And on that day, the world ended. It should have been a joyous occasion, a wondrous celebration filled from morning to midnight with festivities, and, to most, it was...Even the birds seemed to understand: it was a day of great significance, the pinnacle of human greatness thus far. But Togeice did not. And she did not understand why she did not. At first glance, it should have been obvious; Togeice was mourning.
A/N: can anybody figure out what the title & first line are referencing? (credits at end) also. This is my first fic, I greatly appreciate and encourage criticism/tips. It might be a little ooc, sorry about that.
Tumblr exclusive a/n: the formatting got weird :(
TW: grieving, death (not depicted but plays a very big role), mention of alcohol, depiction/description of dead body
Based on your interpretation, there could be more, but i donât think itâs too obvious of an implication.
If you read the story and think it is obvious enough to have a trigger warning, or if I missed something that could be triggering, please tell me.
And on that day, the world ended. It should have been a joyous occasion, a wondrous celebration filled from morning to midnight with festivities, and, to most, it was. A magnificent parade made its way through streets lined with crowds upon crowds of people. Those who were glad to be safe, those who lost loved ones, those who felt the pride of victory, and those who were simply caught up in the atmosphere. Even the birds seemed to understand: it was a day of great significance, the pinnacle of human greatness thus far. But Togeice did not. And she did not understand why she did not. At first glance, it should have been obvious; Togeice was mourning. It should have been a simple thing to understand, but she was not one to be satisfied with the surface.
Togeice sat beside Desscaras as she lay in the hospital bed, listening to the jovial cheers. Her gently clasped hands bore a jarring contrast to the sterile cold of their surroundings. She looked almost peaceful. Had it not been for the clean and startlingly bright cloth draped haphazardly across her face and the cold that matched the room, Togeice might have believed that Desscaras was simply asleep, exhausted from successfully accomplishing yet another foolhardy feat of heroism. Instead of watching a cold corpse with her equally lifeless eyes, perhaps Togeice would be scoffing at the morning newspapers for their ridiculous headlines, or perhaps she would be scolding Dess and her team for their recklessness. There would no longer be a need to repeat that weary cycle that had long since become routine for them. She wasnât sure if she felt relieved or if she was beginning to miss those familiar actions already.
Togeice had known there would be a last time. She had known there would be a last time when she would share a bottle of wine with Dess, a last time she would argue with her over some trivial topic, a last time she would feel those warm hands against her own, a last time she would hear that flippant voice, a last time she would see those gold eyes alive and awake, a last time they would wish each other well before a mission, a last time, a last time, a last time. Yet Togeice wished she had been a little more aware every time she interacted with Desscaras, wished she had cherished her smile a little more, listened to her voice a little more, memorized her beauty in every detail a little more, savored her company a little more, loved her a little more. Now, Togeice wishes she lacked hesitation; she wishes she had been a little more shameless, a little more like the motionless figure in front of her. Perhaps her wish was unreasonable. She may have regrets, but she was alive. And Dess wasnât. She didnât have to be.
A strange sensation clawed at her from within her chest. Togeice ignored it; she lacked the leisure to linger in her grief and mourn. She was busy, and she would be particularly so in the coming days. Searching for and acquiring Desscarasâs released majiks was bound to take up much of her time, especially since, as a witch almost on par with Desscaras, Togeice was bound to be instrumental in cleaning up after her death. Cleaning up. That was all Dessâs death was to the Mantinel, the world, and now her. A minor incident they had to clean up. Already, the world had forgotten about the strongest witch and moved on. The world had moved on past her death, disregarded her grand sacrifice, and it no longer had a place for her besides history books and a grave. Never again would her name grace the lips of adoring fans, never again would her escapades be the subjects of headlines, and never again would she bask in that glory again. Even the impersonators would cease to imitate her likeness.
Togeice stood up. She turned to the door to leave, but she was weighed down. Togeice hesitated. Again. She turned back towards the still body. Togeice lifted the cloth to reveal Desscarasâs face, carved by death and misfortune. A face carved by a tragedy wrought by her own hands. Closed lashes cast soft shadows on cold cheeks, obscuring eyes of sweet honey and glimmering gold. Tenderly, she extended a hand, caressing a shadowed cheek, murmuring soft apologies for her cold, yet still warmer, hands. Togeice whispered a final goodbye. A final goodbye. A last time. She would savor this final moment, this last time, with Dess the way she wished she could have before her death. She would also exchange farewells with Desscaras at the funeral, but that would not be a moment between only them. It would not be a moment just for her. Togeice lowered the cloth and drew back her hand. She left the room.
