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beneath the serpent lies the sea, prompt two + paradox

Prompt #: 2 + paradox Title: beneath the serpent lies the sea Characters: Sablier-verse Duchess Nightray, Raymond Nightray, Vernice Nightray, Bernard Nightray, Ernest Nightray, Elliot Nightray, Leo Baskerville, Vincent Nightray/Baskerville. Warnings/Rating: PG-13, gore, death Word Count: 3134 words Summary: “If you cannot get the people to believe you, will the powers of what they fear.“They did it to bring honor to the Nightray family.

+14 points for Team Retrace

It’s a science the Nightrays are proud to have dabbled in. Cycles of the moon had long ago been established, the tug of the waters resulting in waves agreed by all, their namesake now glorified and worshiped, the people of the frail religion ignoring the depths beneath the clashing tides. Duchess Nightray, after the shadow cast upon her family, desperately sought any salivation the religious could offer. Anglia had brought buckets of water upon her family’s roof, Alexander had brushed her aside and sent flames to their home, and Fianna had been rumored to reject their souls for her late husband’s sin.

Connections had been sought across the mountain range, the despairing woman clinging and tugging against the robes of any who would listen to the story she had to tell. Gretchen, a slender, foreign woman with nothing less than plumpness and curves brought her into the safety of a warmed home. A relationship had long since established between the family of Mathews and Barma, their hair slowly began to take on a red tint as the generations grew. She whispered of secrets that the religious rejected, shunned, that were to be found nowhere else but in the heart of their bible. For the Abyss was not quite a place of punishment for the sinners, for the unwed mothers, for the men who dared to brush hands with anyone lesser than a saint – instead, it was a record of memories, endlessly replaying the times of past of future, regardless of importance.

The lack of a response from both their King and Duke Baskerville had only encouraged, strengthened, and hardened Gretchen’s beliefs, and the woman had planted the seeds of a changing religion in her home country. "If you cannot get the people to believe you, will the powers of what they fear,” it was less than a whisper, but the Duchess forced herself to listen to every hiss and click from her newly found acquaintance. Nodding along, the women grinned a smile of pure teeth, and began to offer her theories, wildly speculating into the night.

As a gesture of good will, the home was lent to her for one more night of recovery and planning. For she, the widowed Duchess, was to begin the abyssal arts and perhaps override Pandora in the long run. The next morning, Gretchen sent her on her way with a case full of interpretations of their religion, notes concerning the raw energy and theory behind the Abyss, and rosary beads. Lastly, a quick prayer was exchanged between the two, and Gretchen prayed unrelenting mercy on the poor woman’s soul before slicing up the traditional snake, a symbol that would be later passed down her family.

Eager, the noble woman raced home as fast as one could in a bustle, steel enclosing her thighs irritatingly. As the carriage ride was long and dark, spent most in dusk, with the mountains obscuring even the chance of viewing home, the Duchess began to read over the countless notes she had been given. Apparently, the Abyss was host to a wishmaker that would grant you any request as long as you could meet them.

How to contact them without the usage of a reading from a fortune teller was, currently, unknown - and nothing in their bible had described a lonely soul in a chasm that consistently flipped over the card of The Hermit when questioned. Snorting, a feathered pen was quick to cross the section out, certain Gretchen had meant well but had read too much in between the lines.

//

Reestablished into beauty, the official Nightray manor stood anew above her and the children. Fearful, the youngest daughter, Rosaline, whimpered at the sight of their home based upon the foundation of ash. Yes, a hate crime from an anonymous source had sent their forever home into nothing less than a memory in swirling eternally their heads, in the Abyss, and descriptions in history. Now, it gleamed proudly in the moonlight, fenced fields glinting afresh with a new development of soil, the very imagery of what it meant to be a Nightray. Gently soothing her child, the Duchess swayed in front of the gate, holding the key with a shaking hand.

It began to click in response, the grand gate swinging with the force of a breeze, audibly cackling with the side of a steel fence. Flinching, as to which Rosaline had noticed, the Duchess reeled back but a caress sent her standing upright, sending her hypocritical attitude away. Blissfully ignorant of recognition of their old region in which their last home stood, the toddler ran into the courtyard, ignoring the startled cries of both parent and sibling. His brother and elder sister swooped down upon him, carrying him onto the locked main door as they shared a laugh for the first time in years.

What hadn’t been managed to be touched by tongues of flame was the area leading into the Door. Once renovations had begun, it whisked away, sending the area into a topple of stone. Later, once the room was rebuilt, it reappeared with more elegant features. Feathers occasionally burst through the sliver of the two doors, and thus people speculated wildly about what Chain had been caught by the Nightray name. Barma had secured Dodo early in its introduction to society, and Owl had mysteriously appeared in a purple door facing the inside of the Rainsworth’s greenhouse. Vessalius and Nightray were the only two left, but this led to ultimate confusion - for there would be one last Black Winged Chain running amok.

