Tales of a Sprout in the Snow

by rhineposting

Summary:

"A long, long time later, yet still long ago —
When the deathmatch between the dragons of darkness and wind was decided at last,
When corrosive blood stained the ashen valley red,
The tree, at last, remembered that it had not died with that entombed city,
And it extended its greedy roots towards the warm ichor that irrigated the land.

Because a certain someone poured out a crimson essence upon it,
The tree that should have long died remembered its past,
And bore a single fruit from the coalescence of all its might..."

 

-----

Or, a canon diverging exploration of Subject 2's fate after the events of Shadows Amidst Snowstorms.

Notes:

beta-read by the lovely osteichthyes.

This project is the fruit of our accumulated love for Nigredo that I am more than delighted to share with you.

However, this fic will deal with some pretty heavy themes later on and have some rather upsetting depictions of abuse and trauma - that I in no way, shape or form condone. Tags for that will be added as the story progresses, so please be mindful of them for your own well-being.

With that said, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Though the snowstorm persisted for twelve days more, the shadows lurking amidst it had disappeared by the third. For Albedo, who had spent those two weeks circling the mountain twice, those circumstances were rather worrying. From the very day he had decided to permanently relocate his workshop, so that it instead looked out upon the snowy slopes of Dragonspine, he had known the mountain like the back of his own hand ; from the ruins at its very peak to the broken city that bordered it, down by the sea. Here, he was akin to an all-seeing and all-hearing monarch, presiding over an empty kingdom whose only subjects were foxes and boars, mutilated, walking corpses, and the countless bones buried deep in the snow. None were alike, none were the same, and yet, all were pliant - submissive - in their lack of sentience.

 

Or at least, such had been the case until recently. Though he knew neither how nor when, the withered tree at the mountain's foot had been fed blood and memories, allowing its roots to once more stretch out across the frozen landscape ; until one day, it remembered something it shouldn't have. And there, within the red depths of what once was a great sin lay a stillborn, a seed - one with memories that the tree had drunk in like melted snow and rain that had seeped into the frozen earth. And so, almost as if to repay it, the land had begun to nurture this seed like one would have any other in their garden ; and soon enough, the soil had been pregnant with something that, despite being neither tree nor man, could only be called a sprout.

 

Sung to it were hymns from days long gone ; spoken were languages long lost ; whispered were desires unfulfilled. Before it could break out from beneath frozen grass, like a book, the little seed was made plump with knowledge that was not its own. Here lies a princess who couldn't save her kingdom, it was told, here at a peak sits an old scribe who only remembers regret, and there within a cave is buried a promise broken ; one burden of history after another was written into the seed as it slumbered beneath the warm, still-beating heart of its brother-father. And it, too, would tell him stories. Stories of beautiful lands beneath the earth, of countless siblings, and of a Mother. Their Mother. While the great sin was overjoyed to speak of Her, however, the seed was heartbroken, as to hear Her name brought it grief. This slumber, though seemingly stretching into a lightless eternity, lasted no more than two months.

 

Eventually, the soil swelled, burst, and bled with blood that wasn't its own, and from it was born what was no longer a seed, but a seedling. And out it came, in the shape of a boy ; of barely a young man. He was as pale as the tree that had given it a second life, and just as brittle as one of its thinnest branches. Red spirals, unfurling in a manner akin to that of the markings of bark, marred his skin, and once-blue eyes - as they had been, before this undeath - were now colored a deep, deep crimson, while blonde hair, bloody and wet, clung to his face and shoulders.

 

 

And there he was, the it become he , and despite all the gifts, all the history and all the love bygone this he had been bestowed, not one of them had been a name.

 

---

For weeks, the boy-infant wandered about the mountain, nameless, with on his back nothing but an old, stolen rag and the impossible weight of burdens from ages past ; Albedo being none the wiser, ignorant of his existence. It was only when he grew himself a man-eating plant to serve as a hound - when he began eating the flesh of lost adventurers and wound up attempting to take Albedo's place - that the alchemist would come to know that he had been sharing the mountain with not only his loyal subjects, but a himself that was not him. 

 

For light to shine, there must first be darkness ; before Albedo, there was Nigredo. But he didn't know that just yet. Despite being filled with knowledge that was not his, the boy-infant knew nothing, save that he wanted a warm bed and warmer clothes, that he wanted warm food to fill his belly with, and that he wanted to know the warmth and sweetness of love ; all of which, things he had been denied, and all of which, Albedo had.

 

Alas, with the help of acquaintances and friends alike, the man-eating plant was slain, and the sprout once more found himself alone and cornered, running. Albedo, of course, chased after him, with his sword in hand and a set of goals in mind. For four days, he trailed his older-yet-younger brother, and for four days, he was always only two steps behind, waiting for an opportune moment to either to slay the bloodthirsty boy-infant, or to reason with him. A plan most ambitious and reasonable, it was, only to be rendered entirely useless, as one day, all signs of the failed homunculus - and thus, any leads as to his whereabouts - vanished ; he left behind no print in the snow, no blood stain seeping into and poisoning the soil, and Albedo from then on heard no more news of his person having been spotted in several places at once. Having thusly reached the end of his trail, he had gone ahead and called upon the help of a few Springvale hunters and their hounds, as he simply couldn't exclude the possibility of the impostor having perished somewhere out of sight during their chase. As fate would have it, however, the hunters came back with only snotty noses and cold hands that had nothing in them.

 

Where could he have gone, then? the alchemist asked himself. Had he assumed someone else's identity? Had his escape led him outside of Dragonspine, or perhaps, outside of Mondstadt entirely? Why, in six days' time, one could easily get to the Stone Gate on foot, and from then on, provided a passing merchant or traveler had the kindness for it, hitch a ride to anywhere. Liyue Harbour, maybe? Sumeru? And then, so far removed from the laws and regulations of his nation, what authority would Albedo possess as one of the Captains of the Ordo Favonius? The answer to that was 'none'. At best, he would be a diplomat, a tourist ; at worst, an intruder. But even then, it wasn't as if his duties would suddenly cease to be in his absence. Both those of an alchemist, of a Captain of the Ordo, and those of an older brother required attending to, after all - especially so when considering the sheer destructiveness of his younger sister's hobbies, which she had all conveniently been introduced to at a young age.

 

(Which, as far as Albedo was concerned, wouldn't be so bad a quirk, if instead of making Mondstadt's already thinly-spread forces her personal nanny while she continued her child-free escapades, Alice had actually taken responsibility for her daughter's explosiveness. And while he would never dare voice those concerns to his second mother, they were present all the same.)

 

With his search having come to an unexpected end, the chalk prince put away his sword and returned to Mondstadt, intent on heeding this failed prototype of himself no more.

 

Little did he know, however, his 'escape' hypothesis had had some truth to it :

 

For about two days now, this prototype had been sitting at the back of a cargo vehicle, bound, gagged and bruised, on his way to Snezhnaya.

Chapter 2: Shelter and Cage, It's All the Same

Summary:

"Once upon a time..."

There were two Princes, Chalk and Coal.

The Chalk Prince was beloved and cherished by all subject of the city that he had been given, and in turn, he cherished it deeply too. However, none of his subjects knew that the Chalk Prince in secret ordered for his nameless brother to be exiled, far to the North. In spite of the cruel arrangement and the humiliation resulting from it, the Coal Prince found himself being cared for for the first time in his life. Not very long after, he forgot he was - or was meant to be - a Prince at all.