As she left the room, the clawing from within grew sharper and more prominent with each step away from Dess she took. Togeice did not have the privilege of having the time to examine her emotional state and pick apart each individual sentiment. Instead, she walked straight ahead, towards the exit, ignoring the tightening of her throat and the blurring of her eyes. As she passed the room where Ichiâs body was held, she paused.
Maybe out of a sense of obligation, or perhaps a feeling of camaraderie with his grieving companions, Togeice moved to enter the room. She would pay her respects, maybe offer a few words of comfort for Kumugi and Gokuraku, and then she would leave. Her hand paused on the knob. Togeice hesitated to intrude on the gathering. Once again, she wasnât quite sure why. But, deep down, she understood; there was a certain sanctity that entitled Gokuraku and Kumugi to first rites. They were far closer to Ichi than she was; this was not something to be interrupted. It was probably the same reason Kumugi and Gokuraku had chosen to visit Ichi first, despite Desscarasâs proximity to the entrance. They had allowed Togeice a moment alone with Desscaras, and so she would allow them a moment with Ichi. There seemed to be a mutual understanding. It made Togeice a little lonely. Kumugi and Gokuraku mourned with each other. Togeice mourned alone. She kept walking.
Instead of the exit, Togeice turned towards the restroom. She thought about Kumugi and Gokuraku holding each other tight, sobbing as they let themselves be taken by the grief and pain and longing that often accompanied loss. Togeice didnât have time to let herself be taken. Her work would come first, and then she might allow herself to surrender, just for one night. She didnât have time, so why did she find herself gripping the edges of the sink with such ferocity that the blood drained from her knuckles? Why did she find herself peering into a mirror that showed such an anguished vision, with tired eyes and disheveled hair and dirty glasses and crumpled clothes? Why did she find herself asking â begging â for answers?
What do you mourn?
Their future, their life, their tragedy?
What do you mourn?
A future with them, their presence, a source of your own happiness?
Who do you mourn?
A living human, an existence, a person?
Who do you mourn?
A lover, a companion, a friend?
Why do you mourn?
Because they are dead and will see no more of the world?
Why do you mourn?
Or because you loved them and will miss them?
For Togeice, grieving was an inherently selfish thing, and she despised herself for indulging in her grief. If grief was a selfless, kind act of empathy, then why was it that one only mourns for a loved one? Why does one not spend every waking moment mourning for strangers worlds away? One does not mourn for a simple death. One does not mourn the person. One mourns a death the way one does after a rejection. One mourns a death the way a child cries and screams in a wild tantrum after being denied something. When one mourns, one mourns what one once had. She had always had a lurking suspicion, creeping in perhaps shallower depths of her mind, waiting to be dredged up by some tragic event.
Growing up, Togeice had always been taught â never told, but taught nonetheless â that selfishness was undesirable. She was taught that to be selfish was to betray everything she stood for and to betray all those who might ever ask anything of her. It was morally wrong, and it was reserved for children and those too child-like to shake that immaturity that might make certain undesirable qualities endearing. Child-like and immature. Two words that might describe a certain someone, whom she had left cold and rotting in a sterile room, on sterile bedsheets, covered by a sterile cloth, caught in time, never to exist again as a person in the cruel world she had once inhabited. Desscaras, who had taught her that perhaps a little bit of selfishness might not be as evil as she had once believed. Dess, who taught that and so many more undesirable qualities like greed and sloth and lust and every other wonderful, disgusting thing that Togeice had long feared. And Desscaras, who evoked envy and ire and other vile, wretched delights in her heart that grew ever twisted in ugly contortions the more she thought.
