📺~ let's watch some tunes ~🍎 @v1rus-bug - Tumblr Blog

Jun 15

Damnatio Ad Bestias- Epilogue to “A Shattered Illusion”- A TFC x Ringmaster’s Child Reader!

────୨ৎ────

≫ The much-requested little bonus bit is here! Thank you all for your support and enthusiasm on my last work, it truly means the world to me! This goes without saying that this post won’t make much sense if you haven’t read the first part lol

≫ This work also makes some HEFTY assumptions about/canon divergences from the lore, backstories, and worldbuilding of TFC which very well may be (and probably will be tbh) proven wrong over time. Please excuse any possible inaccuracies or errors!

≫ Content Warnings: Depictions and descriptions of death, extreme violence, gore, starvation/binge eating, cruelty in several forms, cannibalism, referenced abuse and severe mistreatment, religious allusions relating to Christianity/Catholicism (lines in Latin), and severe trauma.

≫ Mild emetophobia warning! Mentions of nausea and v*

≫ Word Count: 8.7k words. (Leave it to ElectricChair759 to go overboard on a “tiny bonus part” ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ)

O blind cupidity, O wrath insane, That spurs us onward so in our short life, And in the eternal then so badly steeps us...

- Dante’s Inferno, Canto 12 lines 49-51

—————————

It was quiet for a long while after the Ringmaster had given his child the key to those iron cages. He waited outside the large tent, anticipating the inevitable time when the stubbornness and naivety would finally reduce from an emotionally-driven blaze down to embers. Impulsive anger would turn into shame, and shame into regret. And regret was the first step towards repentance.

It had happened countless times before when his child was young, and it would likely happen again. He was sure of it. Every child went through a rebellious phase, after all. His child–despite having since grown old enough to fledge the nest–was just a little late to do so.

It would all play out, he thought to himself, just like any other performance. It was all under control.

But time passed, and the Ringmaster heard and saw nothing. No screams of fear, no rushed footsteps, no calling for him to fend off the awful creatures of the night—not that those beasts could actually pose any threat to his child. Those wretched things were far too weak to stand properly, let alone cause any real harm. Their fangs were too rotted, their muscles too thin, their claws too brittle from malnutrition.

Strange, then, that there were no signs of…anything. Had his young one perhaps not yet accepted the truth? That the foul creatures cared for nothing and nobody but themselves and their own insatiable appetites?

Those freaks of nature would sooner feast upon the rats that scurried beside their cages than retain even a shred of dignity and die somewhat peacefully—he would know. He’s seen it before. Their kind chew off limbs if caught in traps like foxes in snares, go so far as to eat anything and everything available in their hunger-driven madness. And when those beasts did eat, they’d sooner feast until they were sick than feast until they were satisfied.

Such unfortunate bastards, those things. How wretched an existence to be forever empty and hungry and wanting yet so profoundly unable to be slaked. It was no wonder they were called demons. Their kind could almost be pitiable if they weren’t so loathsome.

This whole debacle would be over soon. One way or another, the Ringmaster would get something out of this. If the creatures were so insistent on being too dangerous and difficult to keep, then he would give them what they wished for. He would let them die. Not the Damsel, though. There could yet be another use for her. A different use.

The Ringmaster would be the first to admit his own mistake and single miscalculation in all this, though. He had underestimated just how much his own child’s curiosity outweighed the fear he had taught and ingrained. Just like him, so hungry for answers and thirsty for adventure into the unknown.

Such a stubborn thing. He should have nipped that curiosity in the bud long ago, should have snuffed it out in its entirety. But even the Ringmaster had his moments of weakness and indulgence, many of which consisted of being soft towards his only child. How couldn’t he be? His beloved wife was no longer in this world to do so. His child was all he had left of her, was all the tenderness she had left in the world and in his heart.

Truly, he had been too soft, too lenient. His own father was harsh and unforgiving, as was his father before him. But his familial chain had a weak link, and it was nobody’s responsibility but his, despite it not being his fault. Not entirely. He had allowed his child far too much time in the sun. It was inevitable that the inexperienced and unknowing fledgling would get lost in the dark.

The man sighed, pinching his fingertips between his eyes. His poor, stupid, utterly naive young one. So lost without guidance, even after growing up. His child knew nothing of the real world, nothing of its dangers and its sins. And to think he would have proposed that the circus would one day be passed down into those unsure and shaky hands.

It was times like these when he wondered what his wife would have done, what she would have said. She likely would have known what to do. She was the glue that held his family together, after all.

He then shook his head rapidly, not allowing the thoughts of his long-gone beloved to soften his heart. A point needed to be proven, even through pain and tears.

But the longer he thought of things and people he didn’t want to, the more the Ringmaster realized that it was downright ridiculous how long it was taking for the lesson to be learned. Surely his child couldn’t be so stubborn as to refuse to admit that he was correct in his ways?

He sighed. If he wanted something done properly, he would have to do it himself.

The rest of the circus members had long retired to their resting quarters or to their homes in the town just beyond the threshold. Luckily, nobody else would have to witness this complete and utter embarrassment.

With a quick adjustment to his coat, he began to move towards the closed-off area like so many times before. Honestly, just how much had those things affected his child? He was sorely mistaken in their influence; that much was apparent.

The curtains to the cages came into view, and the Ringmaster already began to speak before pulling them aside, scolding his young one for all of these unnecessary melodramatics. It was almost laughable, this situation.