He was scared, he was hurting, and it was cold ; these were the things the boy-infant knew about his current predicament, and they were all he needed to know in order to understand that something terrible had been happening, and would happen, to him.

He didn't know why the large and imposing people clad in thick furs had gotten angry when he'd hidden himself away in one of their tents. They'd always had so many of them, from what he could recall, spread all over the mountain. And it wasn't like he'd planned on taking one for himself. It was only for a moment that he'd wanted it. Just a small moment. He didn't understand why they couldn't simply lend it to him - why they couldn't simply trust him with the one tent he'd intended to use as shelter until that other him decided to call off the manhunt. He'd tried to explain, to say his piece, but alas, not one of the smart words that very same other him seemed to speak with ease had made it past his lips. Once, they had flowed from them in an almost-perfect mimicry, but now, like hiding his red eyes and red marks on his skin under a mosaic of strange symbols and stranger acts had been but temporary skills he'd taught himself and had now near-forgotten, they flowed no longer. So, it must've been because of that, the sprout had concluded : he could no longer act like the other him, and so they would not tolerate him. Instead, they'd hit him, and they'd send purple, numbing sparks coursing through him until blood came gushing out.

 

Or until some of that blood sprayed upon one of the large and imposing people's skin ; until they stopped laughing amongst themselves whilst pummeling him into the ground.

 

Something bad had happened.

 

Or so he had heard, later on. 

 

For at the time, he was blind to all but the fog in his eyes ; deaf to all but his own groaning, which he held no control over. And like that, they threw him in a wooden cage, then, and left him there, his everything hurting far more than it ever had in this short but well-packed lifetime.

He tried to pry it open in his pained delirium, with brittle and bruised fingers, but to no avail : the only thing he had to show for his efforts was the undeniable truth that his everything could hurt much more. Eventually, he settled on simply curling up against the bars, hugging his knees close to his chest as he thought and pondered. At least the other him wouldn't ever get to him now, he remembered thinking. At least he wouldn't catch and throw him back into that boiling and suffocating pool of bile he'd once taken a swim in.

 

And anyway, if the people in furs wanted him gone as well, they certainly were taking their sweet time going through with it. Maybe they were thinking about how exactly they would, or maybe they simply intended on forgetting about him - on leaving him to rot in his cage. Whichever it was, with all his beaten-up presence of mind, he found he couldn’t care less. After all, despite the beating he'd received, his stomach was full, and he was curled up in a relatively warm place - one in which he needn't worry about being chewed on by neither boar nor wolf. And while 'happiness' was not yet part of his limited vocabulary, nor a feeling he'd ever experienced, sitting in that cage was about the closest he'd ever gotten to adding it - to feeling it. Enough for him to fall asleep, even ; and for how long, he didn’t know.

 

When he awoke, he was bound and aching, sitting at the back of a vehicle of some sort - and that was about the most recent memory he could muster. Where were they taking him? Had he overheard them, by any chance? Why wasn’t he in a cage anymore? When exactly had they taken him out of it? Why had they taken him out of it? It was nice and safe in there ; now, he was tumbling about, constantly finding himself thrown against and between various containers and bags. To his already-weakened body, the simple act of sitting up - of trying to hold the position as he was moved and shaken and pushed by the vehicle's constant rattling - proved so laboring a task that he fell right back into slumber.

 

The second time he awoke, it was by no fault of the vehicle's make ; this time, it was the people in furs that roused him from sleep. Or, more precisely, it was the people in furs taking their 'piss and meal break' - as one of them would say - that woke him up. And this time - and each and every subsequent time they did - a man twice his size would lift him from the carriage, bring him out of it, and the people in furs would put things in his mouth. Things whose names he didn’t know, at that - but only right until he overheard them being spoken. Bread. Soup. Fruit. Vegetables. Occasionally meat, too, greasy and dripping and shiny with fat. The latter would leave him curled into himself and groaning in pain, however, much to the people in furs' amusement. Eventually, they stopped giving him meat altogether, and he found he was more than fine with that. Everything else, though - the bread, the soup, the fruit and vegetables and more - they were all easily the most delicious foods he'd ever eaten. Even if half the time he didn’t quite have a name to put to what he was chewing. Nevertheless, he’d gobble it all up from the hand of whoever was feeding him, and then he’d cry. When his stomach was full. For the first time in forever, he felt happy.

 

If it hadn’t been for the food, perhaps he would have even kept up his attempts at escape during those breaks. 

 

Someone would always supervise him, during those, and the first few times he'd tried to make a run for it, heading straight toward the forest, they'd dragged him back by the hair or ankle. Such actions on his part would then result in the people in furs being meaner and giving him less food, and so, after connecting two and two, he stopped altogether. In the forest, he wouldn’t have mashed potatoes with cream, or Sunsettias and Bulle fruit roasted with Whopperflower, even ; he’d have to eat grass and cadaver-rot once more, and he'd have to return to wearing rags. The clothes he'd stolen from the other him, on top of being dirty and damaged at places, had begun to hold an unpleasant odor, and so the people in furs had given him a long, white gown, tied at the waist with a thinner piece of cloth, to wear. And occasionally, one of the women amidst them would drag him off to some nearby stream and put something in his hair - something that, when washed off, left his blonde strands feeling soft and silky and free of any traces of matting or dirt. It was strange, but it was nice. Before, they'd say his hair looked like a hay pile someone had shat and pissed in - and he didn't know what to think about that, as all the sentence contained were words he was not yet familiar with.

 

In the end, in spite of being tied up at the back of the carriage, he was clean, dressed, fed and watered, and he was happier than ever before. None of the people in furs would smile at him, or even do so much as to go along with his few attempts at cozying up to them, and certainly, they would still get angry with him every now and then, but for the first time in his life, the sprout had wondered if maybe, the love he was meant to receive was simply not the same as the one the other him was. He had their Mother caring for him ; he had crowds upon crowds of people that enjoyed and sought out his presence. And the sprout, meanwhile, had people teaching him how to bathe in a river ; people feeding him delicious meals. What a wonderful thought it had been, to see things that way, and so, the sprout chose to believe it. Whether it was for his own comfort or due to genuinely thinking that was the truth, however, that would remain an enigma.

 

For the next two weeks, he was as content and happy as could be. In silence. Never sharing as much as a word with anyone in the carriage, the people in furs took to joking about the convenience of his muteness - of his being mute. He wasn’t, in truth, but he liked being convenient, as convenient meant food and water and shelter. And so, as the landscape around them had grown colder and harsher and more and more inhospitable, the sprout had begun fancying himself a bird in a golden cage ; silent not in misery, but joy. For all he cared, the people in furs could keep on dragging him along to wherever and for however long - until the day either he or they met their end, even.

 

But neither would come true.

 

On the very last stretch of this voyage, the carriage made it into a land that was not all that different from Dragonspine : here, snow was everywhere ; here, grass was sharp, and it cut like broken glass through the uniform white that made up the vast majority of the landscape. All bodies of water his eyes landed upon were frozen solid ; the mornings and evenings were painted a beautiful and intense array of colors - a palette of reds and oranges and pinks. But in the distance, there were beautiful cities and villages and settlements - ones full of life and warmth, ones that were very much unlike the dead and frigid ruins that decorated the mountain he used to call home. And that was where this land cemented itself as foreign. During meal breaks, when the sky was dark, he’d sit and stare - gawk, even - at the little, yellow dots of life that were so distant they appeared to him quite like the scales of a giant fish, swimming, glinting and shining within the void that was the sky. And he'd almost forget to eat his food.

