s - you have never heard your father laugh before, but this is not -
He turns his face towards yours. Fire flickers around him, alights on his beard and spreads across his face, framing it in everlasting light. It pours from his eyes, pours from his hand to yours, too tightly grasped for you to get away.
No. This is not your father. This is not him -
“Give him back -“
The man who is not your father stands abruptly, pushing you backwards into a fall, still clenching your hand and burning with unholy fire, still laughing. “Give him back? Why would you want him? You never knew this man, little whelp. You never knew this husk that I used!”
You know what he is saying.
“No - ! It’s not true -“ this isn’t fair, you didn’t know him, and it was all because of this monster, this demon who took his body and his soul, whose disciples ruined the lives of your mother and grandmothers and guardian - “Give me my father back!”
His face is suddenly close as he lunges at you, still burning, still laughing. The voice is that of your father’s. The face is that of your father’s.
“Don’t you know, child? I am your father! Did you think that he had conveniently banished me while you were conceived? Did you think I wasn’t there, that I had no part in it?”
Medivh tugs on your arm and you tug back, because you’re nothing if not a fighter - you have to get away, because he’s wrong, and he’s still speaking -
“Did you think a mere mortal - even as powerful as this one - could overcome the Destroyer of Worlds?! Your family has been my doing - or did you forget how I was able to inhabit this body? Did you forget the corruptible minds of the orcs, the sway of Mannoroth’s blood? Even your pure, cowardly draenei - what are they but the brothers of my first and finest warriors? What do you think you are, child?”
He laughs, and laughs, and the fire spreads.
Med’an stands his ground outside of the Inn. Fear grips him in its talons, but he holds his ground as Rawhead and Bloodybones rises to his fully and terrible height.
The flayed faery smiles, its flesh splitting to show the teeth underneath, and shakes a long, wet finger at the young man.
“I want you to be good children.”
Growing up, he had lily soft hands.
Most boys spent their time outside playing contact sports or roughhousing in the dirt, but not him. He spent his days inside with his mom with a needle and thread and a whole slew of patterns.
By the age of five, he had mastered the overcast stitch, buttonhole stitch, even the blanket stitch. By six, he knew his way around even the most complicated sewing machine. By seven, he had perfect control over a pair of knitting needles and a spool of yarn. By eight, he had accepted the fact that he was good with his hands, and he was proud of it.
But boys were watching wrestling and playing in the mud and pretending to be Shounen Jump heroes. He preferred playing house and making stuffed animals.
He liked to keep to himself, even though most of the friends he made were girls, and most of the kids he could relate to were girls. But he was a guy. He couldn’t come to their sleepovers and he couldn’t “possibly understand” what they were talking about (though he did). Not even they knew the things he did when he was home with his mom after school.
He always carried a sewing kit on him. A little one that he could take anywhere, just in case he had to fix part of his uniform or he got a tear in his shirt. He would always do it in the bathroom at school, hiding in one of the stalls with the needle between his lips as he unraveled the thread. He didn’t want to make trouble, after all. Not for his mom…
But it had to come out eventually. No one could keep secrets forever, especially not him.
He was nine when it did. He had been sitting in the classroom at lunch, eating a bento that his mom helped him make. They had shaped the rice balls together to make them look like cats. He thought they were cute. She had even packed a box of animal crackers too, and he had been shifting through them when one of the girls in the classroom cried out, looking down at her skirt.
“I tore it,” she whined and the teacher sighed, reprimanding her for not being careful enough.
It was a clean tear. It would be an easy fix. Kanji watched them from his seat near the window and pushed his cracker box aside. The girl was crying as the teacher took her to get her into a pair of gym shorts. His shoulders slumped a bit and he looked around. No one seemed to be watching. They were too busy talking, comparing trading cards or giggling about cute boys and cartoons.
When the girl came back, she returned to her desk and wiped away her tears. Her fingers played with the tear on her skirt as she folded and unfolded it on her desk. He bit his lip, his hands closing around his sewing kit before he moved to sit next to her.
“Can I see it?”
She looked up, eyebrows drawing together. “What?”
“Can I see it? Your skirt.”
She frowned a bit and wiped at her eyes. “What? Are you gonna make fun of me too?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Just let me see it.”
She sighed as she slid it over and he picked it up. He spread it out on his desk and touched the tear. It was small, hardly noticeable with the pleats in the skirt. It would be an easy fix.
He opened his sewing kit up and took out a needle and unraveled enough thread to get the job done. His fingers worked the fabric as he moved the needle in and out of the fabric, pulling it back together. He tied it off and cut the string before handing it back to her with a smile.
“There, it’s fixed,” he said, and she turned the skirt over in her hands.
“You can sew?”
And he nodded with pride. It wasn’t so weird, was it? Especially when he did something so nice with it. But the girl frowned and put her skirt away. “Isn’t sewing for girls?”
His heart stopped. A few boys heard and looked over.
“Tatsumi can sew?”
“Wow, isn’t sewing for girls?”
He rushed to put his sewing kit back together but one of the boys grabbed it and held it up.
“Hey everyone, Tatsumi can sew!” he jeered. “Do you make little bears with this?”
“I bet he makes dresses that he wears at home!”
The kids started to laugh as the tossed the sewing kit around. “Hey, give it back!” he said, his lower lip quivering. His hands were shaking and his knees felt weak; he felt weak.
One of the boys laughed as they tossed the kit on the ground and stomped on it. “What’s the matter? Gonna go cry home to your mommy?”
He grabbed the broken remnants of his sewing kit and stuffed them in his bag. He wanted to cry. He tried so hard not to cry, but he couldn’t help. He cried all the way home to his mom.
She held him and told him it would be alright. That they just didn’t understand how beautiful his hobbies were. They didn’t understand how mature he was, and how he truly had a gift. He hugged her tight and cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, because deep down he knew she was right, but even deeper, he knew that the kids at school would never let it go.
Later that night, when his father returned, he looked down at his son, cheeks stained with his tears, eyes red from his sobbing, and sighed. “Be a real man, Kanji.”
And he would be.
Kanji reacts with swift moves. He slams the shield down on the Bogeyman’s face, but it only splits around the attack and grins up at him, the two halves of its mouth open to let out a sneering laugh.
“I only want to terrify you all!”
When he was four years old, he tripped on the playground and scraped his knee. Blood began to rise underneath the layer of skin and dirt; it wasn’t a lot, anyway, but just enough to scare him. It hurt, and he didn’t know what to do, so he cried like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
His dad came over and picked him up, carrying him off so he could wash it off with a little bit of water. “Gotta clean this up,” his told him as he wailed, tears ran down his dirt-covered cheeks. The other parents watched, talking amongst themselves in quiet whispers. His dad put a bandage on it. He didn’t kiss it better, he didn’t hold his son in his arms until he stopped crying. Instead, he set him down on the ground and kneeled so they were eye to eye and smiled.
“Why are you crying? It’s just a scrape.” And he looked up at his father and wiped his eyes. “Sometimes, Takeshi, when it hurts and we’re scared, we just have to grin and bear it.”
So when he fell, he would laugh. When he made mistakes, he would smile. And when he was scared - especially when he was scared - he would grin and bear it.
Even when he was being chased down by a baby with a gun; even when he helped his friends with their “training.” Because life was a game, and the “mafia” was no different. It was just one elaborate game of Cops and Robbers that they were probably too old to be playing in the first place.
That’s what he told himself anyway. It made it easier when he had a gun pointed in his face and bombs exploding at his feet. No one was getting hurt anyway. No one had died.
And then the dream was shattered.
“Hey, Yamamoto! Did you hear? Some punks are brawling just outside of school!”
And he smiled and laughed as he tied his shoes and grabbed his bag. Another fight? It was probably Gokudera. “Again?” Gokudera was too much. He was always on edge, always willing to pick a fight. He didn’t understand it when he was the type to turn the other cheek. He didn’t rile easily, but Gokudera did. It’s like he had something to prove.
But maybe he did understand…
He sighed as he walked toward where he heard Gokudera was. He thought he’d find him beating down a couple guys who said something against “the Tenth,” but he was dead wrong. Gokudera was the limp one this time, and whoever it was he had been fighting with was about to attack Tsuna too.
His instincts kicked in and he slid in, knocking Tsuna out of the way with a smile. “This is called sliding into base safe!” He laughed and grinned like it would be okay; like his friend wasn’t practically dead at his feet. His expression changed when he saw him. The smile slipped, the mask faded, and he frowned.
And Gokudera called him the idiot…
He looked up at their attacker and felt his eyebrows draw close together. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, and then he felt it. That flash of anger boiling up in the pit of his stomach, and a single thought at the front of his mind. ‘I’ll kill him.’
His sword was at the ready. It always was, even if he never admitted it, and he was always ready to pull it out and use it. He never had, up until that point, but there he was, ready to run someone through with it. His face was a billboard displaying the controlled rage inside of him, and the words of Reborn echoed in the back of his mind: Natural Born Killer.
But their assailant stood down and walked away, his arms dropped to his sides and his shoulders sagged with the weight of what he had been feeling. A new feeling, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and disappointment.
He dropped down to his knees and looked down at Gokudera, limp at his feet. His hands were at his shoulders, shaking him slightly. He was still breathing thankfully, but a numb feeling washed over him as he felt his steady world shake in the slightest.
Tsuna looked up at him, panicked. “Yamamoto, is he going to be alright?”
And Yamamoto looked back at Tsuna and smiled, without a hesitation. What else could he do but grin and bear it.
“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine.”
The Cat Sidhe twines around Yamamoto’s legs and meows brightly. She bumps her head against his hand and pads along, looking over her shoulder every few moments to make sure he follows her.
“I want you to look for different things.”
Your naked feet, pitter patter, slap on a cool surface in a room so white it blinds you. On either side of you, assembly lines mass produce blond children. Their empty, glass eyes bore into you accusingly as they are transported away on conveyor belts. Fear strikes a chord in your heartstrings; you begin to gather up miscellaneous parts of the children in a futile attempt to save these lifeless dolls, but you’re too small. Heads and limbs and torsos tumble out of your arms to the ground, to be seized by mechanical claws that swiftly return them to the assembly line. Trembling, you draw away as hands seem to reach out to you, as unmoving lips seem to cry out for you, and you hear your name whispered from a hundred silent voices. Variant, they murmur coldly. The word drags hooks through your skin and you flinch. Your manufactured brothers might as well have called you monster.
