"They're warning us, they're warning us, one shell hole for just the four of us. Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us, so one of us can fill it all alone."
"Captor, what the hell are you-"
"Gassed last night, and gassed the night before," a more feminine voice rang out, a wink tossed his way, broken nails lifted to lips that didn't need lipstick to look good, anyway. "Going to get gassed tonight if we never get gassed anymore!"
"When we're gassed, we're sick as we can be - For phosgene and mustard gas is much too much for me!" They sang together, laughing hoarsely despite themselves. By the next verse, he'd even joined in, a fourth voice joining their tune when the medic passed by - Certain to tilt his helmet into proper position.
"They're killing us, they're killing us, one respirator for the four of us! Thank your lucky stars that we can all run fast, so one of us can take it all alone!"
Are you here with me? Just looking out on the day of another dream. Well, you can't get what you want - but you can get me.
To be entirely honest, there were many things that Jonathan did not know about most supernatural entities. He knew nothing of the workings of Heaven, Hell, of purgatories and limbos. The most he could assume was that, no matter the circumstance, someone was sure to be unhappy. Sock, though, seemed almost content to drift around the land of the living, despite being very much so dead, pestering his breathing counterpart often enough.
"I think you'd like death, ya' know," he sounded just as chipper as usual, no matter how morbid the topic. Jonathan tilted his head back, glancing over his shoulder as he walked and up at his floating companion. Did demons even have any rules of physics? Probably not, he figured, chalking the ability to float up to nothing more than another demon-ghost-thing. "No one annoying to deal with, no dumb tests to not fail, none of that gross looking cafeteria food. You could probably laze around and do whatever the entire time - Er, well. Unless Mephistopheles decides you're useful. I think he mentioned something about a bunch of phobias a while back. Hey, do you have a fear of alphabetically arranging lists for all of eternity?"
By that point, the smaller being was practically hovering over his shoulder, head beside Jonathan's and a curious, questioning expression punctuated with a smile aimed at him. With a slight huff, he looked back ahead, slumped his shoulders, and decided to humor Sock for at least a short while.
"Not really. It'd be pretty suckish, though," what phobias and alphabetically arranging lists had to do with eachother escaped him, but he could draw conclusions about the implications. At least Sock wasn't asking him about slaving away in Hell forever or anything to that extent. Organizing things was a tedious task, yes, but not one he'd mind too much. Then again, it was an eternity...
"Aw, man. Alright, uhm. Let's see... You might be able to be a demon like me!" He dropped his voice lower, circled around to float in front of Jonathan, and stuck his tongue out, hands held up and fingers hooked. "Bluhgwah, look how scary I am! Aren't you terrified?"
Caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to ignore him, Jonathan finally opted for something akin to the former, lips quirking upwards and eyes rolling. Honestly, he was such a child - How did he get stuck with the lamest demon in existence, anyway? It wasn't like he asked to have some weird specter on his ass in the first place.
"Totally. I wouldn't want to follow some random person around, anyway," really, he didn't care for the whole deal. Convincing someone to kill themself took time, effort, patience, and dedication, which were all things Jonathan was fine not having to worry too much about. He was almost entirely content with spending the rest of his life in boring mundaneness, just like the entire planet's population had to. Same thing day in and day out, for years upon years.
There was no reason to die and just as few reasons to live.
Maybe this was what purgatory was like.
Sock's face fell into a stubbourn pout, arms brought up to cross over his chest. While being dramatic and preparing to open his mouth, he seemed to forget to move, Jonathan walking right through him without much of a care, leaving the demon to furrow his brows and continue to follow.
"Oh, c'mon, it's not that bad! It's not really that different from what you do everyday now anyway, what's the big deal? You get so miserable because I'm amazing at my job, you die, we both go home! Then maybe you get a job sweeping floors before you get to work your way up to demonic status," Sock was smiling again, waving his arms a bit, still trying to convince his companion that death wasn't all that huge of a deal.
"Is your only motivation behind this wanting to get the job done?"
Dors, le mal est passé et tu entres dans la danse. Le pire de côté, ta revende en cadence. You sow happiness with every step you make, and when you wake up life continues.