“It’s about time you let go of this fantasy, child. I’ve humored your nonsense long enough.”

The curtains were then parted, allowing light to finally be brought into the darkness that housed the metal cages.

Which were…pried open.

The man simply stood there, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing. What exactly he had expected, he wasn’t sure. But it most certainly wasn’t anything like this.

It was only after a few seconds that the Ringmaster realized just how unnaturally thick the air was, and the unusually strong metallic stench that sat heavily in his lungs like cigar smoke. The air here was normally bitter with the smell of rust from the cages, but this smell…it was almost organic. What had these filthy things done this time? Surely his child couldn’t have been so foolish as to attempt any sort of…

Something rattled beneath his shoe, and the man looked down to see that it was something small and metal and-

The key to the cages? What was it doing on the ground? What had been done with it? Why was it cast aside and forgotten?

A low rumbling growl came from further in the darkness. It was less heard and more so felt within the deepest hollows of the Ringmaster’s bones. Focusing his gaze into the dark, the man saw that just beyond where the light from the performance ring came from, there were five pairs of eyes staring straight back.

Purple, green, yellow, red, and mismatched blue and white. But no pink. None at all. The sight made something coil tightly behind his ribs.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Though he didn’t know why, the man didn’t move. Instead, he looked closer into that darkness, searching for signs of something he didn’t quite know. His heart stopped in his chest and sank down to his gut as he noticed one very crucial detail.

The monsters were not as they once appeared.

Their once long and bony limbs were shorter and fuller, making them not nearly as tall as they once were. Their teeth and claws and sharp edges were all dulled—still visibly pointed and dangerous, but subtler now. Some animalistic features were hidden beneath clothes that now fit them slightly too big; others were still visible.

There were dark stains on all of their foul faces. Streaks that he initially believed to be blood or some other filth, but upon looking closer appeared to be…tears?

Impossible, he thought. These things cared for nothing but consumption, for their own survival.

But what was far more unsettling was that the beasts looked…almost human. If not for their horns and faces, they could easily be initially mistaken for very tall humans if they were to cover themselves head to heel.

But when the Ringleader looked closer at their faces, he saw red. It was a wine-dark red that stained their chins, their hands, the front of their tattered clothes. It soaked into the floor, filling the air with its stench. Blood. It was blood. And it was coming from something large and wet and organic-smelling.

The man took a half-step back, unable to suppress his utter disgust and shock at what he thought he had seen.

It was a corpse being eaten, a sight so profane and utterly unholy that it sent pinpricks across his entire body. Horrible chills accompanied waves of uncomfortable heat that made him both sweat and shiver. The damned things must have pried their cages open and killed one of their own. And what better meal than one that couldn’t fight back?

The horrid things had brandished their fangs against one of their own. They had torn the Damsel asunder. And…

Where was his child? Where? Surely the young one must have run off somewhere, immeasurably frightened by the sight of the beasts cannibalizing one of their own. But then, where was his child? The Ringmaster heard and saw nothing, and he knew he had stayed by the only entrance. But then…

The man’s gaze landed on the wet and stringy flesh held within those black claws once again. He forced himself to look upon the torn corpse between them more closely, bile coating his throat. The body’s skin wasn’t that unnatural ashen grey, nor did there appear to be any horns atop its head or fur on any limbs…

Denial raced through the man’s mind. He was paralyzed with shock, entirely unable to move, yet also unable to take his eyes off the sight. And the longer he looked, the less he was able to believe it was untrue.

There his child lay, body torn open, insides held within the grip of the monsters. It was a miracle the man was able to choke out words at all at the realization.

“You…My…”

The fiends stared up at him while continuing to slowly rip and chew and swallow, teeth squeezing and effortlessly tearing through soft muscle. A couple of them even bent their forms over the carcass on the ground, likely becoming territorial over their food like the disgusting animals they were. It took every effort in the man’s body not to vomit right then and there, though his insides ached and roiled the longer he stood there.

And then he felt the urge to move, to do something, anything, but what? It was clear just from a glance that it was far too late to save his child. He couldn’t hope to fight off five ravenous flesh-supped creatures. And if he were to run, where would he go?

But being reasonable in times of fear isn’t what humans are known for. A trembling finger was pointed in accusation at the menagerie, a single, unsure step taken away from the creatures.

“You godless savages-!”

But as soon as the man began to shout, one of the beasts leapt up unnaturally fast, gripping the Ringmaster by his throat. The man choked and sputtered, his hands instinctively moving to pry the dark and bony fingers off, but failing. The one choking him was revealed to be the purple-eyed beast with four horns, its eyes glinting a dangerous and unnatural hue steeped in pure fury. Its claws started pressing into the man’s neck harder and harder with every passing moment, almost certainly trying to draw blood yet also holding back just enough not to kill him.

Dies iræ, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favilla

A low-pitched animalistic sound came from the depths of its chest, aggressive and nothing short of nightmare fuel. The other creatures quickly joined the cacophony, trilling and hissing and chittering deeply unnatural and awful sounds while slowly moving towards the man and away from the gutted body of his child. He attempted to fight, but it was useless. Every little movement granted him only a tighter grip on his neck. When actions failed, he resorted to strained words.

“You filthy animals…You killed my…!”