Ahead, a dark haired child - oh, how your chest rattles with a desperate, rasping breath when you recognize him - is selected by a mechanical claw and snatched up from a conveyor belt. Choking, you break out into a run, screaming for the boy, but you’re too small. The automated claw does not notice you, nor would it have behaved any differently had it; the dark haired variant is disposed of and the assembly lines continue their horrific task.
You fall to your knees and stare at the floor. Fat, childish tears break on your splayed hands. An overwhelming sense of loneliness accosts you as the children are put together, as they hiss and accuse and condemn you - you can feel them clawing at your mind, trying to pierce your shields. You are so alone, so afraid.
Exhaling shakily, you bring your right hand to your warm, bare chest and pause before plunging it inside. Blood bubbles past your fingertips as they sink into flesh, into tissue, into muscle, and deeper. Fluttering wildly, your heart quivers at your touch and, grasping it tightly, you sever off half of it with your nails. Withdrawing your hand, you study the gasping organ and stand, fighting off waves off nausea and dizziness. You stumble to a conveyor belt and simply wait, dread and despair and death suffocating you. The room grows darker. You are losing consciousness. Still, you wait.
You feel him before you see him. Just like that, the loneliness and fear and mortality seem to ebb away as he is carried toward you down the assembly line, parts screwed together with care by the claws. You will have to be quick; once he is completed, once they spot the shock of white hair, the overly bright purple eyes - they will try to steal him from you, try to dispose of this variant. Weak now, you struggle to pull yourself onto the conveyor belt as he drifts by, if you were only bigger, if you were only stronger, this body of yours does not match what is inside this heart, and, straddling your albino brother, you take that half of your heart and force it into his chest, force life and breath and being into him, and when he stirs and awareness twists his brow, your bodies converge until you are one.
Standing on the conveyor belt, you let his presence drown out everything until there is only room for self-acceptance, and you are growing, growing, growing, no longer so small, no longer so dependent and weak and frail. Red light bursts from your chest, a man’s chest - full and muscular and defined - and empowered by your rebirth, your reunion, your brother, you destroy the assembly lines.
Puck dances around Jr, juggling his harmonica and his crystal shard. He’s a child, then he’s a man, then he’s a child again, and he laughs and laughs as he performs.
“I want to see you see me!”
[ if you're watching the dream of this nine year old girl, you'll find yourself in the parlor of a grand mansion. this is the Ushiromiya mansion, on the remote island of Rokkenjima.
inside of said parlor, all 18 people on the island are present: 12 family members and 6 servants. they've all been discussing something quietly, a letter they found. Maria's off to the side, eating a candy that was given to her by Hideyoshi earlier. it's only after she hears parts of the conversation that she starts to listen. ]
Who could have sent this?
Was it one of us?
Someone, just fess up!
[ but Maria knew who it was. so she speaks up. ]
Uu-! It was Beatrice! She put it here using magic!
[ everyone in the parlor went silent for a moment. but after that silence, there was laughter from everyone in the room directed at Maria. ]
Magic? That's ridiculous!
Stop living in a fantasy world!
Magic doesn't exist, don't kid yourself! Grow up, Maria!
[ as she listened to the jeers, Maria's happy smile turned into a frown of despair. even Kinzo, the one family member who she knew loved Beatrice and her magic, wasn't defending her. he just stayed silent. why? magic existed, and she'd prove it to them all!
with her head tilted down for a moment, you can see a few tears escaping from her eyes. she drops the candy piece balled up in her fist to the floor, there was no time for sweet and happy things now.
she looks up and sets her glare to Kinzo. in that moment, a red stain appeared on his suit as he fell to the ground. once he hit the wood, a pool of blood began to set around him ]
No one believes in magic? That's too bad. Maria will have to show everyone that magic exists, then. One by one!
[ she begins to cackle and giggle as a swarm of golden butterflies surround her like a veil. as they clear, she's donned new clothing; her Witch of Origins dress and staff. with a wave of this staff. the neck of Doctor Nanjo was sliced open by some invisible force. Like a robot, Maria doesn't stop her magic there.
Gohda's arms being chopped off.
Kumasawa being stretched like taffy.
Shannon's face being ripped off.
Kanon's abdomen being crushed to a pulp.
Genji's head being crashed against a wall numerous times.
and those were just the servants. there was no stopping Maria now; this was the last time she would be underestimated as a witch, abused, and not taken seriously. as she noticed Jessica and her parents trying to escape, a wave of her staff locked all exits. now there was nothing that could interfere with her revenge.
still watching? then you'll see her killing each of the remaining people in the household, whether it be physically with her staff, or in some magical way. when she's through, she's left only one member left. Battler.
he's the one that never believed in magic. he didn't believe in Beato at all, and rejected her with every fiber of his being. if he denied magic, he denied Maria, right? he had to die! she giggles again, and raises her staff. ]
Does Battler onii-chan believe yet? Look! Everyone is dead, because of magic! Maria killed everyone with the magic Beato taught her! See?! Now it's time for Battler to repent...-
[ wait.
he was Ange's big brother. Ange loved him a lot, and Maria loved Ange. Ange believed in magic and was a witch, just like her. if Maria killed Battler... Ange wouldn't like her anymore. that couldn't happen.
so she drops the staff, and it falls to the ground with a clang. the figure that appeared to be Battler disappeared, and so did the room and corpses. she's surrounded by pitch blackness now, a sea of zero. she clenches her eyes shut, but it's no use. she begins to cry.
what has she done? ]
An old woman sits beside a fire. She pushes a needle through something heavier than cloth but lighter than leather. The wind howls through the trees around her, but aside from that and the snap of the fire, there is no other sound.
She pulls a last stitch and flourishes her work.
Maria’s empty skin, stitched intact, flutters from her outstretched hands.
Black Annis grins, and her eye glints in the gloom.
“I want your blood, your sweat, and your tears.”
The water is bitter, dead cold. You wade through, your eyes on the rocky island barely visible in the gloom. You should have taken your armour off, you think, as the chill spreads up your legs, over your hips. One sudden change in current and you could be cast into the waters of the Elrendar. You wouldn't be the first of your kin to be swept beneath the depths of the water, you know - but then, to many, a grave of silt and weeds had seemed like salvation compared to an unmaking at the hands of the Scourge.
You can see the nerubians, giant, arachnid creatures with many beady eyes encircling their heads like ancient crowns. Your hands tighten on the longsword you hold aloft, out of the water's reach as it ripples around your waist.
Using the blade is getting easier with every strike. To think, not long ago you were the greenest of girls, with little experience holding a knife, let alone a claymore. Now, the nerubians lie twitching at your feet and you feel no fear, only the thrum of adrenaline and the sweet taste of vindication.
You're not here on this dark little island for the Scourge, anyway. You're here for one of your first tests, and you waste no time in seeking out the dank crevasse in the rock, the cave you were instructed to find.
As expected, an unlit brazier sits in the murk. Meditate, you were told, meditate on your choice. Kneeling in mail armour isn't the most pleasant sensation, but you have endured greater pain than that, so you kneel by the brazier to light it. The flame seems wan somehow, but then, all light seems scarce and frightened in the Ghostlands.
"Defend yourself, youngling! We'll see if there's a Blood Knight in you yet!"
And then there's a blade swinging at you with force enough to cut you near in half. It's pure luck that has you sprawling out of the way, scrabbling to your feet and snatching up your sword. Your assailant is bedecked in the black, red, and gold of the order - he is older than you, broad and strong and quick, and as you block, parry, and dodge his attacks he leaves you no time to question, to demand an explanation.
He is trying to kill you and so you do as he said, and defend yourself. Survivalism kicks in with a considerable force, a voice screaming not yet not yet not yet! in the back of your head as you stop focusing on defence in order to press the attack, throwing yourself forwards with all the force you can muster. If it's kill or be killed, you're not going to be the loser. You're not going to be anyone's victim. Not here. Not now. (Not ever.)
He's better than you, more experienced. But your sudden onslaught catches him off guard and it's the opening you needed - his armour is weak between shoulder and neck and that's where you bring your sword down, all your strength, all the power you can muster jumping from shoulder to blade.
And then, as sudden as it started, it's over.You have given them gold, and runecloth; sungrass and arcanium; diamonds that gleam white and black. You have fought back the Scourge in the Plaguelands, defended your people, travelled the faces of the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor both. And now all you need to do... is put out a fire. "Keep this up, Aureln, and we may well be honouring another champion. 'Lady Dawnstrike', how does that please you?"
The tabard he holds out to you is the finest you've ever seen - jet black silk chased in crimson, the phoenix wings unfurling across the brest, embroidered in blood. Your fingers trace it and your heart hammers in your chest to think that you could wear this as the Masters do - that you could come so far, be so venerated. Your breath feels light and shaky.
You cannot keep yourself from smiling. The silk beneath your fingers feels like solace.
"Yes," you say, your voice soft and reverant and oh-so-self-assured. "Yes, that would please me very much."
His blood spreads quickly and the further it seeps across the dirt towards your feet, the deeper realization sinks in. You haven't killed - you've slain Scourge, you've cut down Wretched, beasts, but - you've never killed one of your own. The Blood Elves, you're named now, the all but dead vestiges of the Quel'dorei... And you've killed one of your own.
You should bury him, at least. Bury him and give him some kind of rest.
But being with the body is making you sick to the heart, and the bile is rising in your throat as you lean over to close his eyes, to lay his sword across his chest. You move as if in a dream, and by the time you come to, you are shivering and fighting off tears, and you have fled that place.
You never go back there.
Three days later, in summer-lit Silvermoon, you redeem the fallen soldier. When he's up and breathing again, he informs you all, nonchalant and back to business, that he won't be part of these tests any more. He doesn't thank you for the resurrection, nor comment on his murder. He leaves you there, numb and cold in the warm inn.You stand at the crackling fire, the vial ready in your hands. Only by extinguishing this sacred flame will you earn your dues - only by proving yourself to be a true master of the Light.
And you -
-- can't do it.
And now you are an Initiate of the order. A fledgling Blood Knight. And it's all you've ever wanted.
Aureln wipes the blood from her face and leaves the white serpent decapitated at her feet. The sound of her booted feet fades into the distance, and gradually vanished.