Togeice wanted to scream. She felt it bubbling in her throat. It came
up in little gasps, hiccups, and coughs, as Togeice fought â fought harder than she had against any majik or other foe â to keep the feelings, everything she had ever felt or thought or wished for while she had been with Dess, down and to wrestle them back into the little chained box that was far too small to contain it all. And in that small moment that had felt like forever, the chains burst, the box shattered, and everything had come flooding out like the wrath of a goddess. Perhaps Desscaras had come back as a ghost to enact some kind of vengeance, maybe for something as petty as an unresolved argument, or maybe she was angry that Togeice had not stayed longer. Amidst the cacophony of everything that roared in her head and heart, Togeice let out a laugh. Sharp and brittle. She wasnât quite sure what she was laughing at. The ridiculosity of the idea, or her own pathetic self for having considered that idea, even for a second. Desscaras had not acquired a single majik that would have allowed her to cheat death â not even her soul alone.
And suddenly, Togeice was acutely aware of each passing second. She spared a haphazard glance at her watch. 8:17:32. :33. :34. It had already been 4 hours since she had entered the hospital. 2 since sheâd first sat down beside Desscarasâs corpse. And 4 minutes since sheâd left. And 13 minutes until she would have to report to the Mantinel. And 43 minutes until they would take the body away.
Togeice had not missed or been late without good reason a single day since she had joined the Mantinel. Monegold could not possibly blame her when, of all people, it was Desscaras who lay dead in that room. She might scold Togeice for not sending a notice earlier, or she might begin a lengthy lecture about Togeiceâs importance in the aftermath, but she would never raise her voice at Togeice for putting her own feelings ahead of a job. Or maybe she would. Togeice wasnât quite sure of anything anymore. The most powerful witch in the world had died â shocking in itself â, and nobody had bothered to even set up a stick of incense in her honor. But she knew one thing, and that was that there was a burning desire â a burning need â to spend as much time with Desscaras as possible, to have those last few minutes that she would never have again. Having made her decision, Togeice took a deep breath to compose herself, let go of the sink, and near-sprinted down the hall towards the room, barely avoiding knocking into other visitors, surprised patients, and disgruntled staff.
Then, finding herself, in front of the room again, Togeice reached for the handle. Then she heard it. Quiet sobs that resembled the same ones that she had heard for Ichi. It made sense; after all, Desscaras had been part of their team, as well. She turned to leave. Then she stopped. Wasnât it okay to be a little selfish, just once more. Before she could change her mind, she opened the door and stepped into the room. Gokuraku and Kumugi didnât acknowledge Togeice, and she didnât acknowledge them, but there was a tacit understanding and agreement that they were there for the same reasons, and that they wouldnât disturb each other.
Togeice wasnât quite sure why she was there anymore. She had come back to spend more time â as much time as she could â with Desscaras, but had there been any point? After all, Desscaras was dead and unmoving. Then, for a brief moment, she contemplated stealing the corpse. She hadnât been told what would be done with the body, whether it would be cremated or buried or preserved âfor science.â If she stole it, she could prevent it from rotting with her ice, forever locked in stasis; time would move around her while she would be stuck for all the rest of eternity. And, much to her guilt, Togeice seriously considered it. She could easily pick Dess up in her arms and leave, perhaps out the window. She doubted anyone could stop her, after all, there was no witch currently alive that could best her, and the Majikeepers were likely far too busy to concern themselves with a stolen corpse. Or maybe not. She was a very powerful witch, after all. Her mind was scattered, and she felt numb.
When Kumugi and Gokuraku got up to leave, having paid their final respects to Desscaras, Togeice did not move. When she heard hospital staff outside the door, preparing to take Dess away, she still did not move. Immediately, a wave of regret and nausea overtook her. Now, Togeice was sitting in a cold room alone, disheveled and so unlike the pristine witch she always presented herself as. She should have taken the body. The thought briefly flashes across her mind. Now, she sat beside the empty bed, unmoving as hours passed. The hospital staff had left the room unused, maybe out of respect for the great witch whose corpse had been held within those walls, maybe out of compassion for the tired mourner who still remained in the room.
By the time the thought that she should leave crossed her mind, it was already dark out. The staff was preparing to switch to the night shift when she mustered up the strength to step out of the room, her feet unsteady and unwilling to leave.