The claws sinking into his throat went even deeper, blood beginning to bubble at the back of his throat and making him choke even further. The fiend in front of him snarled a vicious noise, sharp teeth bared back. Its other hand rose, claws prepared to skin and bleed him like a pig. He gasped out a desperate sound.

“No, please! You…You need me! If you kill me, you’ll have no way to survive!”

The Ringmaster gagged and coughed between his pleas for mercy, for any scrap of hesitation the monsters may possess. Surely these creatures weren’t so unreasonable as to be rid of their only source of protection from the outside world? They were impossibly far from their empty valley, stranded from any others of their kind. Other humans would surely have their heads the moment they stepped outside the circus grounds.

“I brought you here! I ensured your survival! Y-you made your point, we can make another deal! A fair one!”

These monsters already took his child from him, already made it clear that they were discontent with what had become of them. So much so that they ate one of their own just to survive.

But the point of no return had long been crossed. The man and the beasts knew it without saying it aloud. Yet he attempted to reason for his life anyway as the other creatures drew nearer, teeth and claws brandished and dripping.

“You’ll…have nothing, nobody! You’ll be torn apart out there!”

A single moment passed. A fleeting moment of consideration. Hope flickered and flared in the Ringleader’s chest. But it died just moments later when the monsters snarled and growled even louder than before. Their bright eyes became pointed and narrowed.

So be it, they seemed to say without words. They had made their decision long ago. It was painfully apparent that the man was at their mercy, and they remembered everything that was ever done to them with startling clarity. Every blow, cut, and bruise inflicted. Every scrap of food withheld. Every empty laugh at their pain. Every consolation denied. Every rub of salt in their wounds.

But no more.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus? Cum vix iustus sit securus

The Ringmaster was then thrown to the ground, each limb held down by one of the other creatures. Though the harsh and unforgiving grip on his throat was now gone, it was still impossible to speak, blood and fear clogging whatever words he would attempt to plead with. Eyes of varying colors bore into him like daggers as he thrashed and struggled. There was no delaying it, no denying it now. The man would die just in the same way he lived. Cruelly. Emptily.

In a way, one could consider dying to be his first and only good deed in this world.

The sickening man’s kind fledgling was the one who allowed the beasts to take on these new forms. He would be the first in a long line of humans who would allow them to sustain themselves. He would finally be of some use to them.

All he ever did was take and take and take, even when the beasts had nothing left to give. Especially when they had nothing left to give. Yet even still, he wanted more. Always more. But now…

It was their turn to take.

And so they took.

Each of the monsters descended upon the man with sharpened claws and hungry eyes.

Flesh was flayed and torn. Limbs were quartered and feasted upon. Wet squelches and heavy dripping filled the air alongside desperate gurgling screams as the man was torn open at the belly and disemboweled. Organs were splayed, tendons and ligaments ripped from their places and then swallowed.

But the Ringmaster was not eaten hastily or desperately. He was eaten slowly. Painfully. Savored, even.

Bite after bite after bite, the screams quickly faded. All too soon, the monsters silently thought. It would have been quite satisfying to inflict every agony and pain that existed—and many more that did not—upon him, drag and parade his carcass around for rats and scavengers to pick clean…

But that didn't matter. What mattered was that the creatures would be able to sustain their forms for quite a while with this meal. This flesh would have to suffice.

Bite after bite after bite, the Ringleader became unrecognizable. Eyes rolled back and glassy, elegant and coveted clothing reduced to nothing but bloodstained scraps. His blood tasted filthy, far more metallic than the others they had tasted; it was as though it were cheaply gilded, just like everything else in his life. It tasted of greed. Of an existence decayed with decadence. It was disgusting to them.

Yet the monsters continued to eat anyway, faces twisted and stomachs churning at the bitterness and pollution in the meat.

But after the creatures had their fill of the man’s flesh—which was quite soon, as they found revenge was a short-lived reason to eat something that tasted rather nasty—they turned back to the other corpse on the ground outside the cages. The Ringmaster’s kin. The one who showed foul devils kindness when the entire rest of the world wanted them to bleed. Though the naive human’s body and limbs were nearly scant of recognizable features, the face was untouched, eyes still half-lidded and lightless.

Such an unfortunate creature, that one. Caught in a very bad place at a very bad moment. Rewarded only death for such curiosity about things that best remained in the dark.

Could this human’s death have been prevented? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter now. What was done was done.

Yet even though the monsters did not shed tears—they had all been spent mourning their beloved angel—their sorrow was still evident in the way they positioned themselves in a circle around the human’s corpse. One of them gently closed the human’s eyelids as though the creature were merely sleeping—even though there was a gaping cavity split open just beneath the ribcage.

The purple-eyed beast then picked up the still-warm body, holding it up and carrying it carefully and efficiently so as not to spill any entrails. Blood seeped into his clothes—or poor excuses for them—and stuck to his skin. The other creatures looked questioningly at him, each of them in varying states between lucidity and borderline catatonia. His voice was low and hushed when he beckoned them to stand.

“...Come. Let us end this. This place can be a grave for him, for all of them. But not this one.”

Now that they had the strength, now that they had the time and means to do so, they could offer this one mercy. They could finally destroy this circus in its entirety, be rid of this godforsaken prison once and for all.

They could free their beloved Dove and the human who aided them from their bonds to this place.