It was almost odd, truthfully, how easy it was to watch himself crumble. At times, the weight of everything was crushing enough to somehow force him out of himself from the pressure of it all, time slowing nearly to a halt for the sake of allowing him a front row seat to his own destruction. The breath would rush out of him and, with it, his very resolve, as if he were mentally stripped down to the bone and left in the freezing centre of some barren wasteland, desolate and shivering against the elements. He was exposed, vulnerable - the bombs were falling and he'd spent far too long rushing everyone else into the shelters, shielding them from the oncoming attack long before the air raid siren even sounded. The fortress not that he inhabited but rather was his very makeup, from his foundation to his roof shingles, was assaulted by the blitzkrieg. The walls were smashed and broken, ruins within seconds, and all he could manage to scramble and hurriedly collect of himself tried to snag whatever was left and build back up. Every time, he'd only get so far before having to abandon his own project of self preservation - Be it for the safety of others or the distressing fatigue clouding his abilities, or even another onslaught of attack approaching.
He had managed to waltz his way right past the mine belt and directly into a trench amidst the battle field itself. He'd managed to wander right on into a war in which the only two sides were himself and also himself, an internal struggle where no one was right and no one was wrong and everyone wanted nothing more than to both crush the opposing side and have themselves taken out, if only to be spared from having to endure much more of the grueling fight. He was dodging shrapnel and catching bullet's with his teeth, grazed by bayonets and deafened by sharp cries and commands barked all around him. Both an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire and the very soldier squinting at the crosshairs, uniform immaculate while similarly torn and mud splattered - He was battle worn, ragged. He was a one man battalion, a whole regime, every enlisted soldier in the force around the entire universe in one small body, wartorn and heaving on the field. Hoisting everyone's colours and waving his own whenever he had the rare chance to do so, pushing past his own injured form and rushing onwards forth towards every call of 'medic!' from anyone other than himself. He was running in circles, pulling pins only to duck away from grenades tossed by his own hands moments later, hesitating too much to properly sacrifice himself for himself and jump upon the damnable things, take the blast and save the platoons dashing about him. He was falling in trenches he'd dug himself and those everyone else had grabbed a shovel and gotten to work on without even realising what they were doing to him, hindering him on all fronts. He was surrounded and occupied, commanding both sides and rubbing his own face in the dirt, running and hiding and fighting tears just to try and keep himself alive while walking himself straight into death all the same.
Dancing clumsily through the underbrush of unfamiliar terrain he knew all too well, tangling in vines and lines and ropes and parachutes. He was shot down and sunken all the same, lost to his own world war as the water rushed in and filled his lungs and drowned him slowly, engulfed him in the peace of knowing he was decommissioned and the anger of knowing he was but a single name on a memorial stone, that the fighting would never cease no matter how many funerals were planned or how many troops were reported as missing in action. He was stumbling, choking and gagging on himself, shot down and, no matter how much it ached, he refused to help himself, to grab his own arm and drag himself up. His fallen comrade was nothing but himself wheezing against the dirt speckled underbrush, any pound of flesh he could loan was already there. There was nothing he knew how to offer, no canteens he was willing to loan, no peace treaties he comprehended enough to write up and sign. The only ambassadors meeting were both himself, spitting and yowling and shooting eachother down or slumping in defeat, arrested as war criminals for the horrid deeds they'd done to no one other than themselves. The flames were licking at his heels and he was tripping, he was face planting into the pits and catching flame, uniform and gear only weighing him down and adding to the funeral pyre.
Everyone was dead or dying and any he could salvage barely had time to breathe their death rattles before slipping away in his own hands. Had he been able to think through the panic, the self hatred, the disgust and terror, he might have gotten a sick laugh out of the idea - Had Dave not watched himself pass, over and over, previously? Was this dead troll not just another to add to the steadily gaining pile, another bundle of flesh and nerves and words still left unspoken with no rightful, proper place in the world their host had so been thrust unto? Was another slip of the declared dead not a small blanket for the corpse, yet another pathetic attempt to keep the sleepers warm, the only mercy he would allow himself?
Neither side was making progress, and every aching soldier was too hyped to settle and too tired of fighting to truly continue, hearts too worn and bodies too battered.
Karkat Vantas was an exhausted troll, and his war had barely even started.
Who made up all the rules? We follow them like fools, believe them to be true, don't care to think them through.
"It's not fair."
The words were spoken by someone who was used to saying them, as if they'd become a subconscious mantra of sorts, a punctuation at times. There was wisdom in that young voice. A hint of tiredness, guilt, but no resentment.
He was not used to hearing such strongly worded sayings spoken so softly. He did not bother to listen to anything else being said after that.
