[1stmurderer]

private & selective original character set primarily in the universe of good omens by neil gaiman & terry pratchett. based on cain of biblical fame. sideblog to @toskahs, as marked by regulus. a study in: the freedom & failure of knowing. am i my brother's keeper? being locked out of heaven. my brother is alive/still dead/brought back. dying but not staying dead. a human sort of heartbreak. it's the same old story: it starts with a lamb & ends with the murder of the person you love the most. father, was i good? / you did it. / but was i good? there were once two brothers in a field; two brothers in a field is enough for the tragedy to start.

[fellandfeathers]

AZIRAPHALE HASN'T SEEN CAIN since they were but a babe within a womb. He was instructed to allow Adam and Eve to venture into the world themselves—part of their punishment for the Fall: navigating an entire world upon their own.

Thus far, Aziraphale has an excellent record of FOLLOWING THE RULES, which is how he finds @1stmurderer—in the aftermath of humanity's second crime—angel and child staring at each other from across the field.

Or perhaps they're not quite a child any longer.

The taste of metal fills the air. The blood has just started to dry and crust—ABEL, FAVORED SON—and as Cain looks away, Aziraphale chances a step forward.

❝ Cain... what—what happened here? ❞

[1stmurderer]

THE ROCK TUMBLES FROM YOUR FINGERS as you stumble forward — the sound it makes as it hits the ground doesn't sound all that different from the sound it made when you struck your brother — and all but trip over your own two feet as you stare at a corpse your brother's body. warmth soaks your clothes as you kneel in abel's blood, soaking the earth you once tended your fields in, and you cradle his head in your lap, whispering to him so low you're not even sure he will be able to hear. " abel— " and here, your voice cracks like it has not done since you were very small, since THE VERY FIRST TIME YOU EVER GOT ANGRY at him for things you don't even remember anymore. here, in that crack, there is a hysterical sort of panic welling up inside your chest. " abel, get up. i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to hit you so hard, but it's not funny! get up. get up! GET UP! " you don't mean to yell, but it does not matter for he does not move — abel, your brother, the only person in the world who has ever known only this world OUTSIDE THE GREAT GARDEN besides you, your twin — he will, and you know this fact deep down in the core of your bones, never move again. it has not occurred to you that you're being watched until you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand straight like the bundles of wheat you'd presented to the lord only that morning. it occurs to you plainly then that ABEL'S STILL WEARING HIS BEST CLOTHES — and so are you, & both are being soaked in his blood. your eyes lift from his face ( how long have you been staring at his face, waiting for him to finally stare back again? ) and find a man — a being, something in the back of your mind, some instinctive part of your brain that sees things for what they are & not what they should appear, corrects — LOOKING BACK AT YOU. adverting your gaze in easy; it is DECIDEDLY LESS SO to quell the questions that spill from your lips like water from a stream: " who are you? where— where did you come from? " another look down at the body your brother. " can you fix him? "

[angcltouched]

@1stmurderer cain asked for eve : SENDER shields RECEIVER from prying eyes.

eve felt uncomfortable under the weight of their stares. she had been made to draw attention, shaped with the kind of beauty that invited lingering looks and prying eyes. it was not something she had chosen, yet it followed her wherever she went. that kind of beauty was difficult to ignore, and at times, it could be dangerous. it attracted curiosity, desire, judgment, thing she had learned to endure in silence. ( you were made to serve and that is all. )

she should be used to it by now. she should know how to handle it. how to lift her chin, how to ignore the whispers, how to pretend it did not make her skin crawl. and yet, somewhere deep in her core, she still wished she could simply disappear from their sight. that she did not have to feel the weight of being watched like something to be admired ... or claimed. her thoughts were interrupted when cain stepped in front of her.

her eyes widened slightly at the sudden movement as his body shilded hers without hesitation. he stood tall, talled than she was now, broad-shouldered, strong, no longer the boy who once clung to her hand for comfort. the sight of him like this always carried something better-sweet within her. he was a grown man. so different from the child she had raised. so different from the boy who used to look up at her with innocent eyes.

her slender fingers rose instinctively, coming to rest gently on his arms. the touch was light, almost tentative, as if she were grounding herself. or perhaps trying to ground him. she did not pull, did not push. she simply sought his attention through that quiet contact, hoping he would understand what she did not wish to say aloud. she did not want him to act out of anger. not for her.

❝ it's fine, we can just leave. ❞ her voice was calm, soft ... steady in contrast to the tension she could feel in him. there was no fear in her tone, only a quiet attempt to ease the moment before it could turn into something worse. ❝ i'm not feeling that good anyway. ❞ it was only half a lie. the discomfort in her chest had nothing to do with illness, and everything to do with being seen, and with seeing cain ready to fight battles she never wanted him to fight.

𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓, 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 ... 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

[1stmurderer]

you do not make a habit of being in places where your mother is, but the world is only so big. it is a thing bound to happen every once in a long while, so every once in a long while, you exist in some space alongside the woman who raised you without ever acknowledging that fact. most times, you don't even speak to her. most times, you leave as soon as you recognize her — and you always recognize her eventually, because what sort of child doesn't know the sight of their own mother? — and get as far away from her as possible as quickly as possible. no one else is as privy to your wrongdoings as she is; no one else is as joined together in your grief as she is either. but, for all that you find it hard to speak to her without thinking of the blood that still stains your hands some thousand years later, it is almost as if your body moves without your telling it to. and a part of you, some part that bubbles closer and closer to the surface with the longer you catch notice of the way these people stare at her, wants to snarl and snap like a chained animal — wants to make someone remember that for all you look man and man alone, man has always been an animal with sharp, gnashing teeth. your face stays blank as you step in front of her, shielding her from admirers and judgements alike. and when you finally turn to look at her, when her hand catches on your arm, you all but freeze — the first time you have seen her in how long? how many years has it been since the garden? you have long since stopped counting. " it's not your fault if they stare, ma. " you murmur, voice scratchy and raw. " don't let them control you. "