The blue and white-eyed creature slowly took out one of the many small matchsticks that had been given to him merely a day prior and simply stared at it, then at the violet-haired fellow beast. They both nodded. Without another word, the match was struck and lit. And then it was tossed onto the tent walls, the thick fabric quickly feeding the sparks to turn into flames.

The monsters turned back to the dead Ringmaster’s mangled body for what would be the last time.

He who had grown complacent in his cruelty was no more. But unlike with their pink-eyed fellow beast and the human who had been good to them, the beasts did not intend to eat the man’s body in its entirety. No, they would leave his flesh and bones to be picked clean and scattered and defiled by rodents and maggots and carrion birds–assuming there would be anything but ash left after this fire ravaged and consumed everything.

Either way, his remains would be forever buried and entombed in the rubble of his greatest glory, which was now his greatest failure. A fitting end.

The entire menagerie moved as one, slowly walking—shambling, more like—out of the darkness and away from those awful cages. Those cold and corroded bars were once believed to be their coffins. That all felt so impossibly distant now after what they had done.

Their minds were still hazy and unable to fully process all that had happened. Their joints ached. Their eyes stung from the lights overhead. Their skin prickled with the unfamiliarity of freedom. True freedom. It felt strange to even think of it. Mere hours prior, they believed such a word to be a curse, a taboo to speak no differently than a foul profanity.

The night was dark when they parted the tent opening with trembling claws. The circus grounds were empty. The guests were long gone, and the workers had retired to their private quarters. For the first time in a very long time, the beasts had looked up to the sky. It was different from the sky back in the valley. There were fewer stars visible in the pitch-black, the air choked with smog from the developing world. But it was the night sky nonetheless, and so it was beautiful.

The air was cold, nipping at dark skin and fresh scars. But it was clearer and cleaner than anything any of them had known in many moons. The beasts breathed unweighted shaky breaths as one, in and out, in and out, in and out.

And though each of the monsters was sure that they could have stayed there for all eternity, simply basking in their unchained and uncaged existences, they knew that they were not yet completely safe. Not yet completely free. There was still work to be done.

An orange glow behind them began to make their shadows emerge and lengthen from their feet. The air was starting to become warm, almost uncomfortably so. The smell of smoke was beginning to drown out all other senses. The violet-eyed beast showed no urgency, no concern, for he had already known what he and the others would do with this quiet night’s opportunity while the evening was still young.

Still holding the corpse of the dear human in his arms, he took a couple of steps forward to address his fellow former prisoners. His eyes shone with ambition that burned brighter than any flame as he turned to the blue and white-eyed eldest of them, then to each of the others one by one.

“Disperse the matches. Go to each of the tents.”

The others looked slightly confused, but they did not question. Not yet.

“Watch the exits. Let none escape.”

Their bright-colored eyes all widened slightly with recognition of what was being tasked to them. Then their pupils turned to even thinner slits than before. Tonight was the perfect night to destroy this place. Now was the perfect time to hunt, to exact revenge, to make all of these humans suffer as they had.

This horrid place would reek of blood and smoke and cinders by sunrise.

“Kill them all.”

Without a word, each beast had taken a palmful of matches—matches that were once given for light and warmth—and ran off in different directions. The iris-eyed creature did not join them, though. He was still holding something very important, and he didn’t want it to touch the filthy ground of this place any longer. He walked very slowly towards the very edge of the circus and simply watched as flames slowly began licking at the edges of every tent he passed, acrid smoke rising over the tallest of them.

The air became bitter and thick, but he paid it no mind. It was nothing any of the beasts weren’t already used to.

Screams and shouts of fear echoed throughout the entire troupe, but they didn’t last long. They were either silenced by a swift strike of claws or eventually gone hoarse from burning smoke and drowned out by the growing blaze. A few strays even aimlessly ran around like ants in a disturbed mound before being stilled by a harsh tearing bite to the throat or a quick slice to their belly to spill their innards.

Time passed. Soon enough, the entire circus was engulfed in fire and smoke. How ironic, the beasts being the ones to destroy and consume this place, and not the other way around. One by one, each of the other creatures joined their new leader at the edge of the circus, claws slick with fresh blood and lungs heaving from chasing and hunting prey.

Such exertion would have been nigh impossible—dangerous, even—for beings afflicted with such profound starvation. But vengeance proved to be quite an ample motivator.

Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis. Voca me cum benedictis

And when the monsters had gathered with silent affirmations that all of the circus workers were dead, they collectively moved into the forest just beyond the furthest of the tents. The sound of flames and the scent of smoke gradually got more and more distant as they walked and walked, not once stopping or looking back. They kept moving until they reached a small clearing in the woods, and the iris-eyed beast had laid the dear human’s body on the ground.

Blood quickly dotted the grass and nettles like dewdrops at dawn. The monsters gathered around the corpse as they had before, not moving to touch it any further. It was quiet, save for the occasional breeze blowing through the tree canopy or the rhythmic insect chirps. They waited. What for, none of them could say. The body wouldn’t get any fresher. But still they waited for what felt like an eternity, when in reality it was likely merely moments.

“…Foolish. Utterly foolish thing.”

The emerald-eyed beast broke the silence. He was right in his words; none of the others could deny it. This human was a fool, no doubt about it. But there was something else. Something unaddressed.

The tallest of them, the avian creature, trilled a low sound, tilting his head at the corpse’s face.