"I do not understand your motivation, though I do not expect myself to. Perhaps, if you would discuss the situation with me, rather than simply observe, we could reach a solution to both our discomforts?"
Nothing mattered past the first words that had been spoken to him by that troll. He knew nothing of what the higher casts went through, of their turmoil, their destruction. It was not easy to be used, it was not easy to crave and be caught in manic throes.
"Sometimes, I break down, too."
That was the night he began listening.
"You've no rhyme nor reason behind the actions I have observed. You will tune me out, possibly believe I am unaware, but you grow unresponsive. I worry. How am I to know your health is not jeopardized if you won't speak to me?" He paused for a moment, head tilting to the side, as if it were interesting that his audience was hearing his words for once. 'Curiouser and curiouser,' he thought, for the first time truly taking note of how bodily the mutant could be when he was involved in a conversation. He was not amused, though, by his presence, and would have left for the evening had he not continued on with but a wave of the hand, a shake of his head, and a small grin.
"I don't expect you to believe I care. How could I ask such a thing of you, when you have captured me, forced those I love into hiding for fear of being taken just as I have? I do hope they are not working to rescue me, as such a thing would be much too dangerous. Entering the Subjuggulator's court would be difficult, even for us. I am surprised your companions did not rip me to shr-"
"They are not my companions," he left after growling that out, leaving the Signless to his thoughts for two sleep cycles.
"I was worried. You did not come to visit. I thought something had happened. I asked those who came by if I may request at least a word of your safety, but they would not answer me such. I apologise for not being able to request my word of greeting sent to you at some point," he looked more tired than usual, sounded more relieved than anything. The mutant had been worried for him, for whatever unknown reason, had lost sleep over him.
Perhaps, considering the lack of recuperacoon in his holding chamber, the nightmares had come. He spoke often of visions of peace and equality, of a world where they all lived together in harmony, but never of sleep terrors. Did he not have them?
"I dreamed of you-"
The Grand Highblood slammed a fist against the bars before leaving that time. No one ever bothered to bend them back to their correct form.
"I'm sorry I upset you." He had returned a few hours later, more relaxed than usual and subtly clumsy on his feet. He sat down closer to the bars than ever before, resting his painted forehead against them and peering past his thick hair at his current company. A quiet, dim hum rumbled in his throat, but he did not respond otherwise. "You are not your own this evening. Is it midnight by now? It's difficult to tell the time in here, my apologies," he laughed.
No answer was given, but they sat in comfortable silence for a long while. At some point, the indigo blooded troll had shut his eyes and, sometime later, felt hands gently cupping his cheeks, a quiet voice attempting to gain his attention. He was roused from near unconsciousness, scowled, and all but broke the Signless's arms when he shoved him away and lumbered off.
The Grand Highblood was not a lonely man. If he wanted company he received it. If he wanted to kill them, so be it, paint their glorious life force upon his walls, devour their corpse if he so pleased. He did not mind most of his work, took orders from only her Highest and worked around the system otherwise. He would slaughter and, on occasion, he would be asked to do so even more than usual. There was no minding of this, most of the time he enjoyed it, but being asked to grubsit a heretic was not anything he wished to participate in.
And so it was.
The Signless was crying.
He had been screaming previously, had been clawing at the moist, concrete walls on two sides of his chamber, had thrown himself against the bars. He had a bruised eye and had torn off a finger nail, he was snotty and looked more a child than usual, yellow optics wild and hazed, as if he were viewing something on an entirely different pane of existence.
He whimpered for a woman the Grand Highblood did not mind to recall the name of even as the larger troll pushed his back against a wall and snarled and shouted at him until he was brought back to reality. After that incident, he quietly requested company for longer periods of time, even if they were other Subjugs simply standing in the room.
The Grand Highblood cuffed him around the horn and complied.
It was only a few day cycles later that his court was infiltrated. Someone from the legislative building, rumours stated, had aided in the break in, but there was no evidence, not even a name. No one was injured, no one saw the culprits, nothing was broken nor missing.
Minus his charge.
The Signless, some time later, was strung up by heated irons and executed. The Grand Highblood attended and laughed, clubbed any and all he could get his hands on that refused to seek merriment.
The Executioner let the huntress go out of pity.
The Grand Highblood thought it would have been a mercy to kill all three of them before they had to face their lives Post-Execution.
I am thinking it's a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned.
"You are aware I've been able to see you this entire time, yes?"