The next day, when she entered the Mantinel, with heavy dark circles and unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes, nobody questioned her unannounced absence the previous day or her miserable appearance, save for some insensitive cadets who were quickly hushed by their peers. She was far too detached to notice the looks of concern that her coworkers exchanged when she wasnât looking or the whispers behind her back. She simply worked and worked and worked and worked, same as before Desscarasâs death, except she no longer spent late nights lying under stars, she no longer watched the vivid red swirl of wine, no longer exchanged witty banter between missions. With each passing day, Togeice became painfully more aware of Dessâs absence. Every morning, that wave of grief and pain would be renewed again, and sheâd dance that same excruciating routine again, waltzing with an imaginary ghost.
After a week, Togeice began to suspect that everyone â everyone but herself â had, in fact, forgotten about Desscaras, the greatest witch in the world. The funeral invitation had yet to come in the mail. Then Togeice suspected that maybe she had simply been left off the guest list, whether by error or intention. Then it came wrapped in pretty yellow envelope and written with calligraphy unbecoming of the morose event it heralded, like a grand trumpeter announcing the arrival of the end of the world. In her hands, Togeice held material proof that Desscaras was indeed dead. Seeing her body had not been enough, but holding that morbidly grandiose letter in her hands felt like treason. It felt like accepting that Dess was dead. Once again, wretched emotions bubbled in her throat. She wanted to rip the letter to shreds, yet she wanted to frame it and hang it on the wall all at once, a final piece of the worldâs acknowledgment of Desscaras and her sacrifice. She wanted to skip the funeral just to be selfish and to make a statement that she didnât accept Desscarasâs death or the worldâs willingness to move forward, but she wanted to be there for her final moments before Desscaras would be whisked quietly out of public eye.
Yet another week passed, and Togeice found herself staring dimly into her bathroom mirror, dressed neatly in mourning clothes. Never one to break decorum, Togeice had eventually resolved to go, whether out of obligation or personal reason. She would attend, gift Dess flowers, orate a small eulogy, say her final goodbyes, then she would leave and move on with her life as if Desscaras had never been a part of it. As if Dess hadnât consumed her entire life with her brilliant presence, hadnât taken it and turned it completely on its head, taken it and thrown her completely off course, as if Dess hadnât been everything to her. Togeice couldnât remember a time before she had met Desscaras, yet she remembered their first meeting so clearly. She remembered thinking of Desscaras as annoying and loud. And pitiful.
Shaking herself out of yet another grief-induced stupor, Togeice turned to leave, steeling herself as she stepped out the door, leaving the comfort of her home to see a world the greatest witch alive would never occupy again.
A/N: title from The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot, 1st line also adopted from the same poem. Some of the word choice is really deliberate, some of it is not. The last line is very much deliberate.
Have some apocalypse implied cannibalism yuri (under cut)
Read tags for warnings
7 October 2025
26 April 0001 P.C.A (?)
Recently, I have come into possession of a typewriter and a sizable ream of paper fit for writing. In light of the supposed anniversary of World-End I have made the decision to attempt to document some of my experiences in an attempt to maintain a pseudo-relationship with what may remain of society, or perhaps this is just my feeble attempt to grasp at what may remain of my sanity by holding onto a small bit of routine and comfort. I have done my best to count the days since World-End, but I cannot be certain of my accuracy. I have likely miscounted; perhaps it is, in truth, the third of April or the first of May. About a year has passed since the Chernobyl Apocalypse, or so I believe it was called. Information travels at an astonishing speed, even in a world with no systems of communication or organized collectives. I often hear fellow travelers whispering of how a reactor or some other wicked instrument had caused the great World-End from within the walls of a factory called Chernobyl.
It is rather a miracle that I survived such a disaster. If my memory serves me well, and it has for the past 38 years, there had been a great factory right up next to the place where my dear old house had once stood. It had borne a name that I hadnât quite remembered âtil I heard the rumors. I remember much, and yet I remember little about the incident. I could tell you where I was, what I was doing, who I was with, or even what I had had for breakfast on the day of World-End, but I could not tell you what I felt, what I was thinking of, or whether or not I believed I would die in the moment it happened. However, looking back on the incident, I believe that if I had been in any state to give my situation a good, hard think, I would still not have arrived at any conclusion at all.