And when it does, the body of the snake re-attaches to the head. Its three-forked tongue flickers in and out, in and out, and it slowly begins to slither after her. Its voice is soft and sibilant, and perhaps almost swallowed in the low movement of the sea.
“I want to protect what is important.”
Without the laughing and the voices of those family members you used to love so much the mansion feels intimidating, empty, much too big for just you alone to wander around in. The sound of your hurried footsteps echoing back in your ears only reinstates the feeling of fear, the feeling that things shouldn't be this way - it's wrong, so wrong - and you only hurry more down the empty hallways.
Every time you come across a corpse - that strict aunt who always somehow seemed a bit lonely, the cook who had always seemed a bit scary to you since he was so huge and you were just a little girl back then, that older cousin who was always so nice and calm and kept everyone together - you are fairly sure your heart skips a few beats. But you don't have time to stand still and mourn or even think about it, because you have to hurry up. You haven't found your parents yet or even your older brother, and as long as they don't turn up as corpses there's the chance they are still walking around in the mansion, just as lost as you are.
When you come to the door that leads out to the front steps of the mansion there's a slight moment of hesitation, but you open them regardless.
You wish you hadn't.
Even though you pull the door closed again as soon as you opened it just now, the image is already burned on the back of your eyelids. You almost have to tell yourself to keep breathing even with the shock, and you feel your lungs filling themselves with oxygen again, a slow and shuddering breath. You try to push the image out of your mind, because it's not real, it's fake, a lie, just something more to torture you--
"What..? Aren't you grateful?"
The blue haired witch lands just in front of you, her face twisted into a cruel grin, her scythe in her hands. And you just wish she'd go away, stop talking, so she can stop unlocking the doors of your mind to the images again. But she doesn't go away, no matter how much you push your hands to your ears you can't block out her words.
"I promised you, right? To show you the truth."
- a man in a perfectly neat blue business suit now tarnished by the red blood all over it with a grin and a blazing gun lowered over the corpse of a blonde girl her fist with brass knuckles on it lying motionlessly on the dirt -
"And so I did. So you should at least feel some gratitude to me."
- a woman with a perfectly calm smile on her face covered with blood splatters quietly sliding the knife in her hands completely through a little girl's throat her pink frilled purse lying abandoned on the ground -
"After all.. finally you were able to witness their true nature. The truth I promised."
You finally find some last strength in yourself to tear your feet away from the spot you were rooted on in shock, dodging the witch and further running down another corridor.
It's a lie, all of it is a lie, you refuse to believe a truth like that, it's just another cruel joke the witch made up, you know you just have to run down this corridor and find your older brother somewhere in this mansion and he will turn to you and show his usual smile and tell you that everything will be okay, that he won't let the witch's lie hurt you any longer.
And so you feel a near smile out of relief appear on your face when you run into the parlor and find the sight you've been looking for. The back of a white suit combined with red hair. A symbol of reassurance, that everything will be okay now--
Then he turns to you and his white suit turns out to be even more soaked in red than the other man's and his face is near-deformed into a cruel grin, not anything like the expression you're used to. And then your eyes travel down, from his bloody hands to the tiny figure lying on the couch, sliced and cut up and nearly unrecognizable if it wasn't for the short red hair with two tiny pink bubble hair decorations sticking out.
"Ah.. Ange. You sure are late."
You scream, but there's no sound.
The Fachan stops Ange as she walks down the path. He does not raise his club to her, only his single arm hand held with the palm outwards. She tries to walk around him, but he is always before her, blocking that part of the path and guarding what is beyond.
He shakes his head.
“I want you to make me laugh again.”
The ocean was always her favorite place. The way the water felt in her hair, the way the waves just calmed her no matter what. Feferi didn't want more then this, and she knew this. Humming to herself, she swam with her little cuttlefish friends, listening to them hum with her. Sitting down on a stone, she looked to the top of the ocean, watching the threads of light wiggle about the surface.
“I wonder what it's like up there though, on the land, and what kind of trolls are there.” She said, humming still, as one of the cuttlefish came up to her and looked a little angry.
“Feferi, listen to me, the land world? It's a mess! Life under the sea is better then anything they got up there.”
Feferi noticed that they all started to sing and she glanced around with a big smile, clapping along with the music and listening to the song about living under the sea, forgetting all about the land and enjoying the safety of the waves.
Feferi giggles and swims through the loch, her lithe form cutting through the water with ease and precision. She barrels through waterweeds as she tumbles forwards, and when she bursts out of the other side, she comes face to face with a Fideal.
The faery smiles at her and reaches her hand out take hers. She hums low in her throat, a soft, enchanting little melody, and draws the troll princess into her watery embrace.
“I only want you to stay with me forever…”
You're drowning.
You're not sure how it came to be. Not exactly, anyway. But you've fallen off a ship and now you're in a thick, murky ocean, drowning. You don't struggle. You don't desperately try to swim for the surface. Something's paralyzed you, be it some denizen of the deep, fear, exhaustion, or something else. You simply don't move, and that's that.
Somehow, you can hear what's going on above. Someone's calling your name. You know they're desperately searching for you. How your vision is so terrible but your hearing is so excellent is not only beyond your knowledge, but also out of bounds of your interest. You hear them, and that's that.
You sink farther and farther. The water gets darker and darker. Eventually, the faint outline of a ship sitting in the water moves on, leaving you behind. They've ceased their search. You're on your own.
Alone.
Lost.
Afraid.
"All of this is all your fault."
The water turns red. You don't know when or how it happened, but it did, without your noticing. It becomes thicker, more syrupy, to move around in, and you sink slower. You begin to hear a voice. No, more than one...many voices. But somehow, it's all the same person. It's still too fuzzy to make out. Something grabs your arm but you can't see it. A shiver of fear crawls up your spine.
"All of this is all your fault."
The voices become clear. They're all accusations, taunts and jeers. How they're so clear in this thick read water, you aren't sure, but it's as though you're hearing them on the wind. Even stranger is that all of the voices are the same tone, same pitch...same person. A woman. Someone you recognize, somehow. She's simply familiar...
"All of this is all your fault."
Whatever's grabbed you begins to drag you under. It has claws. They dig into your skin and hisses as though it were boiling. It stings, but you can't see the drawn blood through the thick, murky red water.
Only now is it dawning on you that it's not water.
"All of this is all your fault."
"All of this is all your fault."
"All of this is all your fault!!!"
You struggle, but the claws drag you deeper. And then, silence. Everything turns black. First your own arm, your body, the claws that drag you down, and then the water becomes so thick that you can't see anything. It turns black, too. You thrash about blindly, reaching for the surface.
And then you breathe.
Urisk sits beside Qultada. The ugly fae hands him a large towel to dry himself off and stokes the fire with his other hand. He heaves a sigh and looks up to the stars.
“I want to help you all.”
You walk down the electronics section of the superstore. No one comes up here. You’re perfectly alone as you walk between the screens that tower and curve around you. The negative space between them is branded black and red. The bands throb and shrivel slowly in a nauseating pattern that escapes your immediate notice, but settles behind your eyes and grinds into your skull nonetheless.
Slowly, one by one, the televisions flicker on. There’s a low whine as they slide in an out of tune. It rises to a high screech on some screens, and they blaze bright with that black-white fuzz that you used to tell your mom was the bee channel. Hey mom, the TV is showing bees again but I want to watch Featherman R -
Your footsteps echo on the tiles. You’re actually wearing converse all-stars and they really should be squeaking on the tiles. Your dad always got on at you for that at work. But that doesn’t matter now, because the floor is black unless the glare of the TV screens light it up, and then it’s the same grinding red and black bands as the negative space.
One, two, three, four, five steps. There’s a fizz and a pop, and then a TV screen flickers to life. It shows your face. You’re grinning. But it’s not the grin you usually have - the one you’re slightly embarrassed by, because it’s so big and dorky and dumb - it’s weird. It’s a sick, twisted sort of thing, crawling up one side of your face with the lips twisted over the teeth in a sneer. Your eyes flash yellow, and there’s pure, lazy hate in that gaze.
You square your shoulders and walk by the screen, but that doesn’t help. The other screens flicker to life, showing your face. Some of the screens spool and flicker, having the image relay in a nauseating pattern. Some are black and white. Some are full colour. Some are HD.
But all of them show that same, smirking face.
All of them show the face you’re trying to hide.
And then you come to that TV, the only one that really matters, and you can’t ignore the face anymore. It’s larger than life. That grin is the size of your forearm, and you can see the points of your canines on the high-def screen.
“Soooooo!”
The camera zooms out and your Shadow grins at you, raising his arm over his head and pulling it at the elbow with the other. One eye closes in a wink as he jovially joshes you.
“Yosuke Hanamura.” He tastes the name with relish, “Man. Could you imagine a string of syllables that sound more fucking pathetic together?”
“Shut up.” Your voice is flat and level, betraying no emotion. But your heart hammers in your throat and your breath hitches painfully in your chest. The Shadow knows. You know he knows because I am thou and thou are m - because of the way his eyes lazily flick over you. It’s lazy, but you can feel the weight of the disgust in that gaze.
Because it’s still a struggle some days not to do the same whenever you catch a glimpse of your reflection.
“Man. Out of one shithole and into another, huh, Yosuke? Man. I sure am a winner, ain’t I? I just have the worst luck, because I keep winding up in these places and just fucking up again and again, don’t I?”
“Shut up, shut up…”
“Maybe it’s the surroundings that just get to me, huh? I mean, it can’t just be that I’m a useless little shit who never does anything right, huh? Nope! It’s gotta be something else, huh?”
“Shut up shut up shut up…”
“I mean!” The Shadow holds up his iPod, but it’s not an iPod because it’s Demeleier’s communicator. He flicks his finger down the names like a lead guitarist strumming his plectrum across the strings in an opening note. They flash by so fast - Aureln - Souji - Med’an - Nanako - Schneizel - Kanji -Adachi - Guilford - Garnath - Teddie - Saki - but each is burned into your retina regardless. The Shadow whistles.
“Hooo boy! That’s a lot of names you’re fucking up for! Man! Aureln - well, shit, maybe if you weren’t in a land of fairies you could man-up more and be someone she’d be interested in, huh?”
“Shut up!”