 

Oddly enough, they always avoided those towns, taking detours just to go around them instead of through them. Every now and then, though, someone from the carriage would jump off and wave everyone goodbye.

 

“My mother is in the next town over - I will report in a week’s time!”


“Last time I saw my wife, she had just started getting round with our second. I already left my file for paternity leave!”

“Another Lord Harbinger wants me elsewhere, it was good working with you.”

Each time, the sprout would wave to them as well, and he would let his thoughts wander - what could possibly await them at home? A lot of warm food and even comfier beds, perhaps, he thought, having already forgotten about the still-purple mosaic of bruises they had all contributed to leaving upon his skin. 

 

At each meal break, he could see that a giant building grew on the horizon, and he could see that along with it, so did the tension within those remaining on the carriage. He didn’t know why, though.

 

On the very last day, this routine was broken : when he was woken up, it wasn't for a meal nor a break. He was confused by this, and upon looking at one of the women, hoping to find some sort of unspoken explanation within her expression, he saw that she looked very serious, yet relieved.

 

“We’re here. Up you go, you’re getting off,” she ordered, and he happily obeyed, declining both shoes and cloak as he hopped off the carriage - only to come face to face with a view beyond anything he'd ever imagined possible.

 

While in the distance that building had looked regal and otherworldly in its grandeur, upon being faced with its gates, the sprout felt very small - smaller even than he'd expected to feel. Though the mountain was bigger, it had never felt as if it were meant to make anyone feel so tiny. It was just a mountain, and it did what it had been made to do, and that was to be there and be tall and imposing - so the boy-infant never minded it. But the building before him had been made jagged and pointy and overwhelming and sharp all on purpose by whoever had made it : unlike the mountain, it was meant to be scary. 

 

Nonetheless, even disturbed, a frown creasing his brow to show for it, the sprout followed the last five of his companions past the gates. He looked back exactly once - at the footsteps he'd left within the snow, that is, and they were already making themselves hard to discern, he noticed, fresh snowfall softly filling them up.

“Come on kid, we’re on a time limit here!”

Not one to make himself inconvenient at the very last minute after having been so good for so long, the boy-infant tore his crimson gaze away from the snow and ran down into the halls after his companions, trying not to pay any mind to the loud, almost-foreboding creak of the gates falling shut behind him.

 

This moment, little did he then know, would mark the last time in weeks he would get to see the snow and marvel at the sky, at the stars, hanging high on the firmament and following a pattern that would resemble a lotus, should he have known to look for it. But he had not. And his chance to have done so - the last of it - was gone, for the next time he would lay eyes upon the starry skies, lotus shaped or not, he would not do so as a sprout.

Chapter 3: Farewells and Hellos

Summary:

"Once upon a time..."

The Coal Prince - by then no longer a prince - made it to the far North. Once there, the guard assigned to ensure his exile left him at the doorstep of a great palace carved in ice and stone as an offering to the Priest that dwelled within it.

His five companions and caretakers ended up taking him to another man - one who, though indoors, sitting at a desk, was clad in full winter clothing. Scarf, cloak, everything. Just like his companions, actually. The sprout looked down at himself, at the white gown he wore, and realized that in comparison to them all, he was as well-dressed as a balding boar. And it seemed that the man at the desk had taken notice of the fact too, as he looked him up and down with a puzzled look on his face before diverting his attention toward his companions - waiting for an explanation, as it was, and one that the woman who'd woken him up provided :

 

“Junior lieutenant Malina, sir,” she began, "Here to report with our company’s latest discovery at Dragonspine. Per The Jester’s requests, all findings related directly to the Cataclysm and the Abyss are to be brought to the Zapolyarny Palace headquarters for further review and inspection.” She gave the man a quick salute before stepping aside, properly presenting the boy-infant to him. “There it is.”

 

Skeptical, the senior lieutenant raised an eyebrow at the sprout, laying his eyes upon him once more - an act that had the sprout lowering his gaze to thumb at the fabric of his gown.

 

“I won't lie, it looks like you stole some peasant’s bride right off the altar," the man sighed after a moment, twirling a pen about with a gloved finger as he leaned back in his seat. The woman next to the sprout tensed. "You know The Jester isn’t a fan of false alarms… nor are any of the Harbingers, but that’s beyond the point, and more importantly, not my problem." The pen stilled, and after another moment, the man added, "You know, any other day, I would tell you to just put this lass back where you snatched her from, but I slept well tonight, so I’ll hear you out.”

 

The woman bowed. “Thank you, lieutenant,” she said, and the other four companions bowed as well. “This thing snuck into our tents one day, eating our food like some kind of vermin. Later, after punishing it appropriately, we realized two things : one, that initially, it looked just like Captain Kreideprinz of the Ordo Favonius, who we have been tasked with observing as well.” Both the sprout and the desk-man opened their eyes wider upon hearing that name. “And during the process of punishing it, well… one of our comrades ended up getting sprayed with this thing’s blood, and…”

From who-knows-where, the woman produced a neat folder and slid it onto the desk.

 

“Well, he suffered the same effects as several of our other comrades who'd been exposed to the Dragon’s blood. Unusual and discolored blood clotting, nausea, delusions, hallucinations, aggressivity, depressive thoughts…” she explained. “... And as such, we came to the conclusion that this… thing here?”

 

The woman glanced in his direction, and the sprout looked back at her, blinking a few times.

 

“... Is another of Gold’s creations. One that presumably precedes the Kreideprinz as well.”

 

… Gold?

 

No, that wasn’t right. That was not his Mother’s name. She could create gold, but she wasn’t gold. Were he and the other him associated with another mother, by any chance? He furrowed his eyebrows at both the woman and the man, who momentarily paused looking through the folder to raise his own ; for a few seconds, he waited for someone to correct themselves. But they didn’t, for some reason. And for another entirely, he felt upset - perhaps unreasonably so. But she had a name and it was lovely, and yet they wouldn’t use it.

 

“... Rhinedottir.”

 

The woman, who'd opened her mouth to continue her explanation, suddenly let out some sort of choked-up noise and turned to him. And meanwhile, the other four people in furs did as well, and just like that, all five of them bore an unsightly grimace of cold, unrestrained shock.

 

“T-This thing can talk ?!” the woman stammered out, both pale and red in the face, before sharply turning to her comrades. “Why didn’t any of you say anything, huh?!”

“I- Well–!” one of them tried. “Don’t ask us, we had no idea either!”

“You–!” the sprout was once again addressed. “What’s that all about?! Huh?! Don’t look at me like that, I know you’re not deaf or anything!”

“... You and others said it was nice that I didn’t talk,” the sprout mumbled, puzzled, only to furrow his eyebrows further at the sound of his own voice. He hadn't heard it in quite a while, had he? “... I thought that’s what you wanted. So I didn’t.”

The company was, for a lack of better words, flabbergasted. Metaphorical cogs could be heard turning to all but the boy-infant as slowly but surely, any and all interactions they'd so far had with him were revisited - now with, in mind, this new piece of information. Some were almost amused ; some were angry. Some didn't seem to know what to make of it. The boy-infant didn’t know why. He'd just done what they'd seemed to like best at the time. Fortunately for them, the awkward and stew-thick silence was cut short with a bark of laughter, coming from none other than the lieutenant himself.