It had been a series of months since they'd first encountered the huntress, at that point. A stalking creature of interest the stealth, the woman had remained on the edges of the crowed for the most part, finally crawling her way forth and taking refuge in a tree all but directly above the Psiioniic's head. She wasn't quite going out of her way to remain hidden but, as conversation easily revealed, she wasn't all too terribly worried over such. Catching their attention was what she had wanted in the first place, but disrupting them while he had the few gathered so enraptured as he spun a tale of times of peace and love would be extremely rude.
To say that he was surprised when she asked to tag along was an understatement. Elated, as well - She proved to be great fun, laughing and joking despite her calculating eyes, gossiping with his mother and discussing various things. She seemed to be well refined in some skills - Hunting, for instance, tracking and capturing and the like - and all but ignorant to how to preform certain others. The moment his mother had gotten out her sewing set with the promise of proper meal cooking later, he new she was going to have her hands full learning what the older troll was willing to teach.
The Psiioniic had been less willing to warm up to her, but that was to be expected from him. It took a much longer period of time - "Are you sure she didn't poison our food?" "Yes, do not worry-" "What, do you have some weird ability to tell exactly the composition of every amount of foodstuff just by smelling it?" - but was well worth it, considering how well they hit it off after that. She was just as witty as he was when she so pleased, both equally brilliant on the topic of pranks and mischief. She was able to rebuff his deadpan sarcasm nearly as well as the Signless himself could at that point, even the Dolorosa thoroughly amused by listening to them banter.
She was blunt. She didn't hesitate the next night, sun set and them sitting across from eachother, to ask if she could listen to his ideals. He was more than willing to agree, the two lapsing into discussion for uncountable hours, both surprised by how long they'd lasted when the Dolorosa tapped her son's shoulder at the very break of dawn and asked when they planned on sleeping, if at all. They'd laughed, still amiably talking amongst themselves quietly when they'd settled down for a sleep cycle. She had seemed surprised when he explained they usually just piled together and that she was welcome to as well, the day spent with his head across her stomach and her hands in his hair, the Psiioniic splayed over his own legs and Dolorosa closer to the Disciple, the two of them speaking for a while before they fell asleep as well.
When he'd awoken, she was gone.
There had been an hour or so of subtle fretting over her well being, the Dolorosa calming every fear he had for her, the Psiioniic tossing in comments that, for the most part, served to make his friend laugh. He almost choked on his own spit when she'd waltz back into their comfy little cave with a large beast clenched between her teeth and hands splattered with blood.
-
The Disciple's fascination with the Signless's world grew daily, it seemed. She was always listening to every noise he uttered, kept herself close at night to catch any of his sleeping mumbles. It was her who first suggested he begin recording his thoughts, her who'd laughed and ruffled his hair when he'd bashfully explained that he tripped up over himself too much when he tried to write and speak at the same time. For a while, she'd even tried to teach him to write more quickly, but it was easier for her to take everything down herself. She never seemed to put her book down once she had it in her hands, a gift from his mother as a formal welcoming, received with a strong embrace and her own babbling of thanks.
One night, he'd asked if he could look through it for a little. She hadn't minded in the slightest, busy cringing and doing her best not to whine and give up as she ran her fingers through her long, tangled mane, attempting to get all the knots out. The only time they'd ever used a brush she'd nearly screeched, the bristles all getting caught and tugging. His Disciple's hand writing wasn't as neat as his mother's, less elegant and more quickly done, but easy to read all the same. Along most pages, there were little notes and doodles - Recordings of his facial expressions sometimes, little habits he had at certain parts, a raising of his voice or a falter in his wording. She even had parts where he'd repeated what he'd said previously in an alternate fashion recorded.
The Signless had watched her in a comfortable quiet for nearly half an hour, black hair cascading over her shoulder and down her back, eyes shut and lips parted slightly as she did her best to get all the tangles out. Eventually, he'd simply sat down behind her and took the liberty of working on half her hair as she did the rest, the night somehow ending with them styling his shorter, curlier hair into a multitude of silly fashions.
The next night she'd taken his face in her hands after they'd had a minor disagreement, pressed her lips to his forehead and let him lace his fingers together behind her back, palms pressed to her tailbone. He head been appalled at the habits of trolls killing beasts for fun, she'd explained it was more often than not for practice rather than such, he stated killing beasts was wrong and no lifeform had any right to take the life of any other. She had gotten angry, seemingly on the verge of shouting when she tried to make him understand it was the way life worked, that nature worked that way. That
"We can't just let ourselves starve! Sometimes, we have to snuff out those weakpurr than us - There cannot be pity and mercy given simply beclaws we need to live and they are not as fit fur fighting!"