Desperately, she hoped for the Chain Jack was said to favor in his interactions with Glen, the Gryphon. As it had been confirmed by both Duke Rainsworth and Duchess Barma, there was no longer any reason to hesitate in prying open the doors, and her key had been turned into her husband’s sword, the last remainder of him after Sablier. Shortly before Duchess Barma’s contract, she began to draw out a plan in how to take Chains for the Dukedoms and Pandora, and once the idea was considered good enough as a variety of successful contracts in Pandora had succeeded, the door in Barma’s main household had appeared.

Opening the door, the room proved to be more vibrant, welcoming, and warming than the outside. Black pasted against the walls, and dark chandeliers hung above, candles said to endlessly burn in a house of light by their designer. A floral pattern was hidden against the black, near impossible to see with distance, and blue swirled against the marble their feet rested on.

It had, all in all, been a better result than she could have ever imagined from a ‘neutral’ architect. Blood seal in hand, with the sword clinking in its sheath, the woman willed herself not to cry as she ordered her children to get settled, telling Maria to begin to assemble her mothers’ things in the master bedroom.

Walking off, soon her high heels were the only thing to be heard in the unnaturally silent house. Once, it was never quiet with her maids, children, and husband, but there was a looming silence ever since-

The Door loomed above her, and she glanced upwards, waiting for either a sign from the Heavens or an early approval of the Chain. A single one came through, brushing against her heels. Fear ran as the sword was raised into the slot, turning it once, twice…

//

Rejected.

She was rejected.

A proud woman determined to never shed blood in the name of honor was rejected by the beast dwelling in her house, sliced by an angry beak down her left arm, choked nearly half to death with a chain wrapped around her throat. Raven sent her stumbling out the door, dress wet with urine, blood spilling from both the shattered seal and her gaping arm.

Later does she wake, in a room with a heavily guarded window, sunlight instantly causing a sensitive cry. Maria is set upon her table, and a small sickness rises in her throat upon introduction of daughter and mother. Dutifully, she helps move her mother, clearing her throat and mouth once her stomach is emptied. It’s a fever that brings her back down, sweet nothings whispered into her ear as she was pushed back into the safety of unconsciousness.

“It’s that bastard Vessalius’ fault,” Maria hisses into her ear, bringing a wet cloth round her sharpened features. “I promise, mother, we won’t let them get away with it.”

“Love… my daughter…”

Shushed, fingers threaded through her glistening locks, as though the past few hours - days? Weeks? Had been spent in night terrors she was not allowed to rise from until this moment. Continued whispers of bloodied revenge soothe her head, but her nerves jump at the thought of a sequel massacre in which the Nightrays were to blame. A single cry is all she leaves her family, dipping further into death than expected from any family members.

“It’s for the pride of the Nightray family, mother. Go back to sleep. I love you.”

The Duchess Nightray dies in the embrace of her daughter at that very second, barely a day over thirty-five, hair already struck with gray hairs after the amount of stress a death in the family gave her. Beneath her daughter’s caress she does lay, giving one last prayer that her daughter is right, but in the good way.

//

One after the other, her children are rejected.

Frederick limps out of the doorway, splattering the marble a sickly shade of red. Blood swells in both vision and scent, and without her husband’s consent, she hurries to his wounded, kneeling body. There’s bubbles against the wound Vernice desperately closes with her hand, glancing upwards to a disapproving Bernard, shaking his head at the sight.

Reluctantly, she lifts her first son by herself, legs trembling from the effort. A gasp of shock, ringed with pure pain rattles her, a string in her mind beginning to furl - Bernard finally assists, barely even looking at his son as he supports his spine, allowing him to curl in their arms.

“He’s only sixteen,” it comes without warning, upon feeling the vibrations of disappointment echo throughout her husband. “He’s only sixteen.” A crack sends her crashing, releasing her son as to curl against the floor, Bernard simply shaking his head once more as he raised a single finger, approving a servant into action. Hurriedly, they sprint upwards, beginning to escort the eldest son of Nightray away.

“I am well aware. We will not let him die like my grandmother, dear.”

“Not Claude, please. Not Claude.”

Grunting, Bernard walked away with the servant, having ordered a handmaid to help his wife up. There was to be a conference today at Pandora, and afterwards he planned to continue his visit at the Orphanage. There was no time to care about things that could humiliate the family name, either Frederick’s miserable failure ( after his own after his own after his own ) or his wife’s miserable state.

Surely, they would have a proper heir for the first time. If Claude could not will the beast into a respectful Contract, then they would have another son. Or another. Or even a daughter.

While they did not slice the throats of Zai’s love, they would not allow themselves to succumb to the trash that was the Vessalius family, no matter what they had to do. All of his children would be taught the same way, to redirect their fury given to them upon birth to the family that had forsaken their name wrongly.

He was going to bring honor back to his family. He was. He was. He was he was he was he-

//

A stranger is in their home. A stranger Bernard had sought after, once he began to investigate the areas surrounding Nosambria. Chains swelled in the natural supplier city, an obvious statement by this point, as the majority of their Illegal Contractors had come from the town. Ébauche remained a lumber town, the ground not tainted with the otherworldly. This left a single town, and in the deeper parts of the village, he found him.

According to the villagers, all with respectful nods and bows to the Duke Nightray, the boy was named Leo. He was an oddity, a sign of the Devil, a woman had whispered into his ear after he bent over as requested.