“Yes. Naive, callow. But…”

But kind. Eager to listen, to learn. Willing to help even without getting anything in return. Especially without the promise of anything in return. Why? Why only that human, who had every reason to believe them devils from Hell? Why that human, who had that pathetic and ignorant man as a father? Nothing was given in return for that kindness, and yet nothing was expected in the first place.

“So much like her.”

The eldest of them with mismatched blue and white eyes muttered lowly, almost to himself. He wasn’t wrong. The human was dreadfully unwary, just like their roseate fellow beast. Perhaps that was why the two of them seemed to be able to get along so well.

So why, then, did both of them have to become sacrifices?

It was hard to comprehend, yet it was simple.

Not just one, but two pure lives had been lost in the span of a single night. No, not lost. Taken. But what difference does it make? What does it matter how they were gone?

The angels are still dead. And the monsters are sorrowful.

But sorrow does not equate to regret.

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Precious flowers are always plucked from thorny brambles. Fruits are sweetest just before they rot. Pure and pale fabrics always end up stained sooner or later. There was only one way this all could have ended. There was only one way this should have ended.

Even if that human or their little dove hadn’t died tonight, they would have been inevitably swallowed up by the rest of the world, bound to have their goodness tainted or abused or taken altogether. This cold, dark world…those two wouldn't have been able to survive in it.

It was best this way. Wasn’t it?

Those thoughts were nothing but cold and sharp stings to the beasts’ wounds. Cruel and crude in their actions as they were, they weren’t heartless. What little comfort they could hope to gain was that they ate their little dove bones and all, leaving nothing behind but scraps of her dress. She would always remain with them. They made sure of it.

And now…

The four-horned unofficial leader motioned towards the dear human’s unconsumed body. The flesh was already discolored; it would soon begin to stiffen and rot if they weren’t fast.

“Eat.”

And so the creatures ate. They ate and ate and ate, not only because their newfound freedom spawned newfound hunger, but to do for the dear one what they had also done for their kin. They would keep this kind and unknowing outlier of a human close to them forever.

It was the least they could do for the poor creature.

Every scrap was eaten, every little edible piece of flesh and cartilage and whatever other meat that existed. The monsters remained undisturbed in their darkness and as such had scraped a majority of the bones clean. The largest of the bones were then split open, the marrow inside them licked and chewed. And then those bone fragments were carefully eaten as well.

Not a single digestible speck had gone untouched. None save for the human’s heart, which had long stopped beating.

Amid the pile of iron-stenched slurry and tattered red-soaked clothes lay the small organ. The other beasts had wordlessly agreed not to touch it. Not yet.

It was the violet-eyed leader who finally moved to grasp it in his palm and rip it from its place, the veins and arteries popping and gushing onto his black claws, but he paid it no mind. He pressed his thumb into one of the seams of the flesh as though he were splitting a citrus fruit, prying it open and tearing it into two, then four, then finally five pieces.

Five portions for five beasts. The four-horned creature pressed one piece of flesh into every one of his kin’s palms.

He said nothing. They said nothing. They all ate those pieces of flesh, not daring to waste even a drop of blood or a speck of meat. Such a fragile thing, that heart. It never should have been aching for such creatures. But now it would become a part of them, carefully eaten, savored, swallowed in its entirety.

Cor contritum quasi cinis, gere curam mei finis

Once the monsters were finally replete with flesh for the first time in years immeasurable, they scraped their claws against the earth to bury what little was left behind. Wetted and tattered clothing, mostly. Sticky clumps of hair. Needle-sharp bone fragments. They likely wouldn't need to do such a thing to hide their traces, but they did it anyway. It was tradition, after all.

How strange. Their pink-eyed kin was eaten in the same way monsters consumed their prey, and the human—or what very little was left of the creature—was buried in the same way they hid their kind’s bones from poachers.

Perhaps the beasts wanted to cling to parts of their old life in any way they could. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what they had done.

But when the ground was disturbed no longer, and when the claws of the beasts were coated in dirt and blood and organic filth, each of them stilled, staring down at the grime trapped in every line of their skin. It would forever remain there, each of them knew. But even after their primitive attempt at a burial, their work was still not done.

This was only the beginning. But at the very least, the hardest part was over and done with. Wasn’t it? They lost so much. Too much. There was no going back.

But luckily, they had a semblance of a plan. With the old circus burning to the ground, there would be an opportunity to take its place. An opportunity to hide in plain sight. It was simple. The monsters would play the roles the world had already cast for them–bringers of fear, vicious creatures of the night. The purple-gazed beast could see it all falling into place now. There was much to do, much to prepare for if they truly wished to succeed in this endeavor without any more sacrifices.

But for now, they all must focus on the present, on what must be done to survive their first night of freedom.

Later, the beasts would need to return to the ashes, only to ensure that nothing and nobody survived. Not a single worker, not a single trace of the circus. And they would salvage what they could from the remains. As much of a whited sepulchre the Ringmaster was, he was right about one thing. The beasts were on their own now. If they weren’t careful, one wrong move would have them killed. They must be cunning, prepared for any possibility.

The four-horned beast looked upon his kin. Their eyes were exhausted, like their rest needed rest of its own. Their stomachs were full, nearly bursting–something they assumed they would never live to experience–and their lungs clear of squalid air. Their claws were caked with all sorts of grime, their fangs sore from chewing. The wounds on their minds and hearts were still fresh. They wouldn’t be able to scavenge like this. It was best to remain here, hidden, until the sun went down once more.