He'd looked at her incredulously, obviously startled, and had sounded more hurt that she'd ever remembered him being before.
"I suppose I am not worth such things by your standards."
-
It took longer than he thought it would to explain how he viewed the quadrants. She was understanding, more patient than she was with other topics, but seemed to have the need to know every last thing about his mindset on such a thing. Romance, he discovered, was an important topic towards her hobbies at times, something she took fairly seriously, as many did. The Signless didn't quite seem to fully understand why any of them were so caught up in the system, but she did her best to explain drones and the Mother Grub more in depth than even the Dolorosa had without making it sound as if she were trying to scare him.
Horrified, he'd mused who could ever want to engage in such things, she'd laughed and said they didn't have much of a choice before both lapsed into some time for thought. By the end of that night, she was seated in his lap, his head cradled against her chest and arms around her waist, the Psiioniic flicking the sides of both their heads to wake them up later on and state that it was time to move along once more.
-
All that had been so long ago, it felt. Between those times and current, they'd attracted more attention than they thought they would, were on certain wanted lists, and were being pursued by the higher blooded castes. Despite, they still managed to have some amounts of fun, still preached, and the Disciple had told him she loved him for the first time.
England stared into the beady eyes of the turtle Spain had given him. Sure, Spain had given him the animal as an offhanded gift, saying he had plenty more, but England treasured this turtle. It was different, a special turtle. Within its tiny eyes was the deeper sign of intelligence, and England could feel a deep connection. "You complete me, turtle," he whispered lovingly. The turtle blinked, and within the blink England understood the turtle's meaning- unconditional love and understanding.
With slow, thoughtful movements, the turtle stepped toward it’s soulmate - the turtle had finally found The One, there was no way the giant bushes atop this human’s brow weren’t signs of their perfection together. With deliberate delicacy, as if the turtle were a fragile flower, England gently pet the turtle’s shell, loving gazes meeting once more.
Orphaner Dualscar was not a man of comedy genius, admittedly. Justifiably enough, he'd never thought he would have to be. It was never part of training, no one had told him he'd have to prepare to be given to only the most highest of wickedly twisted subjuggulators for the sake of amusing someone under him on the spectrum by a single cast. Rather, his training was that of any fleet member: Enter the masses of similar place on the hemospectrum, memorize rules and regulations and proceed to live life to the letter of each. Learn to fight and hone one's skills, battle, survive. It wasn't difficult for him to enter the ranks, work his way up to the position he was satisfied enough with. That wasn't enough for him, no, it never would be.
He had always craved more, always felt a need to fill up the empty spaces with what he wished for. More gold, more jewelry, more power - More slaughter, death, more lusii's heads mounted on the walls, more pelts piled in the hold, a stronger crew. A crew strong enough to compete with him and spar on a day when he so wished and not be felled by his weaponry, be it blade or Ahab's Crosshairs. He had strong men and women under him, a stronger Empress above him, and the blackest of romances one could ever ask for.
And, yet, an irritating greed nagged and nagged, a jealously that had yet t be founded, simply a looming threat of what was yet to come. Dualscar knew not what this was caused by, what had brought him to such desperate feelings, drove a drink's glass clinking against the metal of his rings. He killed, he aided in feeding his beautiful ruler's lusus, and he did as he pleased on the side.
When all seemed to be set in stone in his life, that rock began to crack. A man rose up and spoke in tongues, foreign intelligence slandering the beautiful Alternian language with it's disgusting thoughts. Not only did he speak of peace, of unity, as if their society could truly function that way, but he loved. It was told that he and the huntress transcended the quadrants - whatever that nonsense actually meant. A gifted psionic user, one even Dualscar himself had heard word of, had freed himself and followed behind the mutant blooded man and his lover. Just as horrid a deed as all her companions had done, a jade blood escaped from serving the mother grub and took all of these misfits in.
It was sweeps after the Signless first reared his ugly head loud enough to gain the attention of the highbloods that the Orphaner was able to place his anxious twinges. Not only had the Dolorosa shirked her duties and their society's workings entirely, supported insane visions and protected the bunch of freaks, but she was taken into custody and sold into slavery. How lucky for him, it was, that his Mindfang found herself fancying her. How lucky it was, that she forced her slaves to do filthy actions, forced them to watch and enjoyed it.