I donât believe that World-Endâs effects spread too very far; after all, there was supposedly a declaration from the governments of nearby nations that announced an attempt to restore civilization within the next 50 years once the radiation disappears. Considering the state of the world, I doubt Iâll live to be reintegrated into society.
27 April 0001 P.C.A
In such a world that lacks any law, faith, or other central figure to evoke conscience against those who may commit heinous acts, it is necessary to ensure that oneâs resolution remains steady and to understand that one must value survival and safety over any other concept that may have been of worth before World-End. One must learn to disregard any sense of morals, ethics, fears, or desires in order to preserve oneâs life. Any aspirations from before World-End must be abandoned and relations estranged. One must learn to embrace treachery and deceit, but must also exercise restraint in the employment of such methods. While it is not often that one may come across a fellow survivor of World-End who maintains a bit of sanity, should one encounter a fellow traveler, one should be wary, for those travelers may make an attempt on oneâs supplies. One should also refrain from taking on any companions; it is difficult to gather enough supplies for one, much less two.
One should also be wary of collectives. With the occurrence of World-End, cults and the like have become even more rambunctious, with their rabble-filled lunatics having been spurred by World-End. Devotees of peculiar offshoots of pre-World-End religions, worshippers of made-up deities, and even the occasional literary fanatic of Lovecraftâs Cthulhu and the like. One must be careful not to be swept up in the activities of such cults, should one find oneself as a sacrifice.
30 April 0001 P.C.A
Recently, I have salvaged a copy of The Last Man by Shelley. Although it is best to travel with only the barest necessities, such entertainment is a rare find after World-End. I plan to dispose of it after completion. It is necessary to keep oneâs possessions few since it is uncertain how long one may stay in any given location.
Among those possessions, it is necessary to have an emergency store of food, a canteen or flask filled with clean water, basic medical tools, a firearm, a small weapon that can be concealed, a utility knife, a reliable method of starting a fire, and a durable pack to store them in.
08 May 0001 P.C.A
The book has been discarded, and I have just killed a man. I doubt he was even a day over 20. I have repeated to myself that it was only in self-defense that I committed murder, and yet I cannot help but feel myself drowning in guilt and regret and fear of what else I may permit myself to do. I have previously mentioned that morals would be of no use after World-End; however, I find myself flung into the depths of despair at the very thought of how far humanity has fallen for it to be utterly necessary to abandon the notions of right or wrong.
21 May 0001 P.C.A
The blood still clings to my hands. I have scrubbed and scrubbed with old rags I have gathered on my travels, and I am considering using some of my water to clean them off.
19 June 0001 P.C.A
I have finally rid myself of the blood that stained my hands, but the thought of stabbing a knife through a man still haunts me. I have had many negative encounters thus far, but none have required me to take such drastic action. That man was the first one I have killed. I have long since purged the image of his face from my mind, but the fear that overtook me when he swung his own knife at my throat still grips me. His bloodcurdling screams still echo in my ears, and I remember every nuance of the dread that reached up from the depths as I felt my knife pierce through his flesh and the blood slide down the blade, then the handle, and finally my hand. Recalling the sensation still causes my stomach to turn.
29 July 0001 P.C.A
My food supplies are running low. I hope to come across an unscavenged pantry or grocery store soon. I yearn for human interaction, but I fear what I may be compelled to do, for it has not yet been three months since I have killed. I am also struck with paranoia, for the man I had killed had not even attempted to weasel his way into my food supplies with trickery; he had immediately gone to murder. I shudder at the thought of what had driven him to such irrational insanity or what he may have intended.
03 August 0001 P.C.A
My food supplies have been completely depleted.
08 August 0001 P.C.A
I have failed to scavenge any more food. Even after World-End, I have never found myself in such a dire situation. There is an excruciating pain in my stomach, and I fear I may die.
11 August 0001 P.C.A
I have encountered someone in a similar situation to mine. I was wary of the woman at first; after all, it is necessary for anyone who desires to survive to make use of their wiles. She shared the last of her food supplies with me, saying that she was also likely due for death. She told me that she would rather live a few days less and spend her remaining time talking with a companion than die alone after desperately clinging to a futile attempt for survival. I did not ask for her name, and she responded in kind.