“Souji? Man! Haha! When’s the last time Souji took a ten minute break to talk to you?”
“Shut up!”
“Med’an? ‘Oooh, ooh Yosuke, you’re so into girls, Yosuke, you’re such a bro, Yosuke’ - man, how would he feel if he knew what a little fa -”
“Shut up!“
“Nanako? ‘Fun parent?’ Man, don’t make me laugh… And Schneizel! Schneizel! Dude, that asshole is gone! He’s won’t think about you for a single fucking moment! Kanji hates you, Adachi looks down his nose at you, Guilford thinks you ain’t worth shit, Garnath thinks you’re a dumbass, Teddie only hangs out with you because that stunted little half-man ain’t got no one else. And Saki?”
Your head snaps up. “Don’t you dare -!!“
And your Shadow just laughs - he laughs and laughs and laughs and you slam your fists into the TV screen. It ripples around you, cool and water-like, and you hiss at that sick little part of yourself -
“I know, I know, I know! I know I worry about all that! You - you’re not saying anything new here! Shut up!”
There’s a mild cough behind you.
You turn.
It’s your classroom.
Everyone’s looking at you curiously. Souji looks worried. Kanji looks confused. Saki looks withering. Teddie looks hurt. Nanako gives you a weak smile. Aureln’s eyebrow is raised appraisingly. Med’an isn’t meeting your eye. Garnath is looking at your levelly, and the same intensity of that gaze from Guilford makes you shrivel. It’s almost worse than the sneer from Adachi.
And from the teacher’s lecturn, Schneizel smiles at you.
“Something you want to share with the class, Mr Hanamura?”
Yosuke looks at you with dead, unfeeling eyes. The Lob behind him tightens its grip around his neck, sucking out what emotion creeps through the teen. It has no mouth. It cannot smile. It cannot look satisfied. It cannot speak.
Yet, nonetheless…
“I want to eat everything you are.”
It's only a little while after she first starts working in the village that he walks into the clinic one afternoon, somewhat fumbling and awkward, and hands her a bouquet of morning glories. Still somewhat awkwardly - or perhaps nervously - he tells her that it's a way of thanking her for her hard work. She just lets out a high teasing giggle in response, remarking that he got the flower symbolism quite wrong, and he just awkwardly rubs the back of his head in response. He quickly tries to backpedal and leave the room again quickly, but she smiles slyly and tells him she's looking forward to seeing him again soon.
It isn't until a few years later that they watch the villagers preparing the local festival - he under the guise of making pictures for a magazine of sorts, she just because she's on lunch break and tagging along - that he hands her a red rose once the group of people building up stalls has dispersed for the night and (still somewhat fumbling, constantly that awkward sort of behavior and talk when it came down to this) asks her if he got it right this time. She thinks that perhaps the best part about it is his clueless nervous expression when she just bursts out into a fit of giggles as her reaction.
And a few weeks later, during his funeral, she leaves cercis siliquastrum and vitex agnus-castus flowers on his grave and mumbles to herself how she guesses that she just had to be the one to get it right.
And a monster stand behind Takano. Black blood runs in open, seeping veins which criss-cross a network of bloody flesh and cracking sinew. Bone juts out sharply from angles it shouldn’t, and the mouth opens wide, wide, wide.
“I want to destroy you.“
It's dark, and Tsuna recognizes the atmosphere. It's just like that time he went through the Vongola trial, with the pressure on his lungs and inability to breathe. He tried to switch to his dying will mode, tried to get out of pressure, but it wasn't working. Tsuna couldn't feel the warmth of his body when he usually went into that mode, and it was frustrating. Looking up, he could see his friends, his guardians, in front of him. Gokudera was the one who spoke first. His voice was cold, angered by Tsuna's pitiful state.
“You're nothing, Sawada. You've sunk this low and think you can be a boss? You're so weak, I'm tired of following you and your fucking uselessness.” He said, Yamamoto nodding beside him.
“Tsuna, you're just going to bring us all down, so what's the point. We're obviously far more strong then you are, plus you don't even want to be boss, do you?”
Tsuna knew his decision was going to effect all of them, and possibly have this out come.
“Why would anyone want to be friends with you now? You don't care about all the things we've gone through.” Gokudera spat, walking up to Tsuna and kicking him in the stomach. He coughed, feeling his whole body ache with pain, especially that in his chest.
“I...I do care! I don't...I don't want to put you in danger!!!” Tsuna yelled, noticing them getting farther away. They kept going, and Tsuna couldn't get up, couldn't stop them, and more over, he couldn't stop himself from slipping out of consciousness.
The Bean Sidhe reaches her trembling hand out to touch Tsuna‘s shoulder. She presses her lips together to stop herself from sobbing, but the tears run freely down her face and she cannot supress her shivering.
She crumples, fisting her hands in his shirt and convulsing with soul shattering sobs.
“I want to warn you!”
Light seems to erupt from every little thing, completely submerging you and the man with white hair - as white as snow - in a complete white up to a point where you can't discern the point somewhere around your touching hands where you end and he starts anymore. You can vaguely see the man opening his mouth and saying something, but his words are lost in the sheer massive spectacle of the light that surrounds you.
And then the images start flowing back into your mind, one by one, as if it's natural for them to be there. As if it's where they belonged all along.
A girl, her hair and dress a beautiful silver just like the man's (it isn't until now that you recall it isn't white as snow at all, but silver like the beautiful moon hanging in the sky), turns around when you arrive in the room. A smile, bright and honest, immediately breaks out on her face - it's always been you, Venus - and she stretches out her arm to wave enthusiastically.
The same girl as just now appears, this time with a cape wrapped around her mysteriously as if she's trying to sneak away from the palace like a thief in the night. The moment you touch her shoulder she turns to you once again, although this time the expression on her face is a look of surprise rather than that bright smile. But a moment later her facial muscles relax and instead she manages to work up a very inelegant and not even remotely royal pout to show to you. Under protests of 'it isn't like you'd understand' you work her back into the palace, but even so you can't help but remember that tiny happy and amused smile on your face at that moment.
Girls are gleefully talking to each other, discussing one thing or another - interplanetary politics, the princess' last attempt at sneaking off, which boys at the court they would consider cute; it's all brought up just as easily as the topic is changed again in the discussion. When the girl with the long raven black hair scolds the princess for being behind on her studies yet again, with the blue haired girl franctically trying to apologize in the princess' place and saying she isn't that behind at all and they'll just work harder tomorrow and the princess herself just throwing up her hands and pouting and saying it isn't fair, you feel the brunette next to you nudge your side and you giggle together.
The only time you can actually recall tears is the memory of standing in the middle of a broken city, people from the Earth and Moon Kingdom alike fighting each other all around, when the long haired male plunges a sword into your gut and you fall. Tears of betrayal, tears of pain, tears of fear and hope for the safety of that one person who is most important to you, because nothing matters anymore the moment that light would disappear from your life.
When the images fade with the light and the sound returns, you finally hear the man with the short white hair's (not white as snow, not even quite like the moon, but like the light from the planet Venus) words.
And you smile again.
"... Yes. I remember."
The Night Mare stamps her foot again and whinnies gently. She nuzzles at Minako‘s sleeping face and turns to canter back into the sky.
“I want to show you what needs to be seen.”
And as her hooves trail glittering stardust in their wake, she passes over the Temple and dives inside. Her feet kick up blue-white fire as she comes to a stop at the Inner Sanctum.
The Queen of the Fae stands there, huge and wild and beautiful. She reaches into the Guardian‘s chest and closes her hand around the crystal that is frozen to his flesh.
Her eyes meet yours, and with a smile like a knife‘s edge, she speaks.
“I want your heart.”
Dreams may contain adult material and scenes of violence! You have been warned!
You open your eyes, greeted by your room - not the one you have in Demeleier, that you share with a rabbit and an elf, but the one you grew up in, in a little hut in the middle of the forest. You're in your own bed, with your own things spread around you, your books and your clothes and your old stuffed animal that still sits on the dresser. And although you know you fell asleep in Demeleier, the change of scenery hasn't really fazed you. The bed is comfortable and the sun is shining in through the window.
You straighten, stretch, get out of bed. You didn't fall asleep in your day clothes, but you're wearing them anyway, and you go to open the door and begin your day....
You don't remember coming here, but again, you're not worried about it. Obviously you traveled here somehow, since you're here now. It doesn't really matter, right? The buildings are solid and somehow otherworldly. Almost like Shattrath - yes, you must be in Shattrath, that broken but beautiful city on another world, home to many races and peoples.
Some are crouching by a fire, talking and eating. They're orcs - a few children and a few adults, telling stories, enjoying each other's company, as the cook waves a spatula to encourage passerby to join.
But when you approach, the children stare up at your face, as though it puzzles them, and one of the adults spots you and looks faintly annoyed. The group goes quiet. A woman looks up at him, distressed, almost disgusted.
You've forgotten that you aren't like them. No, you're far too small and skinny for an orc, even a young one, and your face is wrong. No orc has the remnants of tendrils on their chin, or a forehead accented by ridged bumps. It's obvious that your blood is tainted by other races.
You move away.
If you are not accepted by the orcs, perhaps you have a place among the humans. It is true that no human could look like you - they aren't green, and their eyes don't glow, and they don't have little fangs in their mouths - but you've spent your life with a human caretaker, and you feel closest to their culture. You have lived in human territory your whole life. Many of your friends are human.
There is a tavern nearby, and a group playing cards. They are young, teenagers or just barely men, and playfully rowdy. The barkeep looks over at them, slightly annoyed by the ruckus. It reminds you of when your guardian would find you getting into some sort of mischief - something exasperated, but still fond, and very unsurprised by what's happened.
But when she turns to you, her grip tightens on the glass she's cleaning, and something in her eyes sparks, turns fiery and frightened and angry. On cue, the boys look over as well, and uncertainty creeps into their faces, laughter fades. One of them glances at the others, and at the sword by his side. Perhaps wondering if it will be needed.
The wounds of the wars between orcs and humans are still too fresh. Too many have lost their lives or their loved ones to those they consider primitive, barbaric, alien. Monsters who were led here by demons, who intruded on their world and had no right to settle there, even if they had nowhere else to go. And although you are more human than orc, some part of you is clearly orcish, and that is not accepted here.
You leave the tavern.
