Author:
Chauni
RP
Session: TMW
Notes:
This is taken right before Kazu runs into Freyr (and essentially, “Virgile”, or
Gremory as his true name goes). This is one of the few cannon pieces I have
done for the roleplaying sessions.
It ran through splayed fingers as smooth as any
velvet wine, a dark as any deepened sunset. Rocks dug far down into bare knees,
cutting, splitting embedding themselves like tapeworms beneath supple flesh, a
ravaging little pain that he ignored with ease. His hair fell forward, pooling
onto his lap, shimmering and perfect and dark as any night, but the blood was
in his lap as well, seeping, crawling over to take possession of his locks, to
own them, devour them like a parasite. He was screaming, an act he hadn't
realized he was indulging in until he felt his throat ache, burn, covered in a
deepened blazed that raped the delicate lining.
Bodies, limbs, children, scattered the area, frozen and broken, never to work again. Broken by his hand, destroyed and laid to waste as they lived happy, humble little lives. Broken as they begged, as they pleaded, as the sky wept for them, heart shattered.
But this was what he had been bred to do, molded,
created, for the sake of God. This was his purpose, to decimate, to murder, to
break the necks of the young and eviscerate the women. He had been born with
blood on his hands, hungry to put it there again, been born this monster, let
loose upon the world only when it seemed fit to His whim.
And regret meant nothing but a simple heartache in
the wake of red.
Supple wrists screamed in broken agony, scars pink
and threatening to tear open at the briefest movements and flood the world with
holy blood. He wanted it to end, to stop on the head of a pin, to finish here
as he stood, wet and red and black, sable wings fluffed and running in rivulets
of scarlet. Tired of this life, of a life embraced in the dying rust of death,
and the one that could have saved him now long gone and away from his touch.
Tired of so much…
The small sounds of footsteps rocked his ears, jarred
him from the misery pinnacle he had achieved. Colorless eyes drifted up, spying
on a small androgynous child, locked in a body too covered in water and blood
to bear any distinction, any hope of discovery. Frail, shivering, hands clasped
demurely down in front of an anorexic waist, pale blue eyes landed on his own
smoky ones, never wavering.
“Can you help me, pwease?” The voice was quiet, as
androgynous as the body, thick with a childish lisp. One small hand found of
the scarred wrists, stroking it gently. “I’m all awone. They left me ‘hind.”
His free hand
rose, petting against the child’s sticky sable hair, drawing it away from those
pallid blue hues. He felt his stomach rolling as he touched the strands, as he
trailed fine hands down cheeks streaked in crimson like war paint. Familiar. It
was all so familiar.
“Everyone’s gone.” The child sniffled, the crimson
parting for the path of tears that trickled down ruddy cheeks. “I don’t like
bein’ awone.” And with a little huff, his hand was raised as the small body
crawled into his lap, curled up close, silently screaming tales of loneliness
and abandonment. “Don’t leave me, too.” And those soft blue eyes rolled up to
linger on him, pin him with obligations and hope.
He hated that look, that hope, as he and that emotion
had parted ways some time ago, when the world was still innocent and his wrists
were bare and newborn.
“Stay with me,” the child whispered. “Don’t go.”
“Of course not,” he muttered in return, raven wings pulling
the small frame in closer as he promised, swore to remain at his side. Locked within a veil of darkness, nightmare
plumage surrounding them, he nuzzled the bloody hair as he closed his eyes, as
his hand twitched.
“Th-that hurts…”
He snapped open his eyes, steel encompassing his face
as he saw his hands wrapped around the child’s throat, clenching as bruises
began to bloom like violets beneath his fingers. Those pale eyes were wide,
little fingers scratching at his hands, begging for release with panting,
frightened breath as he writhed in the impossible grip.
He couldn’t stop, couldn’t force his hands to relax,
the muscles to soothe and stretch themselves out. He couldn’t make his body
obey, couldn’t make the force of his will stronger than the puppet strings
controlling him. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop even as the child’s lips
turned blue, as his hands laxed in their struggles, until they hung limp at his
sides. He couldn’t stop even when the last breath passed through parted lips,
even when those pallid eyes lost their color and glazed over like dirty panes
of glass.
And crying down onto that still body, he slid his
arms around it, holding it close as if he were trying to pull it into him,
combining, making one.
“I will be the death of you.”
Kazu shot upright, panting, sweating, nightmare still
lapping at his consciousness like an unfinished whore. It was another bad one,
third one this week that left him shaking and half-out of bed, third on that
made him turn on the light beside the bed to make sure he wasn’t covered in
blood or tears. He was tired of these, tired as he could ever hope to be, and
wishing they would just go away. It had been months since he had any real
sleep, anything worth calling rest, and insomnia really had lost its glamour
the first night.
Lying back down, he reached across the bed, expecting
a familiar lump, a solid frame, and finding nothing but lonely sheets that
hadn’t been warmed in weeks. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes like
cactus needles, sharp and relentless and agonizing as his chest swore it would
collapse upon itself. His hand stopped, halting and shivering in the still air,
memories bombarding him once again, a slideshow for the weary brain.
…knives and lessons and wings, tattooed for the
man who had left him behind, who had scarred him and subjected him to this…
And he wanted to hate him, wanted to hate Virgile, the man would had marked him, claimed him against his will in a way that could never be repaired, in a bond of bloody threads that could never be severed. He wanted to be able to despise his every feature, with the cheating, with the snide remarks of bitter torment, with the clean scars that lined his back. He wanted to loathe him for even existing.
But Virgile had burned so beautifully bright through
opal tears, his sight, his body etched out perfectly as he whimpered when the
nightmares were too much. And he had looked so exquisite radiating cool mercury
moonlight, the way his flat ebony eyes reflected nothing. And there was
something special about him, something he could never let go, could never
ignore.
And lingering here now, it was so easy to remember
what his hard kisses felt as they raped his mouth, those hands in his hair. It
was so easy to remember how the world, the pain, grayed every time he was near.
And from the dull ache against his sharp shoulder-blades, it was so easy to
remember why he had left, why Kazu had failed to be loved, where he had gone
wrong.
Knees pulled themselves up tight as he remembered why
night was always the hardest.