Soon enough, he felt his relationship threatened, the planet once stable beneath his boots starting to crumble. So, of course, he did the logical thing and removed any threat to their kismesitude, shot the Dolorosa right through and left her corpse on his black love's ship. For whatever ungodly reason he couldn't place, she had grown upset, more violent with him than ever - She even managed to nearly toss him overboard. He was angry, frustrated, fins a flutter and eyes narrowed, teeth bared and a hand yanking her hair to toss her away as he snarled out a warning.
That was the first time he was struck hard enough over the head to tumble down to the floor beneath him.
The second time it happened, he never got back up again.
Only a few sweeps later and it was a damn cavalreaper threatening their relationship - A disgustingly low mutant in and of himself, one of rebellion, a follower of the Sufferer to a violent degree.
His Mindfang was red for this man, and it was over the course of many sweeps that they bantered and battled whenever was necessary.
Meanwhile, deep out in the vast land of their universe, his Condesce was conquering planets like no one's business. Her power was expanding, growth was finally happening and, after more sweeps came to pass, the Summoner never succeeded in his revolution attempts. Dualscar thought, by that time, the word of the preacher was long dead - But he was too often found with a bottle in his hand or a fresh corpse to drag too the sea to truly indulge in black market blood and the occult seeming whispers of what had been snuffed out of the public eye almost startlingly well.
Soon enough, he was off to rush to his Empress at her every beck and call, fighting the battles she demanded of him and his troops and the rest of the royal naval fleets. He marched into war ahead of her own journey, took down colonies of alien races and gave them no mercy. It was her command, of course, that Dualscar followed with all his heart. He took down and took over, crushed those beneath his boots who dared attempt to defend against him. He was a force to be reckoned with, might as well have been atop all the worlds he'd left tattered in his wake.
The Orphaner had always been a military man and could never see himself any other way. Never in another profession, no calling reached him minus his Condesce's. Drinking and women and men and even a reliable crew to sail and plunder with were all simply hobbies on the side. He hunted, he fought, and he never even entertained the idea that a simple, well-told joke would save his life.
His death was not one befitting of him, in his opinion, so it was no loss to him that he could not quite remember it. He would not recall streaming flags nor wind blown sails, the parry of a rapier nor the proper way to aim a rifle, the taste of alcohol, of her knuckles grazing or bruising when he couldn't manage to duck back fast enough. Alternia faded from him quickly and, with it, so went his Empress, so went his hunting and ship, his Mindfang and her Summoner's desperate attempts to win a rebellion long since snuffed to a docile smolder.
Dualscar's blood painted walls and his body was disposed of, another took his place and he the troops barely suffered for it.
Had he been able to glance back upon such events, he might have laughed scornfully and snatched another drink, muttering that the entire situation was fair enough.
emptychests vous a demandé :
Hii,its BardsAmbrosia ouo you think you could write a story on Ophaner Dualscar like how you did the signless and the helmsmen??
No problem! uwu I really enjoyed writing this, actually, and I fully intend to start writing more and more of Dualscar orientated fics soon. Thank you so much for reading!
What felt like pounding waves slammed into him from all sides with all the force of an entire ocean. Something had struck, so suddenly and swiftly, that his barrings were lost with little hope of being regained any time soon. He stumbled, balance escaped him, vision swimming in the black torrent of the assaulting pressure, body slumping back against the nearest wall and eyes widening as he fought to suck in air.
Maybe, all this time, he had been wrong.
-
If realisation was anything, it was a fierce being of deviation and disgust, a demon inhabiting one's flesh, wiring it's way through nerves and sinew, pulling muscles taunt and rattling bones down to their marrow. It was the chilled shudder that weighed a thousand and a half tons, traveling through the entire body but refusing to break flesh, caught beneath a tarp of skin and using it's confined space as a play ground.
Regret, that was another interesting feeling. One which hooked fingers and clenched jaws against screams begging to be heaved out of the heavy heart burdened with them. Regret was twining, it wormed itself in from the outside and never quite found itself satisfied, vines laced with thorns catching and tearing, ripping open innocent flesh and exposing it to the infection of itself. It caused the body matter to begin to rot and stick, for decomposition to set in and spread through pain-filled veins, clog up and wisp through hearts struggling to beat as if smoke filling lungs with every desperate inhale.