“Rest. We will watch in shifts.”

It was quite clear that he would be taking the first shift. The others looked hesitant, eyes shifting uneasily. After all, the last time sleep beckoned them so profoundly, they likely wouldn’t have awoken. But the purple-eyed monster held a stained hand out in a gesture of reassurance. He would watch not only for danger from humans, but danger from death slowly stealing them away in sleep.

With little else to do, the creatures hoarsely agreed and took refuge beneath a nearby tree. They leaned against one another, unfamiliar with such close contact after all this time, yet their eyes almost immediately closed anyway. A couple of them looked concerned before allowing themselves to rest, like they were afraid this would all be some awful nightmare and they would wake up inside their cold and rusted cages.

All of them almost instantly lost their battle against their own eyelids. All except for the emerald-eyed serpentine beast. Instead, the youngest of them moved to sit next to his violet-haired fellow monster, who said nothing about how the former should be resting while he can.

There was much to be said, yet also nothing at all. About what had been discussed in that rust-choked hellhole. About the desperation they faced. About their pink-eyed angel who was now dead. About the human they found themselves endeared to who was also now dead. About how both of those kind souls were torn apart by their own hands.

Nothing would be the same after dawn would rise over the ashes of that hellish prison. Nothing. Both for better and for worse.

It was only a matter of time before their golden-eyed kin awoke and realized all that had happened. It was a miracle he was barely lucid enough to make it this far, especially after losing so much blood hours prior. He would be difficult to keep under control after his mind recovered from the shock and daze. Assuming it would be able to recover in the first place.

But that would be seen in the future. Tonight, in this calm and empty forest clearing, the green and violet-eyed beasts both simply sat next to each other, waiting for their first witnessed sunrise in too many moons to count.

Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla

A moment passed. Then another. They both stared ahead at nothing, quietly watching smoke rise over the treetops from the former prison.

————

Years had passed since that fateful moonless night.

None know for certain what truly happened to the Ringmaster of the old freak show circus or those who worked for him. It’s widely agreed upon among certain social circles that the old leader likely went mad and killed all of his workers, then committed suicide and burned his circus to the ground with his last breath. Why? Nobody knows. Nobody could begin to fathom such a tragedy.

A result of accumulated depression from losing his wife years prior? A sudden bout of madness driven by his great faith? Or perhaps outside influence?

The tall tales spun from the event seemed to know no bounds.

But the true mystery is what happened to the man’s child. All of the other bodies—or skeletons, in some cases—had been found and identified. Some were mangled and found in pieces, corpses gutted and torn by what appeared to be wild animals. Others seemed to have been caught in the horrid fire and unable to escape.

And yet, the Ringleader’s only child was left unaccounted for. No gashed body found, no charred skeleton left behind that would match the physical description.

Where had the mysterious flyer distributor of the circus gone? There were minimal records of this person, and even fewer social connections to any living people.

Some say the dutiful young one remained with the ailing father, unable and unwilling to leave him even in his apparent sickness of the mind.

Some say that the father and heir to the circus both died, or that they both went insane and ran off into the night, never to be seen again.

Others say that the Ringmaster never had a child at all. Nobody was ever able to recall that person’s name, after all. Such a mysterious figure who spent every waking moment quietly praying or studying or working diligently at the circus threshold.

There was nobody alive who would know the truth of what happened. Nobody except for the five mysterious tall men who survived that night. They had covered themselves head to toe in bandages, masks, draping clothes, and heavy garbs that hid every inch of their bodies. To shield their burns from the fire in the circus, clearly. But they all claimed to have seen nothing, and then all five of them quickly disappeared from public view.

So much time had passed afterwards that rumors of the old circus’s existence and subsequent untimely end had been reduced to mere local legend whispered among children and mutterings among the senile elderly.

Was the event exaggerated or downplayed immensely with every new iteration of the story? Did the event even happen at all? One would get a different answer from each town resident.

There existed rumors and secrets that if a person were to wander into those old circus grounds, they’d quickly find that they weren’t alone. Among the buried bones and dilapidated remains, there were presences. Undeniable signs of being watched, stalked, hunted. Some claimed it was the restless souls of the dead. Others said that the one responsible for the killings and the terrible fire was still out there, still waiting for their next victim. Sometimes, people would claim to see silhouettes in the treeline just beyond where the tragedy occurred.

Those whispers were supported by the irrefutable fact that people had started to go missing whenever they treaded the path near those haunted grounds. Spirited away by the restless spirits there? Possessed to wander into the woods and end up lost and never found? Made yet another victim of the possible killers of the circus fire? Nobody knew. Nobody wanted to know.

Needless to say, not even the greediest of estate planners or eager companies wanted to go anywhere near the scorched and singed outskirts of that town.

The entire area was a shared tomb in all but appearance. It became something of a taboo to even speak of desecrating the place where such a tragic and horrible event occurred, not only because it was disrespectful to those who had perished, but also because it always seemed that someone–or something–was listening. Waiting.

Time passed. Too much and too little at the same time. Those who knew better never dared to go near the informal cemetery or walk alone at night. The ones who did were never seen again.

The tales of the old circus and its performances had quickly gathered dust.