If there is no place for you among humans, perhaps you can find refuge with the draenei. The Holy Light accepts all, and the draenei are renowned for their connection to the Light. Although your own family was heavily abused by the demon-maddened orcs, your uncle has shown nothing but love for you and your halfbreed mother. Your face is clearly that of a draenei, if a rather unusually stunted one. If any know forgiveness, it is them.
There is a temple nearby, small and somewhat makeshift, because this is the Lower City, but homey and serene nonetheless. A priestess is sitting on the inner steps, leading a child in prayer. She is pure and lovely, and the boy in her lap looks up into her face with adoration.
But when the child notices you, his expression turns fearful. The priestess turns to see what is wrong, casts her gaze over your deformed face, and recoils. A smooth face interrupted by fright. You’re not a mind-reader, but you can imagine what is going through hers. ’What is this creature and what does it want?’ You are not clearly draenei; you are clearly a freak. There is no other person who looks like you do. Not even your mother’s face is so ambiguous.
You slink out the door.
What other place is there to go but home? Your family accepts you, even if no other group does. You know that it isn’t a solution to your problem. You can’t become a shut-in, a hermit who is seen only by the dwindling number of relatives he has. You just aren’t that sort of person. You want to be out there. You want to know people. You want to help people.
But for now, this is the only place you have, isn’t it?
Even though this is not the little house you woke up in.
It is both familiar and uncomfortable, and you aren’t aware of when your home changed from the little house to this much bigger house, but this is certainly where you are meant to be. You know the way to your father’s study, through the winding hallways and up many flights of stairs, across the grand library that could really use some tidying up, but your father is eccentric and would rather leave it to an apprentice or an assistant. Later you will recall that you have never been here before, and wonder how your mind formed this path.
But for now you are focused on finding a family member to be with, someone to share your solace with. Your father is in a large, comfortable chair, facing away from the door, his hands and sleeves visible on the arms, face in shadow. Again it is familiar and yet uncomfortable - you love your father (of course), but you haven’t spent much time with him. Still, family is family, and you don’t have much else, so you won’t shy away.
“Come closer, Med’an.”
Your father has often been called perceptive. He has not looked in your direction, and yet he has sensed your approach.
You obey, wishing to see his face, hoping that the recognition will help you feel more at ease. Yet he does not turn to you as you approach. He seems as still as a statue.
This is….not making you feel more at ease…
“Father?”
“Is something wrong, child? Come to me.”
Finally, there is movement, a hand turned and opened to receive your own. For some reason the space between the doorway and the chair is longer than it looks. But you feel encouraged nonetheless and you reach out for your father’s hand…
A low sound reaches your ears, but you are too shocked by the almost burning sensation in your arm to recognize it at first. His hand is warm - hot, far too hot for a human being. The sound….the sound is laughter, dark and menacing, not your father’s - you have never heard your father laugh before, but this is not -
He turns his face towards yours. Fire flickers around him, alights on his beard and spreads across his face, framing it in everlasting light. It pours from his eyes, pours from his hand to yours, too tightly grasped for you to get away.
No. This is not your father. This is not him -
“Give him back -“
The man who is not your father stands abruptly, pushing you backwards into a fall, still clenching your hand and burning with unholy fire, still laughing. “Give him back? Why would you want him? You never knew this man, little whelp. You never knew this husk that I used!”
You know what he is saying.
“No - ! It’s not true -“ this isn’t fair, you didn’t know him, and it was all because of this monster, this demon who took his body and his soul, whose disciples ruined the lives of your mother and grandmothers and guardian - “Give me my father back!”
His face is suddenly close as he lunges at you, still burning, still laughing. The voice is that of your father’s. The face is that of your father’s.
“Don’t you know, child? I am your father! Did you think that he had conveniently banished me while you were conceived? Did you think I wasn’t there, that I had no part in it?”
Medivh tugs on your arm and you tug back, because you’re nothing if not a fighter - you have to get away, because he’s wrong, and he’s still speaking -
“Did you think a mere mortal - even as powerful as this one - could overcome the Destroyer of Worlds?! Your family has been my doing - or did you forget how I was able to inhabit this body? Did you forget the corruptible minds of the orcs, the sway of Mannoroth’s blood? Even your pure, cowardly draenei - what are they but the brothers of my first and finest warriors? What do you think you are, child?”
He laughs, and laughs, and the fire spreads.
Med’an stands his ground outside of the Inn. Fear grips him in its talons, but he holds his ground as Rawhead and Bloodybones rises to his fully and terrible height.
The flayed faery smiles, its flesh splitting to show the teeth underneath, and shakes a long, wet finger at the young man.
“I want you to be good children.”
Growing up, he had lily soft hands.
Most boys spent their time outside playing contact sports or roughhousing in the dirt, but not him. He spent his days inside with his mom with a needle and thread and a whole slew of patterns.
By the age of five, he had mastered the overcast stitch, buttonhole stitch, even the blanket stitch. By six, he knew his way around even the most complicated sewing machine. By seven, he had perfect control over a pair of knitting needles and a spool of yarn. By eight, he had accepted the fact that he was good with his hands, and he was proud of it.
But boys were watching wrestling and playing in the mud and pretending to be Shounen Jump heroes. He preferred playing house and making stuffed animals.
He liked to keep to himself, even though most of the friends he made were girls, and most of the kids he could relate to were girls. But he was a guy. He couldn’t come to their sleepovers and he couldn’t “possibly understand” what they were talking about (though he did). Not even they knew the things he did when he was home with his mom after school.
He always carried a sewing kit on him. A little one that he could take anywhere, just in case he had to fix part of his uniform or he got a tear in his shirt. He would always do it in the bathroom at school, hiding in one of the stalls with the needle between his lips as he unraveled the thread. He didn’t want to make trouble, after all. Not for his mom…
But it had to come out eventually. No one could keep secrets forever, especially not him.
He was nine when it did. He had been sitting in the classroom at lunch, eating a bento that his mom helped him make. They had shaped the rice balls together to make them look like cats. He thought they were cute. She had even packed a box of animal crackers too, and he had been shifting through them when one of the girls in the classroom cried out, looking down at her skirt.
“I tore it,” she whined and the teacher sighed, reprimanding her for not being careful enough.
It was a clean tear. It would be an easy fix. Kanji watched them from his seat near the window and pushed his cracker box aside. The girl was crying as the teacher took her to get her into a pair of gym shorts. His shoulders slumped a bit and he looked around. No one seemed to be watching. They were too busy talking, comparing trading cards or giggling about cute boys and cartoons.
When the girl came back, she returned to her desk and wiped away her tears. Her fingers played with the tear on her skirt as she folded and unfolded it on her desk. He bit his lip, his hands closing around his sewing kit before he moved to sit next to her.
“Can I see it?”
She looked up, eyebrows drawing together. “What?”
“Can I see it? Your skirt.”
She frowned a bit and wiped at her eyes. “What? Are you gonna make fun of me too?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Just let me see it.”
She sighed as she slid it over and he picked it up. He spread it out on his desk and touched the tear. It was small, hardly noticeable with the pleats in the skirt. It would be an easy fix.
He opened his sewing kit up and took out a needle and unraveled enough thread to get the job done. His fingers worked the fabric as he moved the needle in and out of the fabric, pulling it back together. He tied it off and cut the string before handing it back to her with a smile.
“There, it’s fixed,” he said, and she turned the skirt over in her hands.
“You can sew?”
And he nodded with pride. It wasn’t so weird, was it? Especially when he did something so nice with it. But the girl frowned and put her skirt away. “Isn’t sewing for girls?”
His heart stopped. A few boys heard and looked over.
“Tatsumi can sew?”
“Wow, isn’t sewing for girls?”
He rushed to put his sewing kit back together but one of the boys grabbed it and held it up.
“Hey everyone, Tatsumi can sew!” he jeered. “Do you make little bears with this?”
“I bet he makes dresses that he wears at home!”
The kids started to laugh as the tossed the sewing kit around. “Hey, give it back!” he said, his lower lip quivering. His hands were shaking and his knees felt weak; he felt weak.
One of the boys laughed as they tossed the kit on the ground and stomped on it. “What’s the matter? Gonna go cry home to your mommy?”
He grabbed the broken remnants of his sewing kit and stuffed them in his bag. He wanted to cry. He tried so hard not to cry, but he couldn’t help. He cried all the way home to his mom.
She held him and told him it would be alright. That they just didn’t understand how beautiful his hobbies were. They didn’t understand how mature he was, and how he truly had a gift. He hugged her tight and cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, because deep down he knew she was right, but even deeper, he knew that the kids at school would never let it go.
Later that night, when his father returned, he looked down at his son, cheeks stained with his tears, eyes red from his sobbing, and sighed. “Be a real man, Kanji.”
And he would be.
Kanji reacts with swift moves. He slams the shield down on the Bogeyman’s face, but it only splits around the attack and grins up at him, the two halves of its mouth open to let out a sneering laugh.
“I only want to terrify you all!”
When he was four years old, he tripped on the playground and scraped his knee. Blood began to rise underneath the layer of skin and dirt; it wasn’t a lot, anyway, but just enough to scare him. It hurt, and he didn’t know what to do, so he cried like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
His dad came over and picked him up, carrying him off so he could wash it off with a little bit of water. “Gotta clean this up,” his told him as he wailed, tears ran down his dirt-covered cheeks. The other parents watched, talking amongst themselves in quiet whispers. His dad put a bandage on it. He didn’t kiss it better, he didn’t hold his son in his arms until he stopped crying. Instead, he set him down on the ground and kneeled so they were eye to eye and smiled.
“Why are you crying? It’s just a scrape.” And he looked up at his father and wiped his eyes. “Sometimes, Takeshi, when it hurts and we’re scared, we just have to grin and bear it.”
So when he fell, he would laugh. When he made mistakes, he would smile. And when he was scared - especially when he was scared - he would grin and bear it.
Even when he was being chased down by a baby with a gun; even when he helped his friends with their “training.” Because life was a game, and the “mafia” was no different. It was just one elaborate game of Cops and Robbers that they were probably too old to be playing in the first place.
That’s what he told himself anyway. It made it easier when he had a gun pointed in his face and bombs exploding at his feet. No one was getting hurt anyway. No one had died.
And then the dream was shattered.
“Hey, Yamamoto! Did you hear? Some punks are brawling just outside of school!”