 

“Hah! Well, aren’t you one cozy lap-dog, huh?” he jeered, laughing loudly once more as he slapped his desk a few times. “What was that name, again?”

“Rhinedottir,” he repeated. “It is my Mother’s name. Not Gold.”

 

He was very serious as he spoke - he was certain of it - and yet, his words only made the lieutenant's laugh grow all the louder. What was so funny? Was it him? Was he that funny? He didn't want to be, right now. He hadn't meant to be. He'd just wanted them to know that he was his Mother’s creation, and not anyone else’s. But he received no answers at all regarding that - only laughter that continued for a few more seconds before eventually tapering into a short and sobering sigh.

 

“That’s just one of her many monikers," the lieutenant explained, "but shouldn’t you know that?” He raised an eyebrow as he put the folder aside, and then, he turned to the woman. “Alright, you and the thing here convinced me. Real funny, and kinda makes sense. Well. The Doctor and some of his people will take it in shortly.”

With those words, a heavy silence was cast upon the room, the five companions behind the sprout suddenly more akin to statues than men, what with their flesh seemingly turning to stone from the sheer pressure that now surrounded them. Pale, rigid, motionless and barely breathing. They stared, wide-eyed, at the man. They waited for another bark of laughter - one that could break stone. And when none came, they glanced between one another and shared horrified looks. But then, all those eyes - save for the woman’s - were on the sprout. He couldn’t understand why they suddenly looked so afraid. Couldn't even begin to guess.

 

“... But this is a delivery under The Jester’s orders,” the woman eventually choked out, her voice no longer as brave and no longer as solid. The sprout began to worry. “... Shouldn’t the lad go to him and him alone?”

“Not my idea. To avoid wasting time, and to avoid risks of contamination or something blowing up in someone's face, all such… deliveries are to go through either The Doctor or The Marionette, and since Lady Sandrone specializes in clockwork and other mechanics… that leaves only The Doctor.”

 

“S-Senior lieutenant, with all due respect, I don’t think this will be necessary. Just– Just look at this thing! I’ve seen grannies stronger than this, and it didn’t even think of fighting back when we gave it a beating for stealing our supplies!” she protested, and once again, the sprout was afraid. No longer worried, but afraid. “All things considered, this is just a small fry– Surely it doesn’t have to go to The Doctor and his people! Of- Of all things!”

“It does. I just said it’s not my idea.”

“You know how they’re like, senior lieutenant! To them, ethics, decency… they're less than a friendly suggestion.”

“I know.”

“Not even The Damselette or The Knave want to have them in their ranks! They’re that horrid and despicable!”

“I know.”

“Y- We’ve all seen what they did to those Eleazar-ridden kids years ago, and that’s still just the tip of what they’re capable of!”

 

“We did. We even held the doors open for them, and you know what it cost us.”

“... Senior lieutenant. This is too cruel,” the woman eventually settled on murmuring. Her voice was cracking. “... You know what’s likely to happen to this thing, and yet you insist on sending it to The Doctor. Surely, you must still possess some compassion, sir. Don’t do this.”

 

The lieutenant sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“... Listen. As much as I’d rather have it sent to The Jester immediately, I can’t just disobey an order from the Harbingers. All Abyssal life forms have to go through The Doctor first, and what happens there is none of our business. And besides, I’d rather keep those degenerates occupied, lest they take it into their own hands and go seeking a show on the streets.” Just as this last sentence was thrown into the air, the sprout heard the woman gag. “Better some poor thing made in a lab five hundred years ago than our family or friends, wouldn’t you say?”

 

After that, the woman protested no more and only hung her head low, and though the boy-infant sought eye contact from her, she kept avoiding his gaze like it would hurt to meet it.

 

“... Just go. Treat yourself to a bottle or two and forget you even knew this thing,” the man suggested, now resting his forehead in his palm. “Tsaritsa knows we will need all the sanity in the coming days.”

 

And just like that, with no great fanfare or fight, the woman sighed and turned. And before the sprout could even open his mouth to ask her what was going on and where they were all going, the other four companions had turned as well, and all five of them were halfway down the hall. Confused and scared, he waited for them to suddenly come back, just as they always did. They never left him without supervision, after all. So he waited and stared and waited, but not one of them glanced back - not even the woman, who'd been so adamant on keeping him away from someone. And why? And who? And why were they all so afraid?

 

The sprout did not know. Not then, not now.

 

Hesitantly, as they left one of the inner gates and rounded a corner, soon disappearing from sight, he waved them goodbye. They didn’t say when they’d be back, not like the others had, but surely they would. Surely they would be back. He was certain of that.

But they wouldn’t.

Chapter 4

Summary:

While within the palace carved in ice, the Coal Prince was tended to by four beasts for many days to come, until the Priest arrived to look upon the offering left for him.

Or at least, that's how he wished the story went.

Notes:

In this chapter, as I previously warned, things get very serious and very unpleasant. While it's not graphic, I understand very well that some of you might not enjoy reading depictions of subjects aforementioned in the tags. If you're going to read it, please be mindful of your own boundaries and of the warnings I gave out plentifully.

And for the crowd that reads dead dove fics solely for the sake of harrassing their authors and accusing them of fetishizing abuse, consider this :

explode

It wasn’t long after the very last of the company’s departure that The Doctor’s people arrived ; that - after an explanation as to the situation from the lieutenant that was as short as it was serious - the sprout was taken deeper into the building ; that he was led to what the people referred to as ‘the infirmary’. Eerily enough, the nickname felt misleading, what with its implications of safety and care. It was confusing, almost troubling, but he somewhat preferred vagueness and uncertainty over fact.  His new caretakers, unlike the place he was led to, showed intent to neither misdirect nor mislead him, as from the moment his eyes had met theirs, he’d known something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Off, even - like looking at a freshly-caught fish and immediately knowing it’s sick, tainted ; like seeing a plant and almost-instantly recognising it as poisonous despite possessing no previous knowledge of it. 

 

As ignorant as he’d been at the time, he still knew better than to keep looking at them. 

 

His avoidance, however - akin to hiding under a blanket not to draw their ire - didn’t stop them from looking at him in turn while they made the trek to the infirmary. They made comments, on the way - half of which he couldn’t understand, half of which made him uneasy, and all of which he said nothing to. Unlike his previous caretakers, he had no desire to talk to them, not for even a second. Occasionally, even, they’d grab his hair, lean down and get right into his face - all for no apparent reason. And one even palmed at his chest through the gown, once, for some other reason he couldn’t begin to understand nor chance a guess at. Something about him really looking like a woman, he'd heard them say. But that made no sense.

 

After what felt like forever, they stopped. From there, he was shown to his first, real room : a tiny cell with a bed, a lamp that gave off no warmth, and a soundproof door. There was no window, and the cell was kept at what some might call the optimal temperature. And off to the side, behind a wall, there was a small 'bathroom', as he had been so generously told by the person escorting him there, and which he would figure out how to use later. 

 

Regardless of the general quality of the room, that tiny cell felt heaven-sent. It was his first real bed, his first real quilt and pillow! Overjoyed and exhausted, he wrapped himself in the thick quilt, laid his head upon the pillow, and immediately fell into a blissful, dreamless slumber.