“He’s just not right, sir,” the elderly gossip, subtly begging for a forcible move. “I wish we had the same customs as before, marking children of ill intention.” What he lacked in eyes he made up for the disasters in their village, children drowning underneath the river and constant storms brewing.

Hardly one to dispute their words, Bernard kept a careful eye on the child. He’s anything but bubbly, curious at the sight of the Nightray symbol but remained in his stance, clinging to the robes of a mother who, instead, glared at him, well aware of his rank. Rarely did one ever challenge his authority, and with a huff, he exited and ordered several less worthy servants to oversee the child.

Years later, the mother became an Illegal Contractor, understandably maddened from the pressure of raising a peculiarity. Not only did she suffer from a burden in the form of a child touched and cursed by the Abyss, the town laid directly underneath the Abyss. Terrified, Bernard ordered to immediately sweep the child into the Orphanage.

“This may have been the break we have been waiting for, Ernest.”

Now a man in his teenage years, Ernest blinked at the information put on the table - but as the rest, the archive of failures regarding contracting Raven do little to lull his enthusiasm. Vincent may have told him a version of the truth, but if the child he talked about didn’t reappear soon, he could very well be broken off with the Chain as he died in the Abyss.

“I promise, father, I will prove to you I’m a Nightray.”

“That’s a good boy…”

//

A stranger is in their home.

A stranger reeking of abyssal stink, Chains clinging to his feet in their vapor form wherever he may go. His name is Leo, but Bernard stubbornly refers to Leo as it, horrified at the sight before him again, and the cause of it is the orphan’s. Ever since his arrival at Fianna, the experiments had upshot in success rate, doubling if not tripling in numbers. The hole now had arms, legs, nails of chains crawling out, scratching at the stones, attempting to make their way out of the abnormal exit of the Abyss.

A stranger is in their home, and it has eyes of gold and blue and purple. It flinches when a nun raises her hand for secular actions, but yells at his pride and joy in the shape of a human. A stranger is adored by his wife, the woman recklessly shielding him from the majority of his rage at the sight of it crossing in their hallways.

“He’s done nothing wrong. He makes Elliot happy. When was the last time our son had a friend, Bernard?”

A stranger is in their home, loved more than he is, hated more than he is as well. It means no good, fires breaking out in the kitchen, nurses losing their precious medicines at the worst time and the flowers beginning to wilt in the garden once it tends them with a flicker of a touch.

Bernard fears what it will mean for the family honor.

//

Nightray blood has been spilled.

Elliot is dying.

Leo is screaming.

Nightray blood has been spilled.

//

Ghosts of the children laugh in the Orphanage, not even a month after the three had died. John David Helen. Helen’s guts weren’t thumbing against the rock, but two days after John, she had suddenly ran high fevers and cried but then instantly smiled as nuns questioned her. She died alone, screaming and clawing at the door, begging for a candle to keep the monster in the closet away as she giggled.

Shaken, Leo trembled against the wall once the lights turn off as the candles burst into smoke, nuns having called for lights out. This included the Nightray visitors, and Elliot had hit the bed five minutes ago and began to snore awhile ago. Insomnia had been inevitable in for him, Leo assumed, and that came with hearing and seeing things in which nobody else did. To a larger extent, that is.

Their files had been removed, as if John David Helen had never existed in life or death. Paranoia claws at his tongue, sobs shaking his ribcage as a mutated Helen looks above with nothing in her tiny little brown doe eyes. Her dress is torn, feet stained almost-red, almost transparent but not quite.

“You said you were going to save us. You said you loved us.”

John touches his throat, and Leo shivers, buckling against the poor wallpaper of his old room, void of any source of life minus Elliot. But he wasn’t living, either. He died. Leo saw him die. He died and it was his fault and there was blood and the children died and David is clawing at his insides.

Their deaths are killing him, and the ghosts only fade once he’s scream-crying in the closet. Momentarily, Elliot is concerned, but a rant about their deaths and how they’re haunting him and Elliot why can’t you remember turns him blank.

Blank. Gone. Dead.

He swears there’s a flash of overturned eyes and blood flowing out of his head chest and hand before-

“Leo? Why are you crying in a closet at- three in the morning? Get up and go to bed, doofus.”

//

Frederick and Maxwell are dead, heads torn into with a greedy claw of bone.

Claude and Ernest are also dead, Elliot having those blank eyes as a tongue swipes around their throats with glee.

Vanessa is dead too, head over heels and her head rolled down the stairs before gobbled up by a passerby Chain, looking for the children.

Vernice has died, calling for any prayer God will give her as her hand turns up to the heavens as did her sons’ at death.

Elliot is dead. He’s dead, and he’s the only one who caused a smile in his household.

Bernard is before him, veins trembling in his head, furious at such a tender old age.

The words of pride and honor slip out of his mouth, just as heads roll off gently, no prior warning from an enraged Vincent. It would have been Elliot’s goal as well, yes, he will give the slimy old bastard that, but never like this. None of them wanted it like this.

//

They did it to bring honor to the Nightray family.

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