And he smiled and laughed as he tied his shoes and grabbed his bag. Another fight? It was probably Gokudera. “Again?” Gokudera was too much. He was always on edge, always willing to pick a fight. He didn’t understand it when he was the type to turn the other cheek. He didn’t rile easily, but Gokudera did. It’s like he had something to prove.
But maybe he did understand…
He sighed as he walked toward where he heard Gokudera was. He thought he’d find him beating down a couple guys who said something against “the Tenth,” but he was dead wrong. Gokudera was the limp one this time, and whoever it was he had been fighting with was about to attack Tsuna too.
His instincts kicked in and he slid in, knocking Tsuna out of the way with a smile. “This is called sliding into base safe!” He laughed and grinned like it would be okay; like his friend wasn’t practically dead at his feet. His expression changed when he saw him. The smile slipped, the mask faded, and he frowned.
And Gokudera called him the idiot…
He looked up at their attacker and felt his eyebrows draw close together. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, and then he felt it. That flash of anger boiling up in the pit of his stomach, and a single thought at the front of his mind. ‘I’ll kill him.’
His sword was at the ready. It always was, even if he never admitted it, and he was always ready to pull it out and use it. He never had, up until that point, but there he was, ready to run someone through with it. His face was a billboard displaying the controlled rage inside of him, and the words of Reborn echoed in the back of his mind: Natural Born Killer.
But their assailant stood down and walked away, his arms dropped to his sides and his shoulders sagged with the weight of what he had been feeling. A new feeling, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and disappointment.
He dropped down to his knees and looked down at Gokudera, limp at his feet. His hands were at his shoulders, shaking him slightly. He was still breathing thankfully, but a numb feeling washed over him as he felt his steady world shake in the slightest.
Tsuna looked up at him, panicked. “Yamamoto, is he going to be alright?”
And Yamamoto looked back at Tsuna and smiled, without a hesitation. What else could he do but grin and bear it.
“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine.”
The Cat Sidhe twines around Yamamoto’s legs and meows brightly. She bumps her head against his hand and pads along, looking over her shoulder every few moments to make sure he follows her.
“I want you to look for different things.”
Your naked feet, pitter patter, slap on a cool surface in a room so white it blinds you. On either side of you, assembly lines mass produce blond children. Their empty, glass eyes bore into you accusingly as they are transported away on conveyor belts. Fear strikes a chord in your heartstrings; you begin to gather up miscellaneous parts of the children in a futile attempt to save these lifeless dolls, but you’re too small. Heads and limbs and torsos tumble out of your arms to the ground, to be seized by mechanical claws that swiftly return them to the assembly line. Trembling, you draw away as hands seem to reach out to you, as unmoving lips seem to cry out for you, and you hear your name whispered from a hundred silent voices. Variant, they murmur coldly. The word drags hooks through your skin and you flinch. Your manufactured brothers might as well have called you monster.
Ahead, a dark haired child - oh, how your chest rattles with a desperate, rasping breath when you recognize him - is selected by a mechanical claw and snatched up from a conveyor belt. Choking, you break out into a run, screaming for the boy, but you’re too small. The automated claw does not notice you, nor would it have behaved any differently had it; the dark haired variant is disposed of and the assembly lines continue their horrific task.
You fall to your knees and stare at the floor. Fat, childish tears break on your splayed hands. An overwhelming sense of loneliness accosts you as the children are put together, as they hiss and accuse and condemn you - you can feel them clawing at your mind, trying to pierce your shields. You are so alone, so afraid.
Exhaling shakily, you bring your right hand to your warm, bare chest and pause before plunging it inside. Blood bubbles past your fingertips as they sink into flesh, into tissue, into muscle, and deeper. Fluttering wildly, your heart quivers at your touch and, grasping it tightly, you sever off half of it with your nails. Withdrawing your hand, you study the gasping organ and stand, fighting off waves off nausea and dizziness. You stumble to a conveyor belt and simply wait, dread and despair and death suffocating you. The room grows darker. You are losing consciousness. Still, you wait.
You feel him before you see him. Just like that, the loneliness and fear and mortality seem to ebb away as he is carried toward you down the assembly line, parts screwed together with care by the claws. You will have to be quick; once he is completed, once they spot the shock of white hair, the overly bright purple eyes - they will try to steal him from you, try to dispose of this variant. Weak now, you struggle to pull yourself onto the conveyor belt as he drifts by, if you were only bigger, if you were only stronger, this body of yours does not match what is inside this heart, and, straddling your albino brother, you take that half of your heart and force it into his chest, force life and breath and being into him, and when he stirs and awareness twists his brow, your bodies converge until you are one.
Standing on the conveyor belt, you let his presence drown out everything until there is only room for self-acceptance, and you are growing, growing, growing, no longer so small, no longer so dependent and weak and frail. Red light bursts from your chest, a man’s chest - full and muscular and defined - and empowered by your rebirth, your reunion, your brother, you destroy the assembly lines.
Puck dances around Jr, juggling his harmonica and his crystal shard. He’s a child, then he’s a man, then he’s a child again, and he laughs and laughs as he performs.
“I want to see you see me!”
[ if you're watching the dream of this nine year old girl, you'll find yourself in the parlor of a grand mansion. this is the Ushiromiya mansion, on the remote island of Rokkenjima.
inside of said parlor, all 18 people on the island are present: 12 family members and 6 servants. they've all been discussing something quietly, a letter they found. Maria's off to the side, eating a candy that was given to her by Hideyoshi earlier. it's only after she hears parts of the conversation that she starts to listen. ]
Who could have sent this?
Was it one of us?
Someone, just fess up!
[ but Maria knew who it was. so she speaks up. ]
Uu-! It was Beatrice! She put it here using magic!
[ everyone in the parlor went silent for a moment. but after that silence, there was laughter from everyone in the room directed at Maria. ]
Magic? That's ridiculous!
Stop living in a fantasy world!
Magic doesn't exist, don't kid yourself! Grow up, Maria!
[ as she listened to the jeers, Maria's happy smile turned into a frown of despair. even Kinzo, the one family member who she knew loved Beatrice and her magic, wasn't defending her. he just stayed silent. why? magic existed, and she'd prove it to them all!
with her head tilted down for a moment, you can see a few tears escaping from her eyes. she drops the candy piece balled up in her fist to the floor, there was no time for sweet and happy things now.
she looks up and sets her glare to Kinzo. in that moment, a red stain appeared on his suit as he fell to the ground. once he hit the wood, a pool of blood began to set around him ]
No one believes in magic? That's too bad. Maria will have to show everyone that magic exists, then. One by one!
[ she begins to cackle and giggle as a swarm of golden butterflies surround her like a veil. as they clear, she's donned new clothing; her Witch of Origins dress and staff. with a wave of this staff. the neck of Doctor Nanjo was sliced open by some invisible force. Like a robot, Maria doesn't stop her magic there.
Gohda's arms being chopped off.
Kumasawa being stretched like taffy.
Shannon's face being ripped off.
Kanon's abdomen being crushed to a pulp.
Genji's head being crashed against a wall numerous times.
and those were just the servants. there was no stopping Maria now; this was the last time she would be underestimated as a witch, abused, and not taken seriously. as she noticed Jessica and her parents trying to escape, a wave of her staff locked all exits. now there was nothing that could interfere with her revenge.
still watching? then you'll see her killing each of the remaining people in the household, whether it be physically with her staff, or in some magical way. when she's through, she's left only one member left. Battler.
he's the one that never believed in magic. he didn't believe in Beato at all, and rejected her with every fiber of his being. if he denied magic, he denied Maria, right? he had to die! she giggles again, and raises her staff. ]
Does Battler onii-chan believe yet? Look! Everyone is dead, because of magic! Maria killed everyone with the magic Beato taught her! See?! Now it's time for Battler to repent...-
[ wait.
he was Ange's big brother. Ange loved him a lot, and Maria loved Ange. Ange believed in magic and was a witch, just like her. if Maria killed Battler... Ange wouldn't like her anymore. that couldn't happen.
so she drops the staff, and it falls to the ground with a clang. the figure that appeared to be Battler disappeared, and so did the room and corpses. she's surrounded by pitch blackness now, a sea of zero. she clenches her eyes shut, but it's no use. she begins to cry.
what has she done? ]
An old woman sits beside a fire. She pushes a needle through something heavier than cloth but lighter than leather. The wind howls through the trees around her, but aside from that and the snap of the fire, there is no other sound.
She pulls a last stitch and flourishes her work.
Maria’s empty skin, stitched intact, flutters from her outstretched hands.
Black Annis grins, and her eye glints in the gloom.
“I want your blood, your sweat, and your tears.”
The water is bitter, dead cold. You wade through, your eyes on the rocky island barely visible in the gloom. You should have taken your armour off, you think, as the chill spreads up your legs, over your hips. One sudden change in current and you could be cast into the waters of the Elrendar. You wouldn't be the first of your kin to be swept beneath the depths of the water, you know - but then, to many, a grave of silt and weeds had seemed like salvation compared to an unmaking at the hands of the Scourge.
You can see the nerubians, giant, arachnid creatures with many beady eyes encircling their heads like ancient crowns. Your hands tighten on the longsword you hold aloft, out of the water's reach as it ripples around your waist.
Using the blade is getting easier with every strike. To think, not long ago you were the greenest of girls, with little experience holding a knife, let alone a claymore. Now, the nerubians lie twitching at your feet and you feel no fear, only the thrum of adrenaline and the sweet taste of vindication.
You're not here on this dark little island for the Scourge, anyway. You're here for one of your first tests, and you waste no time in seeking out the dank crevasse in the rock, the cave you were instructed to find.
As expected, an unlit brazier sits in the murk. Meditate, you were told, meditate on your choice. Kneeling in mail armour isn't the most pleasant sensation, but you have endured greater pain than that, so you kneel by the brazier to light it. The flame seems wan somehow, but then, all light seems scarce and frightened in the Ghostlands.
"Defend yourself, youngling! We'll see if there's a Blood Knight in you yet!"
And then there's a blade swinging at you with force enough to cut you near in half. It's pure luck that has you sprawling out of the way, scrabbling to your feet and snatching up your sword. Your assailant is bedecked in the black, red, and gold of the order - he is older than you, broad and strong and quick, and as you block, parry, and dodge his attacks he leaves you no time to question, to demand an explanation.