19 August 0001 P.C.A
We have spent the past few days together, huddled around a fire or lying side by side under the stars. Weâve exchanged many stories: anecdotes from before World-End and exaggerated ventures in the time after. They helped dull the pain in our stomachs. I told her what I had read about in The Last Man. She told me about Frankenstein. I took a certain liking to Victor, disregarding unspoken divine law and suffering the consequences and guilt he brought upon himself. She told me she had enjoyed the character of Henry Clerval when she had read the novel, but more than any character, that the story of Mary had interested her more: Mary, who grew up surrounded by mavericks, Mary, who eloped with a married man, Mary, who wrote a story so dreadful and enticing that it revolutionized literature as a whole, Mary, whose stories stirred desires so horrendous that even the vilest of the vilest would be ashamed of themselves for desiring, and Mary, whose stories beguiled many into surrendering to those desires out of mere curiosity of the consequences of defying natural law.
22 August 0001 P.C.A
The agony is unbearable. I find it hard to focus on her words, and harder still, to speak.
11 September 0001 P.C.A
I did not believe that I would live to see the end of the month. However, I had managed to acquire a small amount of food. It had been enough to quell the pain in my stomach and provide me with the energy to go search for more. However, despite my relief at surviving, I was overcome with a sense of nausea. The thought of my own unsavory actions still makes me sick. I remained unable to move from my spot for a week out of shame, guilt, grief, and disgust. However, I believe it was a necessary action. Those who cannot stomach wicked actions will not survive the world after World-End. How far I have fallen to so readily accept my immorality.
24 December 0001 P.C.A
It is the Eve of Christmas. I recall spending previous Eves and Christmases with family and friends. It was always a warm and splendid occasion despite the desolate cold outside. Perhaps it was the lights, all strung up around the tree.
25 December 0001 P.C.A
It is Christmas.
01 January 0002 P.C.A
It is New Yearâs. I dread what this year will bring. I fear this may be my last.
26 April 0002 P.C.A
Two years have passed since World-End, and I have kept this memoir for a year. Reading through my previous entries evokes unpleasant memories and sickens me. I mourn my humanity, for the person I once was has long since died. Perhaps that person died the moment the world ended, or maybe that person was slowly dying alongside my conscience. I have truly become a monster. I regret every decision I have made that has led up to this very moment. I cannot help but pray for death to take me swiftly, but I feel that I will be unable to go gently into that good night, for I fear death all the same, though I may very well deserve worse. I have resigned to cease writing about my experiences with this typewriter, though there is still much paper remaining. I feel as though I may have the urge to burn my few writings, should I be forced to record any more of my heinous crimes for all the world to see. I am no longer fit to live as a human in civilized society.
Old oc wip that i never finished and probably never will. I dotn think they even have names, but say hello to my toxic vampire yuri. Slight explanation under cut.
Their setting/world is loosely based off of the vibes I got from reading c&p but I searched up 1800s Russia and realized that it was in fact very different from the vibes I got so I just went off of the vibes.
There are other characters in the world that they're loosely connected to but idk. Their lore is rlly vague, plotless, and crinegy but ykw cringe is free so maybe one day. Maybe. This is actually an old redesign of even older drawings. Maybe I'll actually redesign it again. And make one of those oc redesign vids on yt lol.
So for these two basically purple is a chronic cheater bc she desperately needs affection bc she was deprived of it and told she was unlovable as a child. And scarf grew up in a cult that's technically the main religion/church but it's rlly rlly toxic and she escaped, so basically religious trauma, and some of the teachings stuck with her even though she knows the church is bad. In the end, she can't take it anymore and tells purple she will forgive her if she confesses at the church, except you are killed after confessing but most ppl don't know that. But scarf knows bc she grew up there (also her childhood friend was raised to be the main priest who kills the confessors in her place after she escaped but that's kinda irrelevant rn). Afterwards she feels extreme guilt and goes to find purples corpse in the church's secret confessional graveyard (the holy garden), digs up her corpse, gives her a proper burial in the official graveyard and hangs herself in a nearby tree. That very much horrifies the church :)
Why... did i post this on my art blog instead of my oc blog with no posts yet...? Anyways doomed vampire yuri in a c&p vibe inspired setting, except the i probably read the vibes wrong. Yippee !!
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
izzy806
gummygunk