 

Come morning, he was woken up by the door being slammed open and immediately shut as he was brought a meal. After sniffing and taste-testing it a few times, the sprout concluded that it wouldn’t be as good as the mashed potatoes or roasted fruits he'd been fed before. The texture was lumpy, and the meal itself was lukewarm, and no amount of poking it with the fork he was given seemed to make it better. Though disappointed, he still wolfed it down, as if afraid it would be ripped out of his hands.

 

Full and happy, he went back to sleep for a while longer, though for how long, he didn't know - and even in the event that his cell were equipped with a clock, he wouldn't be able to read the time on it, as he simply didn't know how. Nevertheless, he slept. And he couldn't remember the last time he'd done so comfortably and so many times in a row without being forced awake by some loud noise or another, by the weight of snow piling on him, or by the shenanigans of the shape-shifting plant he'd brought into being, which, all things considered, he wished was there with him. Alas, he just didn't have the time to try and put it back together. And now, it was probably lying in the snow, half-buried, torn apart beyond repair, and… this was just too sad to think about.

 

For the next week or so, his routine resembled that of an actual infant. 

 

He’d sleep for many hours and get woken up to eat. Between each meal, he’d go back to sleep for a few more hours. And then, occasionally, he'd get woken up by his digestive system. Every now and then, he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, though, and as the cell didn’t offer much in terms of entertainment, he’d sometimes stare at an empty wall with an empty mind, trying his damnedest not to think, as it never brought him anything good. One time, he'd thought of trying to steal back his place in the world ; thought it was a good idea to send out his only defender against a group of four people. Up until then, he hadn't known it was possible to be bored and sad at the same time, and if that wasn’t enough, boredom on its own was somewhat foreign to him, completely new .  

 

So, grumbling, he’d roll around in his bed, walk around the room, and, when he didn't feel like moving much, stay put and pick at the bare wall next to his bed. It was sturdy, and though paint easily peeled off it, the wall itself wouldn’t budge. Not that he thought of escaping. Just watching the peeled, bare parts of the wall making lines and shapes was fun enough.

 

Then, he’d fall asleep, and the cycle would start anew.

 

 

---

 

It was only during the second week or so that his situation would gain a discomforting note to it, and as it was, it began with the people who brought him food. With his meal placed on the little table in the corner, they would stand at the door for a while. Saying nothing, doing nothing - just staring. And then, after watching him eat for a while, they would leave. 

 

Odd.

 

Initially, the sprout assumed they'd do this to make sure he ate all his food, which was quite nonsensical, he thought, as he'd licked clean every plate and bowl they'd ever brought him. But, aside from this, he didn't mind the visits. They gave him something more to look at in that little room of his. Beyond the furniture and the food he'd be given, beyond the image of his Mother in the mirror, he had someone else to look at.

 

Our Mother, she was beautiful, he remembered hearing before his second birth. Her hair really did look like gold itself, only just a little paler! And her eyes - oh, her eyes, so kind and knowing - were a bright and gentle blue, just like the skies above! And I remember seeing you for the first time, too! You looked almost just like her! I was so happy to meet you!

 

His dragon brother, so happy he had been to speak of her. He must have been even happier at the prospect of having him as his last meal - especially if it meant helping their Mother dispose of a still-born, so that none would ever know of her failure.

 

The thought was always bitter.

 

Ah, and before you, there was also a man! I remember Mother asking him for help in making you! She was so happy when he agreed!

 

The sprout knew that man - knew what he'd looked like. Before anything else, this information had been written into his mind, so it was easy to recall, as he'd follow the lines of his reflection in the mirror, that he shared that man's curved nose, his round eyes.

 

And now, beyond his own and the few he knew by heart, he could pay attention to the features of those that came and went - that brought him food and stayed for a while. Sharp eyes, thick eyebrows, thinly-pressed lips, he saw and memorized. Wider chins, stubble, side-burns, large noses, pointed noses, scars, wrinkles. And then some. Features, big and small, stretched or squashed. All arranged differently, and all forming a different mosaic that in turn was part of a bigger whole : a person. Sooner rather than later, beyond every feature, he remembered and knew each and every face, down to its most minute of details. All they were missing now were names - or rather, he was missing the knowledge of their names, as unlike him, they certainly had some. Given to them by their families, by their parents.

 

The thought made him as miserable as it made him angry, but he never dared voice his envy, not again.

 

In the next week, the drawn-out visits became something more : now, they'd come when he was right upon the verge of sleep. And they’d no longer come alone. He’d counted four, once, but not because he’d seen them, no. He'd listened to them talking, rather. And he’d listen every time, and he’d keep his eyes shut tight all the while, as they would always talk about him.

 

"You sure that's not a girl?" he'd heard one of them - a woman - say. "It just looks so… I don't know. I've seen pregnant married women looking less girly than this thing. Throw some frills on it and you could pass it off as a princess, I’m sure."

 

He didn't know whether that was a good thing or not.

 

"Eh, I’ve listened to how he eats and how he talks to himself, sometimes. No girlie that age has a voice like that," another responded, and he heard the telltale shifting of clothing - a shrug, most likely. "What? I thought you didn't have a problem with that."

 

"I don't, not at all," the woman chuckled. "But with you filthy men around, it'd only be a matter of time before we'd have a plus-one on our hands. If it was a girl, I mean. Ever think about that?"

 

"Aw shit, you have a point."

 

The sprout had no idea what they meant by that. Why would it be bad if he were a girl instead?

 

"... I really wouldn't, if I were you," a third voice added with a groan. "We've all heard what happened last time."

 

"And by last, you probably mean that one time a few hundred years ago, right? Which we all know was a different situation altogether? If not, let me remind you that Lord Scaramouche was recruited by the Jester AND the Doctor." There was a short pause, in which the woman huffed. "Does this thing even look like it was recruited?"

 

"You never know until it's too late."

Scaramouche.

 

That was a nice name, the sprout thought. A bit silly, but nice to hear. Not to own.

"Pfft. Come on, we can all see it's just another one of the Doctor's patients . It’ll be tossed out in a month, after they learn everything they need to know about it." The sprout froze further upon hearing those words. He didn't want to be thrown out. Not again. "Like always."

 

"All the more reason to have some fun while the window’s still open!" a fourth voice chimed in. He hated it the most. "Why wait until it's all mangled and shit?"

 

"My point exactly."

 

The third voice sighed. "If we end up castrated and sterilized amputees before our next payday, just remember : I warned you."

 

With that being said, the door was shut at last, and the four voices left him, awake and alone, to wonder about what they could possibly have meant by any of the words they’d said and trying to find a reason as to why they made him feel so sick - as if he’d eaten both too much and too little.

 

Eventually, ultimately, the thinking exhausted him, and off he went, down into a deep sleep that was riddled with dreams of Mothers, of Fathers, and of names and meanings he wasn't privy to just yet.

 

---

On the third day following the strange conversation in his cell, the sprout was woken up by none other than the sound of the door opening - quietly so. It was the middle of the night, and he was used to the abruptness, by then, at all times, at night - the usual slamming of the door against the wall being more of a soft breath to his ears. He didn't mind the loudness, the suddenness. Near-perfect silence, however - cautiousness - was unfamiliar. It was startling, eerie, and so, immediately, the sprout sat up, wide-eyed and pale. To his surprise, the woman from before was now sitting by his bed and smiling kindly. Or as kindly as she could, at least. 