But what was faintly remembered of that old circus was quickly revitalized and gossiped about when a new troupe emerged out of nowhere and established itself right where the old one had been. The Freak Circus of Horrors, it was called. It was eerie and unsettling like the last one, but for completely different reasons this time. Its performers were off-putting, the atmosphere welcoming but hollow. The entire place was rumored to feel like a giant stage, one in which every last person was a performer with dozens of unseen eyes watching them, waiting for them to slip up just once.

The worst part was that people started to go missing left and right. A runaway here, a local drunk there…Were the ghosts of the past exacting vengeance for the terrible offense of mocking what had happened not so very long ago? Was the new troupe somehow connected to the disappearances?

The whole place was a bad omen, it seemed. It reeked of death, of something sinister lying in wait like a coiled viper or a tripwire pulled taut.

It was a mysterious and secretive thing, but unlike the previous troupe, it was not stagnant. The circus of horrors had quickly moved on from that cursed town’s outskirts, never looking back even for a moment. And when that circus left the town, so too did the long string of disappearances. The events of the past and their wild rumors were quickly reduced to faded memory.

The child of the old Ringmaster was never brought up again. Rendered unfortunately yet ultimately forgotten by time, or even denied having existed at all.

But of course, like many things, the child of the Ringmaster isn’t truly gone, and neither is the beloved Little Dove. Not if one knows where to look to find scant traces of the two.

Just because something isn’t seen doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. Woven within the foundational fabric of the circus of horrors are tiny details that even now are echoes of certain unspoken yet vital influences.

The Pink Tent, where humans go to die or be stilted to service, where Fools are born or killed. The Black Tent, where the most special of guests find refuge with tickets dark as deepest moonless nights, where hope is renewed for the beasts and their kin with community and flesh to feast on. Both tents serve as macabre and morbid memorials for those who were sacrificed to spur the creation of such a system. Commemorations, in some distorted sense.

But with each performer of the troupe rests a relic of the past in some form.

In the golden-eyed Pierrot’s private quarters rest small creations of folded paper. Spare circus flyers idly creased to form different shapes, extra parchment sheets crafted into small models with practiced efforts. One of the most common of these creations is a simplistic flower. Petals pure and clean and unmarred, just like the meager earthen offerings plucked from the dead valley he once gifted to the one he loved. Just like the past human’s efforts to turn those wretched papers of the old circus into new things with new meanings.

The crafted blooms are never entirely accurate in how he remembered them, though. Always missing one unknown detail or simply deemed off in some subtle way. Every flower is always discarded at one point or another, only to be replaced by a new one that is inaccurate in some other unknown way.

In the Harlequin’s paper doll tale told only on very special nights, he shares a story of not one, but two angels offering themselves up for the monsters to be fed and granted the strength to live on. One of the angels was hidden among the monsters rotting in their cages, the other was hiding in plain sight as a human. One of them offered renewed strength and vigor, the other a way to take the forms of and live among humans.

Both of them were deemed miracles. Both of them are said to have disappeared without a trace into the night.

In the Ticket Taker’s hall of mirrors, there are countless lingering presences. Shapes and voices and reflections from beyond. But near the end of the hall—just next to his personal favorite pink-tinted one—is a cracked mirror that reflects not a twisted shadow but a fragile and flickering light, not too dissimilar to a small matchstick being lit. An old light from an age long past.

Some say that they see a figure in the glass. Others claim that they hear sobs and pleas and the heavy pattering of something dripping.

A rare few have even claimed to have seen that tiny flare become a ravenous blaze, one that consumed all it touched and swallowed the sounds of screams.

In the Jester’s tent, far away from prying eyes and safely hidden from all who would wander, is a small and nearly ancient-looking journal tucked away. A salvaged diary filled with scrawled writings and sketches of beasts, shadows, and watchful gazes. The edges of the tattered and worn pages are singed, almost as if caught in a raging fire. The place where the author’s name was written was burned off, leaving the owner’s identity a mystery even after countless years.

On rare special occasions, that small journal is silently taken out and flipped through, violet eyes reading and rereading the words that had been jotted down by a very curious soul many years ago, black claws carefully brushing over the old faceless ink drawings.

The names written in them, Leader, Knave, Sentinel, Oblique, Erudite, Lamb…He turns them around in his head and his maw, almost as if trying on a mask that doesn’t quite fit. Or perhaps it did fit at some point, however briefly.

And in the dark recesses of the Doctor’s tent lies a precious and priceless treasure, a single rusted metal key caked in soot. The last true kindness ever given to the monsters. Such a shame that it was irrelevant in the end, but the gesture did not go unrecognized. That metal key is a symbol of what the beasts had been given, and what they had taken. It is one of the only scraps of the past that was scavenged and saved over many years, many places traveled, and many hardships endured.

The Doctor once had more keepsakes of the one who aided them, but they were tragically lost. His favorite of the lost things was a small and smoothed fragment of a human sternum, specifically the bone that once rested over and protected that human’s fragile heart.

(Such protection proved to be futile, however. The human’s heartstrings had been tugged and bled and ripped out anyway. And it was rather easy to pry the muscle from its place when it was time to split it among the others.)

These minuscule details are either irrelevant or otherwise unknown to all humans who have ever entered the Freak Circus of Horrors. They’re easily missed, and just as easily forgotten—assuming they’re ever seen in the first place.