He is trying to kill you and so you do as he said, and defend yourself. Survivalism kicks in with a considerable force, a voice screaming not yet not yet not yet! in the back of your head as you stop focusing on defence in order to press the attack, throwing yourself forwards with all the force you can muster. If it's kill or be killed, you're not going to be the loser. You're not going to be anyone's victim. Not here. Not now. (Not ever.)
He's better than you, more experienced. But your sudden onslaught catches him off guard and it's the opening you needed - his armour is weak between shoulder and neck and that's where you bring your sword down, all your strength, all the power you can muster jumping from shoulder to blade.
And then, as sudden as it started, it's over.You have given them gold, and runecloth; sungrass and arcanium; diamonds that gleam white and black. You have fought back the Scourge in the Plaguelands, defended your people, travelled the faces of the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor both. And now all you need to do... is put out a fire. "Keep this up, Aureln, and we may well be honouring another champion. 'Lady Dawnstrike', how does that please you?"
The tabard he holds out to you is the finest you've ever seen - jet black silk chased in crimson, the phoenix wings unfurling across the brest, embroidered in blood. Your fingers trace it and your heart hammers in your chest to think that you could wear this as the Masters do - that you could come so far, be so venerated. Your breath feels light and shaky.
You cannot keep yourself from smiling. The silk beneath your fingers feels like solace.
"Yes," you say, your voice soft and reverant and oh-so-self-assured. "Yes, that would please me very much."
His blood spreads quickly and the further it seeps across the dirt towards your feet, the deeper realization sinks in. You haven't killed - you've slain Scourge, you've cut down Wretched, beasts, but - you've never killed one of your own. The Blood Elves, you're named now, the all but dead vestiges of the Quel'dorei... And you've killed one of your own.
You should bury him, at least. Bury him and give him some kind of rest.
But being with the body is making you sick to the heart, and the bile is rising in your throat as you lean over to close his eyes, to lay his sword across his chest. You move as if in a dream, and by the time you come to, you are shivering and fighting off tears, and you have fled that place.
You never go back there.
Three days later, in summer-lit Silvermoon, you redeem the fallen soldier. When he's up and breathing again, he informs you all, nonchalant and back to business, that he won't be part of these tests any more. He doesn't thank you for the resurrection, nor comment on his murder. He leaves you there, numb and cold in the warm inn.You stand at the crackling fire, the vial ready in your hands. Only by extinguishing this sacred flame will you earn your dues - only by proving yourself to be a true master of the Light.
And you -
-- can't do it.
And now you are an Initiate of the order. A fledgling Blood Knight. And it's all you've ever wanted.
Aureln wipes the blood from her face and leaves the white serpent decapitated at her feet. The sound of her booted feet fades into the distance, and gradually vanished.
And when it does, the body of the snake re-attaches to the head. Its three-forked tongue flickers in and out, in and out, and it slowly begins to slither after her. Its voice is soft and sibilant, and perhaps almost swallowed in the low movement of the sea.
“I want to protect what is important.”
Without the laughing and the voices of those family members you used to love so much the mansion feels intimidating, empty, much too big for just you alone to wander around in. The sound of your hurried footsteps echoing back in your ears only reinstates the feeling of fear, the feeling that things shouldn't be this way - it's wrong, so wrong - and you only hurry more down the empty hallways.
Every time you come across a corpse - that strict aunt who always somehow seemed a bit lonely, the cook who had always seemed a bit scary to you since he was so huge and you were just a little girl back then, that older cousin who was always so nice and calm and kept everyone together - you are fairly sure your heart skips a few beats. But you don't have time to stand still and mourn or even think about it, because you have to hurry up. You haven't found your parents yet or even your older brother, and as long as they don't turn up as corpses there's the chance they are still walking around in the mansion, just as lost as you are.
When you come to the door that leads out to the front steps of the mansion there's a slight moment of hesitation, but you open them regardless.
You wish you hadn't.
Even though you pull the door closed again as soon as you opened it just now, the image is already burned on the back of your eyelids. You almost have to tell yourself to keep breathing even with the shock, and you feel your lungs filling themselves with oxygen again, a slow and shuddering breath. You try to push the image out of your mind, because it's not real, it's fake, a lie, just something more to torture you--
"What..? Aren't you grateful?"
The blue haired witch lands just in front of you, her face twisted into a cruel grin, her scythe in her hands. And you just wish she'd go away, stop talking, so she can stop unlocking the doors of your mind to the images again. But she doesn't go away, no matter how much you push your hands to your ears you can't block out her words.
"I promised you, right? To show you the truth."
- a man in a perfectly neat blue business suit now tarnished by the red blood all over it with a grin and a blazing gun lowered over the corpse of a blonde girl her fist with brass knuckles on it lying motionlessly on the dirt -
"And so I did. So you should at least feel some gratitude to me."
- a woman with a perfectly calm smile on her face covered with blood splatters quietly sliding the knife in her hands completely through a little girl's throat her pink frilled purse lying abandoned on the ground -
"After all.. finally you were able to witness their true nature. The truth I promised."
You finally find some last strength in yourself to tear your feet away from the spot you were rooted on in shock, dodging the witch and further running down another corridor.
It's a lie, all of it is a lie, you refuse to believe a truth like that, it's just another cruel joke the witch made up, you know you just have to run down this corridor and find your older brother somewhere in this mansion and he will turn to you and show his usual smile and tell you that everything will be okay, that he won't let the witch's lie hurt you any longer.
And so you feel a near smile out of relief appear on your face when you run into the parlor and find the sight you've been looking for. The back of a white suit combined with red hair. A symbol of reassurance, that everything will be okay now--
Then he turns to you and his white suit turns out to be even more soaked in red than the other man's and his face is near-deformed into a cruel grin, not anything like the expression you're used to. And then your eyes travel down, from his bloody hands to the tiny figure lying on the couch, sliced and cut up and nearly unrecognizable if it wasn't for the short red hair with two tiny pink bubble hair decorations sticking out.
"Ah.. Ange. You sure are late."
You scream, but there's no sound.
The Fachan stops Ange as she walks down the path. He does not raise his club to her, only his single arm hand held with the palm outwards. She tries to walk around him, but he is always before her, blocking that part of the path and guarding what is beyond.
He shakes his head.
“I want you to make me laugh again.”
The ocean was always her favorite place. The way the water felt in her hair, the way the waves just calmed her no matter what. Feferi didn't want more then this, and she knew this. Humming to herself, she swam with her little cuttlefish friends, listening to them hum with her. Sitting down on a stone, she looked to the top of the ocean, watching the threads of light wiggle about the surface.
“I wonder what it's like up there though, on the land, and what kind of trolls are there.” She said, humming still, as one of the cuttlefish came up to her and looked a little angry.
“Feferi, listen to me, the land world? It's a mess! Life under the sea is better then anything they got up there.”
Feferi noticed that they all started to sing and she glanced around with a big smile, clapping along with the music and listening to the song about living under the sea, forgetting all about the land and enjoying the safety of the waves.
Feferi giggles and swims through the loch, her lithe form cutting through the water with ease and precision. She barrels through waterweeds as she tumbles forwards, and when she bursts out of the other side, she comes face to face with a Fideal.
The faery smiles at her and reaches her hand out take hers. She hums low in her throat, a soft, enchanting little melody, and draws the troll princess into her watery embrace.
“I only want you to stay with me forever…”
You're drowning.
You're not sure how it came to be. Not exactly, anyway. But you've fallen off a ship and now you're in a thick, murky ocean, drowning. You don't struggle. You don't desperately try to swim for the surface. Something's paralyzed you, be it some denizen of the deep, fear, exhaustion, or something else. You simply don't move, and that's that.
Somehow, you can hear what's going on above. Someone's calling your name. You know they're desperately searching for you. How your vision is so terrible but your hearing is so excellent is not only beyond your knowledge, but also out of bounds of your interest. You hear them, and that's that.
You sink farther and farther. The water gets darker and darker. Eventually, the faint outline of a ship sitting in the water moves on, leaving you behind. They've ceased their search. You're on your own.
Alone.
Lost.
Afraid.
"All of this is all your fault."
The water turns red. You don't know when or how it happened, but it did, without your noticing. It becomes thicker, more syrupy, to move around in, and you sink slower. You begin to hear a voice. No, more than one...many voices. But somehow, it's all the same person. It's still too fuzzy to make out. Something grabs your arm but you can't see it. A shiver of fear crawls up your spine.
"All of this is all your fault."
The voices become clear. They're all accusations, taunts and jeers. How they're so clear in this thick read water, you aren't sure, but it's as though you're hearing them on the wind. Even stranger is that all of the voices are the same tone, same pitch...same person. A woman. Someone you recognize, somehow. She's simply familiar...
"All of this is all your fault."
Whatever's grabbed you begins to drag you under. It has claws. They dig into your skin and hisses as though it were boiling. It stings, but you can't see the drawn blood through the thick, murky red water.
Only now is it dawning on you that it's not water.
"All of this is all your fault."
"All of this is all your fault."
"All of this is all your fault!!!"
You struggle, but the claws drag you deeper. And then, silence. Everything turns black. First your own arm, your body, the claws that drag you down, and then the water becomes so thick that you can't see anything. It turns black, too. You thrash about blindly, reaching for the surface.
And then you breathe.
Urisk sits beside Qultada. The ugly fae hands him a large towel to dry himself off and stokes the fire with his other hand. He heaves a sigh and looks up to the stars.
“I want to help you all.”
You walk down the electronics section of the superstore. No one comes up here. You’re perfectly alone as you walk between the screens that tower and curve around you. The negative space between them is branded black and red. The bands throb and shrivel slowly in a nauseating pattern that escapes your immediate notice, but settles behind your eyes and grinds into your skull nonetheless.
Slowly, one by one, the televisions flicker on. There’s a low whine as they slide in an out of tune. It rises to a high screech on some screens, and they blaze bright with that black-white fuzz that you used to tell your mom was the bee channel. Hey mom, the TV is showing bees again but I want to watch Featherman R -
Your footsteps echo on the tiles. You’re actually wearing converse all-stars and they really should be squeaking on the tiles. Your dad always got on at you for that at work. But that doesn’t matter now, because the floor is black unless the glare of the TV screens light it up, and then it’s the same grinding red and black bands as the negative space.