 

He could still tell there was something off about it.

 

"Hello there, sweetheart," she greeted him, and with his wariness sounding truly justified, the sprout retreated further into his bedding. "Hope it's not too sudden, but I've been meaning to talk to you for a while now! I just never seemed to have the time to sit down and talk, you know? Not until now."

 

Good, because he didn't want to talk. But then, on the other hand, if he went ahead and told her that - exactly that - he might find himself getting even less food during the day. Or maybe he’d have his quilt and pillows taken away from him. And he certainly couldn't have that, so there he sat, silent and still-groggy with sleep, observing her carefully.

 

"..."

 

"... So, how do you like it here, in Zapolyarny Palace?" she asked - almost-innocently so - before looking around the room. "I know your room’s a bit small and whatnot, but it's really the best we can offer you at this time. Safety precautions and all. But, enough of me talking : go on! Be honest!"

 

Oh, she actually wanted him to talk.

 

… Well, since it was what she wanted of him, he wouldn't be difficult, would he? With his head lowered, he sighed quietly, one hand fiddling with the quilt. He could tell she was growing impatient.

 

"... It's… really lonely," he croaked out after a second, entirely unused to the sound of his own voice. "... Back on the mountain, there were animals. The black things in masks, too. There was always something."

 

Sometimes, from afar, he could even spot alive people. And when he did, he'd sit in the shadows and watch them in silence. How they walked, how they talked, and… how they were , in general. They were alien, yet so strangely familiar. He held memories of all things that occurred within the once bustling kingdom upon the mountain, yet seeing for himself how people would gather around a fire to eat, sing or to sit in silence was bewildering, to say the least.

 

"But there's nothing here," he added. "It feels weird."

 

When he still roamed the mountain, he would yearn for a day where he wouldn't have to worry about finding himself a place to sleep and food to eat. And now, he had both. So, why was he so exhausted? Why was he so tired , now that he had a bed when he wanted it, some food when he needed it, and more besides? It was as if the simple act of existing was tiring, and yet, he didn’t feel tired, not constantly. Was he sick, then?

 

"That's just boredom. You’ll get used to it eventually." He wasn't convinced. How could anyone ever get used to this awful, sickly feeling? It was beyond him, but still, he kept listening. "You're better off in here than out there, though, aren't you? That's all that matters, really. You’ll see. And, by the way, I believe I haven't heard your name yet? Surely you have one?"

 

"No." He shook his head. "I don't. I was never given one."

 

To his surprise, the woman seemed amused by this. If her smile widening at his confession was anything to go by, that is. Though, for someone with a name, the sprout concluded, hurt, it must've been really funny to hear. So, it made sense that she’d be amused. Silently and all within his own head, he asked the universe how long it would take, how long it would be before the woman got up and left his room, if she ever did at all. And just as that thought came to an end and just as the answer began to sound awfully close to ‘forever’, she spoke up again :

 

"So, since you're so bored in here…" she hummed, leaning forward in her seat. "Well, me and my friends could use a little friendly company outside, you see? And you just seem like such a fun little guy. And sitting in this cell all day long must be really, really tiring..."

 

Without any warning, she stood up and moved to the still-open door.

 

"So, how about you come with me, hm?"

 

It took a while for him to comprehend what he’d been offered : freedom, even if only for the night. Freedom from the gray walls, from the stuffy bed, from the face in the mirror, all laid out on a silver platter, just like that. Just because he seemed fun enough. And for a moment, he forgot all about the conversation he’d overheard three days prior ; for a moment, he forgot all about his bad hunch regarding the woman holding out that silver platter and the men who brought him his food. 

 

And that moment alone was enough for him to jump out of bed and rush to the door.

After walking down the hallway he’d first been led through, they found themselves standing before a door to what the sprout assumed was a guard room of some sort. The woman, of course, invited him inside, but it was only after a good minute of mostly-in-vain reassuring that he actually entered, and when he did, the woman followed suit, closing the door behind them both.

 

Inside were, as promised, the three other voices, and by extension, the three men who'd bring him his food and who’d come and watch him sleep at night. They were sitting at a large table, and upon it, there was a bottle of some liquid that had presumably been the subject of some eager passing-around up until just a moment ago, when the door was opened. There was a shared silence between them, almost as if the two newcomers hadn’t come into the room at all, but for once, the sprout knew better : even with the lights dimmed, he could tell that all eyes were on him. Were they happy to see him? Were they not? He couldn't tell, and that immediately scared him. But before he could even voice those thoughts - take back his eagerness to follow - a hand closed around his wrist.

 

Without a word, he was led to the table. And there, the woman took a seat on one of the empty chairs - and there, she pulled him right upon her lap, his back suddenly pressing against her chest, and her arm suddenly sliding across his own from beneath his armpit. His unease grew as she handled him, held him, and yet, none of the other three seemed to notice. They said nothing, and it worried him greatly.

 

"Wonderful. So, now that all of us are here..." the woman said, and whilst she was uttering those words, her free hand stroked his cheek. The third voice - the third man - rolled his eyes. "Any ideas what we should do with you?"

Notes:

What happens next will be left out of this work in particular - though, I might post it as a separate work, for ease of finding and or avoiding. We'll see.

Also, I wanted to apologize for this hiatus!! I have an upcoming internship/apprenticeship abroad, and these last two weeks or so were very hectic, leaving me with little to no energy to write!! I'll try to get back on track soon!!

Chapter 5: God

Summary:

The Coal Prince - hurt, maltreated an used- was forced to plead to the stars the sea and everything in between to free him from the four beasts. For the first time in all of his life, he had been heard by the universe, and so it had sent a savior his way.

Notes:

Hello again, I apologize deeply for the delay. While I can't promise there won't be any more, I'll do my best to fix that.

WARNING

Descriptions of non-con aftermath up ahead. Be mindful of your own boundaries please.

“And this is where we'll finish off with the story today.”

 

“Aw, no way! There's gotta be more! Stories don't just end like that!”

 

“Some actually do, believe me. But while this one doesn’t, I don't think your parents or your brother would want me to tell you how it went after that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, it’s not a nice story, for one. It’s bad, very bad, and I might as well say it’s cursed too. Once you start telling it, you can't stop until it's finished, see, even if the people listening are frightened or angry or sad. So, lest it spreads pain onto someone else, I keep it under lock.”

 

“Oh… That does sound bad.”

 

“It sounds scary, you mean…”

 

“True, true. Does it have a happy ending, at least?”

 

“That depends on what you guys would consider a happy ending.”

 

“Hmm… The knight slaying the dragon and going home with his friends and… um, everything goes back to normal?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, that kinda stuff! That’s a happy ending!”

 

“... Then, no. It doesn't have a happy ending. And you could even say it has no ending at all. But off you go, now. I'll come help with dinner soon.”

 

“Alright, then, bye-bye! See you in five!”

 

“Don’t be late!” 

“And don't forget to finish the story! We want to know what happens next!”

 

“... Hey.”

 

“That the best you can do? And you were so chatty earlier, telling that story of yours - which, nice story, by the way. Very engaging, haha.”

 

“...”

 

“What? I’m serious, here. Don’t give me that look. They loved it, you know? And I have to admit, even I can't wait to hear what happens next, haha. Hell, that cliffhanger… You really know how to draw your audience in. Have you ever considered writing a kids’ storybook or something? Surely you’ve got more where that came from.”