But the members of the troupe know the truth. Or at least, they cling to parts of it.

The other parts are twisted and refracted, warped by time and eventually lost to the foggy fringes of story-blurred memory and shielded trauma. A little detail changed or subconsciously misinterpreted here and there, another small part forgotten or ignored altogether.

Concrete agreed-upon facts and biased collective repression become interwoven and inextricably entwined.

Were the events of the past preventable? Had a single thing gone differently, would they be where they are today? Was everything that happened inevitable? Was there something else that they missed?

One would get a different answer from each member if they were to be asked such questions. Not that they would ever be asked such things. After all, who was left to know about the events from so long ago other than each other?

The circus is not a thing that stays in one place forever. Like an arrow, it never stands still nor deviates from its path. It simply keeps moving, one way or another, never giving a single backward glance. However, oddly enough, its members seem to be perpetually trapped in the past. They tell and retell the same story until it’s nearly unrecognizable, play the same songs until they become one massive elegy that permeates the heavy air of the place.

How much longer? How much longer until that story is no more real than the masks the members wear? How much longer until that tale is just as fantastical and detached from reality as the stories of God and His benevolence? How much longer until their song devolves and degrades into incessant noise?

Truly, not even the beasts themselves know.

All they knew and all they will ever know for sure is that the circus will keep moving forevermore. So long as the Hunger exists, then the performances will exist. The show must go on. Their song must sustain. There hasn’t been a moment since that wasn’t in pursuit of this goal, not a single action that isn’t driven by those memories of teeth sinking into the flesh of the ones who were both most and least deserving of it.

And in their twisted, distorted minds…They might even view themselves as necessary evils. They cleanse the world of ignorant fools like the old Ringmaster. Reveal the single truth hidden within every human that had become cruel and empty like that wicked man—that humans are just as—if not more—bestial and depraved as the monsters. The performances bring to light what humans would normally keep in darkness, covered in laughable veils of decency and shame.

quidquid latet apparebit: nil inultum remanebit.

Humans hunger for fear. They crave it, no matter how much they try to hide it. Monsters hunger for flesh. They need it to survive, to maintain their human-like forms. And what are the circus members to do but provide for both? It’s almost too simple. The system practically runs itself. The performers simply…speed up the process on a smaller scale.

It is the least they can do to honor the ones who allowed them to pave their path to freedom…In their own strange and skewed ways.

That’s what they told themselves, anyway. And it’s what they continue to tell themselves.

Humans are empty in soul. Monsters are empty in appetite. Humans bask in their light. Monsters are swallowed by the dark. The two should never cross, lest they wish for death. It’s simply how things are. That lesson was painfully learned time and time again. But instead of being the learners, the monsters would be the teachers of that lesson.

Never again. Never again would they lose anything else, anyone else.

They swore it when they devoured their Little Dove entirely. They swore it when they buried the scraps of that dear human in those woods. They swore it when they burned that hellish prison to the ground.

The beasts will be in control of every last move they make. Never again will a mere human hold power over them. They come from a world where there was never enough to go around, where their best chances at survival rested in the cruel and greedy hands of another, where rats were considered delicacies to eat, where the killing and complete consumption of innocents was considered a mercy. “Want” was irrelevant. Need consumed and degraded their minds, occupied every thought, forced them to commit acts deemed unforgivable.

But no longer. Each of the circus members controls their lives now. Every mercy. Every cruelty. Every laugh and tear and moment shared.

Every bite.

—————————

≫ The term “Damnatio ad Bestias” translates to “condemnation to beasts.” It describes a Roman practice of capital punishment/execution in which a person convicted of heinous crimes was sentenced to be killed by large and fearsome animals. The more you know!

≫ The Latin verses in this work come from the Dies Iræ! I was originally gonna quote more of the Divine Comedy but changed it almost last-minute.

≫ I know nobody’s prob gonna mention this but I have to bc I’m a nerd. While writing this I realized it’s highkey crazy that the monsters were able to eat a sudden huge influx of food after prolonged starvation (and survive!) as it’s incredibly dangerous for humans to do the same.

≫ But obvs this fic doesn’t exactly deal with humans so uhhhh let’s just assume monsters in the TFC verse have adaptations to prevent that bc their species likely regularly deals with starvation. Cool? Cool.

≫ I’m still not sure if I’ll ever make any sort of fully-fledged AU for this, but who knows? No promises, but the idea has been growing on me…

≫ If you wanna use this work as the baseline for any AU’s, OC’s, or fics of your own, go ahead! I only ask that you do not feed it to any form of generative/character-based AI, and that you credit me if you plan on posting it.

≫ (Also tag me because id love to see whatever it is you guys do with this work!!! The fact that I’ve already seen a bunch of people wanna do different things with this makes me so happy I get dizzy if I think about it too much!)

≫ It was a lot of fun to kinda dissect the troupe's motives and interpret them in my own way! I wanted them to be sympathetic but still fundamentally different from human actions.

≫ Sorry if some of the paragraphs are too big! I swear they looked smaller in my docs...

≫ Also what a surprise! There's scrapped scenes from this too. Maybe I'll find a use for them someday. I got a lot of notes and cut stuff in general for this work that I now have no idea what to do with. Dunno, I'll figure it out.

≫ Thanks so much for reading, it means a lot! :)

v1rus-bug