One, two, three, four, five steps. There’s a fizz and a pop, and then a TV screen flickers to life. It shows your face. You’re grinning. But it’s not the grin you usually have - the one you’re slightly embarrassed by, because it’s so big and dorky and dumb - it’s weird. It’s a sick, twisted sort of thing, crawling up one side of your face with the lips twisted over the teeth in a sneer. Your eyes flash yellow, and there’s pure, lazy hate in that gaze.
You square your shoulders and walk by the screen, but that doesn’t help. The other screens flicker to life, showing your face. Some of the screens spool and flicker, having the image relay in a nauseating pattern. Some are black and white. Some are full colour. Some are HD.
But all of them show that same, smirking face.
All of them show the face you’re trying to hide.
And then you come to that TV, the only one that really matters, and you can’t ignore the face anymore. It’s larger than life. That grin is the size of your forearm, and you can see the points of your canines on the high-def screen.
“Soooooo!”
The camera zooms out and your Shadow grins at you, raising his arm over his head and pulling it at the elbow with the other. One eye closes in a wink as he jovially joshes you.
“Yosuke Hanamura.” He tastes the name with relish, “Man. Could you imagine a string of syllables that sound more fucking pathetic together?”
“Shut up.” Your voice is flat and level, betraying no emotion. But your heart hammers in your throat and your breath hitches painfully in your chest. The Shadow knows. You know he knows because I am thou and thou are m - because of the way his eyes lazily flick over you. It’s lazy, but you can feel the weight of the disgust in that gaze.
Because it’s still a struggle some days not to do the same whenever you catch a glimpse of your reflection.
“Man. Out of one shithole and into another, huh, Yosuke? Man. I sure am a winner, ain’t I? I just have the worst luck, because I keep winding up in these places and just fucking up again and again, don’t I?”
“Shut up, shut up…”
“Maybe it’s the surroundings that just get to me, huh? I mean, it can’t just be that I’m a useless little shit who never does anything right, huh? Nope! It’s gotta be something else, huh?”
“Shut up shut up shut up…”
“I mean!” The Shadow holds up his iPod, but it’s not an iPod because it’s Demeleier’s communicator. He flicks his finger down the names like a lead guitarist strumming his plectrum across the strings in an opening note. They flash by so fast - Aureln - Souji - Med’an - Nanako - Schneizel - Kanji -Adachi - Guilford - Garnath - Teddie - Saki - but each is burned into your retina regardless. The Shadow whistles.
“Hooo boy! That’s a lot of names you’re fucking up for! Man! Aureln - well, shit, maybe if you weren’t in a land of fairies you could man-up more and be someone she’d be interested in, huh?”
“Shut up!”
“Souji? Man! Haha! When’s the last time Souji took a ten minute break to talk to you?”
“Shut up!”
“Med’an? ‘Oooh, ooh Yosuke, you’re so into girls, Yosuke, you’re such a bro, Yosuke’ - man, how would he feel if he knew what a little fa -”
“Shut up!“
“Nanako? ‘Fun parent?’ Man, don’t make me laugh… And Schneizel! Schneizel! Dude, that asshole is gone! He’s won’t think about you for a single fucking moment! Kanji hates you, Adachi looks down his nose at you, Guilford thinks you ain’t worth shit, Garnath thinks you’re a dumbass, Teddie only hangs out with you because that stunted little half-man ain’t got no one else. And Saki?”
Your head snaps up. “Don’t you dare -!!“
And your Shadow just laughs - he laughs and laughs and laughs and you slam your fists into the TV screen. It ripples around you, cool and water-like, and you hiss at that sick little part of yourself -
“I know, I know, I know! I know I worry about all that! You - you’re not saying anything new here! Shut up!”
There’s a mild cough behind you.
You turn.
It’s your classroom.
Everyone’s looking at you curiously. Souji looks worried. Kanji looks confused. Saki looks withering. Teddie looks hurt. Nanako gives you a weak smile. Aureln’s eyebrow is raised appraisingly. Med’an isn’t meeting your eye. Garnath is looking at your levelly, and the same intensity of that gaze from Guilford makes you shrivel. It’s almost worse than the sneer from Adachi.
And from the teacher’s lecturn, Schneizel smiles at you.
“Something you want to share with the class, Mr Hanamura?”
Yosuke looks at you with dead, unfeeling eyes. The Lob behind him tightens its grip around his neck, sucking out what emotion creeps through the teen. It has no mouth. It cannot smile. It cannot look satisfied. It cannot speak.
Yet, nonetheless…
“I want to eat everything you are.”
It's only a little while after she first starts working in the village that he walks into the clinic one afternoon, somewhat fumbling and awkward, and hands her a bouquet of morning glories. Still somewhat awkwardly - or perhaps nervously - he tells her that it's a way of thanking her for her hard work. She just lets out a high teasing giggle in response, remarking that he got the flower symbolism quite wrong, and he just awkwardly rubs the back of his head in response. He quickly tries to backpedal and leave the room again quickly, but she smiles slyly and tells him she's looking forward to seeing him again soon.
It isn't until a few years later that they watch the villagers preparing the local festival - he under the guise of making pictures for a magazine of sorts, she just because she's on lunch break and tagging along - that he hands her a red rose once the group of people building up stalls has dispersed for the night and (still somewhat fumbling, constantly that awkward sort of behavior and talk when it came down to this) asks her if he got it right this time. She thinks that perhaps the best part about it is his clueless nervous expression when she just bursts out into a fit of giggles as her reaction.
And a few weeks later, during his funeral, she leaves cercis siliquastrum and vitex agnus-castus flowers on his grave and mumbles to herself how she guesses that she just had to be the one to get it right.
And a monster stand behind Takano. Black blood runs in open, seeping veins which criss-cross a network of bloody flesh and cracking sinew. Bone juts out sharply from angles it shouldn’t, and the mouth opens wide, wide, wide.
“I want to destroy you.“
It's dark, and Tsuna recognizes the atmosphere. It's just like that time he went through the Vongola trial, with the pressure on his lungs and inability to breathe. He tried to switch to his dying will mode, tried to get out of pressure, but it wasn't working. Tsuna couldn't feel the warmth of his body when he usually went into that mode, and it was frustrating. Looking up, he could see his friends, his guardians, in front of him. Gokudera was the one who spoke first. His voice was cold, angered by Tsuna's pitiful state.
“You're nothing, Sawada. You've sunk this low and think you can be a boss? You're so weak, I'm tired of following you and your fucking uselessness.” He said, Yamamoto nodding beside him.
“Tsuna, you're just going to bring us all down, so what's the point. We're obviously far more strong then you are, plus you don't even want to be boss, do you?”
Tsuna knew his decision was going to effect all of them, and possibly have this out come.
“Why would anyone want to be friends with you now? You don't care about all the things we've gone through.” Gokudera spat, walking up to Tsuna and kicking him in the stomach. He coughed, feeling his whole body ache with pain, especially that in his chest.
“I...I do care! I don't...I don't want to put you in danger!!!” Tsuna yelled, noticing them getting farther away. They kept going, and Tsuna couldn't get up, couldn't stop them, and more over, he couldn't stop himself from slipping out of consciousness.
The Bean Sidhe reaches her trembling hand out to touch Tsuna‘s shoulder. She presses her lips together to stop herself from sobbing, but the tears run freely down her face and she cannot supress her shivering.
She crumples, fisting her hands in his shirt and convulsing with soul shattering sobs.
“I want to warn you!”
Light seems to erupt from every little thing, completely submerging you and the man with white hair - as white as snow - in a complete white up to a point where you can't discern the point somewhere around your touching hands where you end and he starts anymore. You can vaguely see the man opening his mouth and saying something, but his words are lost in the sheer massive spectacle of the light that surrounds you.
And then the images start flowing back into your mind, one by one, as if it's natural for them to be there. As if it's where they belonged all along.
A girl, her hair and dress a beautiful silver just like the man's (it isn't until now that you recall it isn't white as snow at all, but silver like the beautiful moon hanging in the sky), turns around when you arrive in the room. A smile, bright and honest, immediately breaks out on her face - it's always been you, Venus - and she stretches out her arm to wave enthusiastically.
The same girl as just now appears, this time with a cape wrapped around her mysteriously as if she's trying to sneak away from the palace like a thief in the night. The moment you touch her shoulder she turns to you once again, although this time the expression on her face is a look of surprise rather than that bright smile. But a moment later her facial muscles relax and instead she manages to work up a very inelegant and not even remotely royal pout to show to you. Under protests of 'it isn't like you'd understand' you work her back into the palace, but even so you can't help but remember that tiny happy and amused smile on your face at that moment.
Girls are gleefully talking to each other, discussing one thing or another - interplanetary politics, the princess' last attempt at sneaking off, which boys at the court they would consider cute; it's all brought up just as easily as the topic is changed again in the discussion. When the girl with the long raven black hair scolds the princess for being behind on her studies yet again, with the blue haired girl franctically trying to apologize in the princess' place and saying she isn't that behind at all and they'll just work harder tomorrow and the princess herself just throwing up her hands and pouting and saying it isn't fair, you feel the brunette next to you nudge your side and you giggle together.
The only time you can actually recall tears is the memory of standing in the middle of a broken city, people from the Earth and Moon Kingdom alike fighting each other all around, when the long haired male plunges a sword into your gut and you fall. Tears of betrayal, tears of pain, tears of fear and hope for the safety of that one person who is most important to you, because nothing matters anymore the moment that light would disappear from your life.
When the images fade with the light and the sound returns, you finally hear the man with the short white hair's (not white as snow, not even quite like the moon, but like the light from the planet Venus) words.
And you smile again.
"... Yes. I remember."
The Night Mare stamps her foot again and whinnies gently. She nuzzles at Minako‘s sleeping face and turns to canter back into the sky.
“I want to show you what needs to be seen.”
And as her hooves trail glittering stardust in their wake, she passes over the Temple and dives inside. Her feet kick up blue-white fire as she comes to a stop at the Inner Sanctum.
The Queen of the Fae stands there, huge and wild and beautiful. She reaches into the Guardian‘s chest and closes her hand around the crystal that is frozen to his flesh.
Her eyes meet yours, and with a smile like a knife‘s edge, she speaks.
“I want your heart.”