 

“I… can't write. Can't really read, either.”

 

“Is that so? Well, that’s my bad. Still, you're good at this. You could learn. You've got the makings of a born storyteller, I say. And this is coming from an expert of the craft, mind you.”

 

“Oh, uh… thanks?”

 

“Don’t mention it, haha.”

 

“...”

 

“So, about that other story…”

 

“...”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“...”

 

“That’s a no, then, hm? Alright, alright. No pressure, none at all. But if that curse of yours becomes too heavy a burden, someday, you know where to find me. I’ve got some pretty strong shoulders right here, if you catch my drift.”

---

In the end, both the woman and her companions figured out exactly what to do with him.

What to do to him.

It didn't take too long at all for the already disturbing and frightening scene to grow tenfold so as the three men gathered around him, pulled and pushed at him - as they shifted him from place to place, from position to position. As they shared him between themselves over the table as one would a loaf of bread. Later, the sprout would think to himself that the horrid banquet was more akin to four bears tearing apart a wolf pup, as there was none of the warmth that came with sharing bread ; merely cold laughter at his every plea for no more.

 

Luckily, the feast upon his unwilling flesh was cut short. All too late, certainly, but better late than never. Though, the end of it was called upon by neither the woman - who was content with simply observing - nor any of the three men. And who knows, had it been up to them, this banquet might have gone on forever.

But it was not up to them. No. Rather, it was up to some sudden and very loud noise to call forth the end of things :

 

Out of nowhere, and with a deafening bang , the room’s only door was slammed open, pulling all heads in the room towards it. 

 

And there, at the source of the commotion, stood God. 

 

And surprisingly, God cut a rather small and frail silhouette - one that was clad in a thick fur coat that poured and poured onto the floor, like a waterfall of cotton and leather ; one whose features were obscured by the widest hat the sprout had ever seen. A dark, smoke-like veil flowed behind him, too, hanging from that hat, embroidered with words - symbols - he wasn’t privy to. 

 

And then, right then, the first spoken sound God bestowed upon his people was a scoff. And the sprout was privy to this, to it. And immediately, all were off and jumping away from him, freeing him from the tightness, from the sweatiness of their combined embrace, sparing him none of the pain that followed its absence. The ache of it, it spread from his sore throat and down to his painfully-stretched and now-empty backside ; it left him to marvel at God in silence.

 

The woman scrambled to place herself between them and with her body, shielded both him and her men, who also scrambled, though for other reasons entirely : theirs was to shove their appendages back into their pants at the speed of lightning. “L-Lord Harbinger,” she choked out, her voice delightfully, wonderfully meek. Quiet. “... W-We apologize for this unsightly sight – I mean, unsightly view – but I assure you, this thing approached us first, demanding our attention. We’ll put it back right this inst–”

“You dare believe I’m stupid enough to fall for this pathetic attempt at an excuse?” God sneered, his voice a youthful, scornful, unimpressed one. “Filthy fucking animals , the lot of you. Not only could you not keep your hands to yourself - off the first new toy around - but then you try and take me for a fool? Try and have me believe that it just so happened to fall from the sky before you with its legs already spread? Don’t make me laugh.”

 

It sure didn’t look like anyone in the room felt like laughing about anything whatsoever. Not at all. The sprout was even sure he could hear the woman take in a deep, shaky inhale, sounding, for the most part, as if she were holding back tears.

“We’re really, really sorry. P-Please, forgive us,” she squeaked out, much like a mouse held under the paw of a particularly cruel cat. “W-We really didn’t–”

 

“Get out,” God spat, disdain thick upon his tongue. “And don’t you dare show your faces to me again. I’m giving you ten seconds to pick your shit up and leave.”

 

“Y-Yes, Lord Harbinger, we-”

 

“One, two, three, four, five–”

 

His tone left no room for argument. And like so, all were out the door in an instant. The sprout could hear their shallow, panicked breaths as they ran ; he could hear the hurried clicking of their heels striking the tiles growing farther and farther away, quieter, but could find no power to derive any satisfaction from it. None at all. He couldn’t even roll off the table, or at the very least, move just enough to get up, to pull himself together before–

 

Before what?

 

He had no time to ponder the question, as not a moment later, God sighed and took a step forward, his fists clenching, unclenching. His next words, without a shadow of a doubt, would be addressed to the broken thing lying sprawled and panting in front of him.

 

“They really did a number on you, huh?”

 

It was only then and there that the sprout could see his god’s face : it was as youthful as his voice - soft, though sharp around the eyes. His lashes were long, dark, and his eyebrows were the same midnight blue as his hair, cut unevenly and jagged. Both were the colour of the night sky. His expression, though, despite everything else, was what stood out the most. It was serious, and it held both anger and… pity as he looked the sprout up and down.

No one had ever taken pity on him before.

 

There was a strange shift in that expression, then - one that the sprout couldn’t quite make sense of, with how limited his knowledge and current thinking capabilities were. And yet, God didn’t turn his back on him.

He didn’t leave him there, alone, wearing that sweaty gown, lying on that awful, sticky table. He did the opposite, even : he walked ever closer, and reached out. Helped, when the hands that reached back proved too shaky, too stained to be held. And so, in no time, the sprout found himself sitting up. Standing, too - which immediately proved itself far too much effort in his then-state. And thus - like a puppet with pulled-taut, snapping strings - he proceeded to fall on all-fours. Right before his god, who only scoffed as he continued to look down and upon him.

 

“Oh, I know that feeling. Useless like a newborn - weak . Terrible, isn't it?” At the time, the sprout had paid no attention to the statement - to the weight it carried. Not for lack of wanting, mind. “C'mon, up.”

 

With nothing solid to hold onto within his blurry, unreliable field of view, he tried grasping onto the next best thing : that being his god's coat, cold and white as the stars. He reached for it with filthy fingers, grasping and holding on as best he could, only for his grip to fail almost immediately - to slip on its softness. And after only a second of struggling to find his balance, he gave up. Weak, defeated, his head fell upon the cold fabric, his breaths growing shallower and his vision cloudier.

 

Then, there was a hand in his hair.

 

Neither pulling nor pushing nor dragging - merely sitting there, atop his head, gentle and light and small. 

 

“Giving up already?”

 

The sprout doubted it was even intentional, though, the softness and kindness of that hand.

 

“You remind me of a sad dog like that,” God hummed, a touch of humour to his voice. “Eyes and all. On the ground. So sad. Why don't I give you a bath, hm? You reek."

 

Being clean sounded nice. And being dry too. Even though it was only his face and backside that were wet with spit and with that disgusting, pus-like liquid, he felt slimy and wet and sticky all over. And especially so as he felt the latter dripping out of him, running down and in-between his thighs. It made the offer of a bath sound all the more like a blessing. 

 

Delighted and thankful, the sprout looked up, nodded, and was rewarded by the hand of God that sat upon his head momentarily sliding to his cheek, caressing the skin there as lightly and fleetingly as a falling feather.

 

"Good boy," God said, smiling down at him, and the sprout almost burst at the seams at that, too-big feelings of euphoria blossoming within his chest at the words. Simple as they were, they felt to him much like a ray of sunshine peeking through the glass panes of a greenhouse that had gone eons without. "Now, up. C’mon. I'm giving you one more chance."