A combination of both, shaken up and splattered over and dripped from the maws of What-If into a pile of poison laced If-Only was the cocktail which had somehow been slipped down his throat. It inhabited his intestinal tract, spread it's disease from his most fragile of anatomies and broke him from the inside out.
He was drowning on dry land, pulled under the current of his silent pleas and muffled by the very words he wished to scream loud enough to change time itself.
He was the Sufferer, and he had made a very grave mistake.
-
Head cradled in his hands and nails digging into his scalp, curls falling haphazardly about his long-worn digits, breathless screams and sobs tore their way through his entire body. Blanked out optics shut so tight it hurt, watery red tears built and were too compressed between flesh and flesh to fall without catching a lucky break on the rare occasion. Bent over himself and huddled against the corner of the hive he barely remembered enough of to fully piece together, the deceased troll had finally been diagnosed with an extreme case of a rather crippling condition known not by a single word in his language, nor any other that could possibly span across universes and through and into death for his sake. If such a term existed, the species that spoke it was much too far off to apply it to him, but he was not currently on a search for a dictionary definition of his despair.
He was all alone and the weight of everything suddenly being nothing at all was so painful he could not possibly believe he was truly existing through the entire experience. He had messed up somewhere along the line - A multitude of times. He had taken too many wrong turns and taken the place of a blasphemous figurehead without proper preparation, designated as a scapegoat and it was only after he realised the consequences of his actions did he wish to revert back to the way it had been.
Yet, at the same time, how could he have lived with himself had he not? How could he stand himself if he had let all those trolls whom simply did nothing more than support his words, his beliefs and teachings, rush off to their deaths for his sake? He couldn't - But that was in the past, nothing he could change and nothing he ever would. It was the choices made afterwards he'd distort, take a different turn in a different town, speak a little louder or quieter to a crowd. The little things that could have truly saved his life and, more importantly, the lives of those he loved, had he only thought his actions better through.
Cursing himself under his breath, tossing his head back the second he could move enough to do so, he let his arms fall. Carefully, the mutant blooded troll allowed his aching eyes to part their lids just enough to blink his horrendously blurred vision into focus to some miniscule amount. Breathing ragged, the waves were quelling themselves about him finally - Or, had he simply been dragged down so far, sunk so low in the ocean, that he escape the raging torrents? Was it that sickness struck and his body had been dumped to attempt and keep those about him safe from such an ill, left for the water to swirl it's interesting new gift before growing bored, tossing him to the bottom of the water-logged, rhetorical toy chest?
Either way, his entire form was shaking nearly enough to send his blunt teeth into sporadic chatters, fingers curling in the thick wool of his cloak tight enough for his bones to pop quietly, to feel as if threatening to splinter on him. For a brief, dark moment, he mused if such a thing would be better or otherwise. Perhaps, a battered physical form would do well for his tattering mentality. He had never been all there in the first place anyway, had he? Visions of a world not his own, border-line schizophrenic is what he may have called it, had he known such a term. Dreams so vivid he could remember the scent of his companion trolls carrying over in the waking world, hear their words and laughter echoing back into his own. And, not often, was he frightened, no. The Signless had always been enchanted with this world, enraptured with the companionship between all inhabiting it, the mutual peace, the love.
It was a world bursting with muted colour, a place where shade did not mark the man nor place a number on his head. It was a world he strove for, nearly down right fought for on a multitude of occasions.
It was the world that had, inevitably, blinded him with it's muteness enough to allow him to waltz, laughing, straight into the waiting menace of doom without a single care in all the galaxy.
It was the world that he was on the verge of cursing, of blaming for all his misguided fuck ups, for stealing his loves, his family.
Wherever it was, even as much as he grew to hate the downfall it had caused him, he still strove for it, still yearned and wished for. Trying to admit an entire race into a new teaching, an entirely new system - it was foolish, especially to believe he could do so through simple spread word before the end of his lifetime. It was the idiotic thought which lead him to the heated shackles, the Psiioniic to the helm, the Dolorosa to her slavery, the Disciple to her solitary madness.
The world which took all he had ever gained away haunted him even in death and, with that secondary epiphany he broke down once more and curled back in on himself, unable to breathe correctly and unable to move himself.
Mistakes had been made, wrong turns had been taken. Dreams had come and danced their way through the waking mind, beautiful fairy tales singing their siren song and leading him by the hand directly down into those horrid depths.