 

Just one?

 

As if under a spell, the sprout proceeded to do exactly that. Despite his everything aching in ways he’d never known were possible, he pulled himself up and stood straight - or, at the very least, as straight as he could. To his surprise, God actually stood shorter than him, even with that hat of his that seemed just about large enough to store the sky and all of its stars within it. But it made sense. His brother, whose every fang was, on its own, the size of a fully-grown and well-fed man, was the furthest thing from a god. Accidentally and so easily, he could hurt and frighten the things smaller than he ; accidentally and so easily, he could miss and overlook and forget those very same things that were smaller than he.

 

So, the sprout concluded, all things truly divine must be small.

 

Though seemingly unaware of his inner monologue, God once more smiled at him, then proceeded to leave the room. The sprout followed.

From there, into a bath he was led ; a small pond with the clearest of waters, a warm haven hidden beneath the frozen surface of the world above. 

 

A mirror to the cold, hard table upon which he’d lain like a blood-sacrifice not an hour prior.

 

The fragrant scent of unfamiliar flowers and soaps hung in the air, and the sprout took care to engrave each and everyone into his memory. God, to whom these delights were long since familiar, had shed, in silence, both his large coat and veiled hat, presenting to his undeserving eyes a set of complex clothes in various shades of black, purple and red, and in extension, more of his form. Baffled, the sprout learned that somehow, God was even smaller than originally anticipated, bearing even less muscle and fat to him than even the sprout himself. That shock - that bewilderment - that had appeared at the sight of his god’s figure was soon replaced with mortification, however, as God silently addressed the undignified and unrestrained staring with a stare of his own, forcing the sprout's red eyes to look down once more - this time in shame.

 

"Take off that dress," God ordered him. "Surely you're not expecting me to hand-wash it as well? I'm already doing you enough of a favour."

 

Reluctantly, the sprout did just that, sparing the gown a mournful glance as he parted with it. It was still white, soft and without a stain, and yet, he couldn't bear to look at it or touch it any longer. It was the only thing he had that was truly his, and now, he couldn't even love it. Not like before.

 

Satisfied with his nudity, God nodded and stepped aside, removing his shoes and adjusting his sleeves so they wouldn’t be drenched in the soon-to-be filthy water.

 

“Get in.”

The following events became, by far, the sprout’s blurriest memories, though at the same time, the most beautiful ones. Being bathed by God personally, warm water washing over him from head to toe and back, taking with it the invisible remains of the four beasts’ touches. Or was he submerged in it fully? Not washed nor splashed, but drowned? He couldn’t remember. But next came the hands of God once more, this time bearing a small white cloth and a bottle of soap. Generously, gently, those hands poured the soap over him, and just as gently, they rubbed foamy circles into his bruised skin with the use of the soft cloth. To the sprout, each touch and brush of skin against skin and cloth against skin re-weaved together the threads that made him whole ; each and every movement polished the branches that made up his flesh and bones and left them without a single imperfection, without a single fracture.

 

God’s ministrations, seemingly flowing with a mindless familiarity, made him seem, in a way a stranger should decidedly not be, perfectly knowledgeable in all things concerning the sprout.

 

But that was to be expected, wasn’t it? Of course God would already be familiar with him. 

 

Just like the wise octopus knows its own arms ; like a snake sees itself in its discarded skin ; like a chicken is familiar with her egg. With one glance, God, in all his wisdom, had known all there was to know about the sprout he’d scooped up from the soil. And more.

 

“Feels better already, doesn’t it?” God asked as his hands moved up to the sprout's head, spreading the soap there as well, his dainty fingers combing through strands of blonde and occasionally getting caught up in them. “You sure look a lot less shitty, either way.”

 

Thoroughly, touch by touch, God took him apart and rendered him a formless mass free of thought and ignorant of pain. And with that, God began to truly work : he shifted and sculpted the malleable slurry into a semblance of a portrait so clear he could see his reflection upon its surface and in its every dip and crevice. And as God began to find the coming-together image more and more pleasant to look at, he decided to further work it - now tracing onto it the soft shapes and lines one would reserve for a lover.

 

As he touched the image’s cheeks and jaws, he decided it would suit it to have kind eyes - ones that shone with the sparks coming off a struck piece of iron, filled with the adoration needed to look up at him in ceaseless devotion. At his wrists and palms, then, he went, and where they should be, he left fingers that were firm, bony and square, though gentle - capable of creation, of care. Like paintbrushes, in a way. The torso of the image, meanwhile, was squeezed and pulled into shape, looking the part of what stood between the make of a small child and a soldier, or perhaps a smith. Larger than God's own, but not yet large. The legs, then, were the easiest to shape : strong enough to hold, to stand, to run and jump and walk, but frail enough to kneel before him - a perfect, knobbly in-between. As for the image’s hair, he decided to make it the very opposite of a thunderstorm ; the very opposite of his own. For, of all the things the world had to offer, ‘himself’ was what God loved and hated most. And thus, he let the image's hair flow and fall like the rays of a morning sun upon a golden field.

 

And that was that.

 

God, proud of himself, rinsed his creation of the fragrant foams, and beneath them, he saw the sprout. Identical, his body unchanged. Just as he had been, when he’d first left the bloodied earth. God's sculpture-carving of a lover was indeed a fragile little thing, prone to breaking, and so he’d hidden it where the sprout's heart should have been. And so the sprout himself was, for all intents and purposes, left unchanged. 

 

With a satisfied sigh, God woke the sprout, placing his palms on his cheeks. And just like that, life sparkled back into the sprout's eyes. And, smiling, God asked him a simple question :

 

"So, what's your name?"

 

Frowning, the sprout lowered his gaze - and just as God caught sight of the artwork hidden behind the red of it. "I wasn't given one," the sprout answered quite plainly. Somewhat sadly. "I'm sorry."

 

"I see. But that's alright. I can give you one, in time," God suggested. "Of course, I could give you one right now, but people shouldn't give gifts without first thinking them through, don't you think?"

 

The sprout said nothing to that. But then, breaking the silence once more, he asked, “Do you have a name?”

 

God frowned ever so slightly at the question. For reasons unbeknownst to the sprout at that point, it troubled him. Before he could begin to search his wording for a mistake, though, that frown disappeared, and was instead replaced by a sharp, almost-dreamy smile.

 

"Not yet,” God said, “but someday, I will." He wrung out and twisted the once-white cloth, filthy soap water pouring from it, and his fingers making an odd clicking sound as he did. "For now, titles will suffice, but I guess you won't need to know those either."

 

The cloth was put away and God left him, though soon returned with, in his arms, a towel, as well as a neatly-folded piece of black clothing, which he threw aside, onto a stool, before crossing his arms.

 

“Alright, dry yourself and cover up. Unless you feel like leaving a snail trail when I walk you back to your room.”

The sprout didn't feel like doing that, no. So, grateful, he shook his head no, and went for the towel, thoroughly scrubbing himself until all his skin was red, the markings twisting upon it barely discernible now for how raw he'd scrubbed himself. As opposed to only his backside burning and aching, each inch of his body now felt like it had been pricked with a needle, and that was good with him. But then, to hide the holes he’d poked into himself, he put on the piece of clothing he’d been given - a black bathrobe. Thick, cozy and long, simple as and yet, so much more than that. He took in its scent, its softness and gentleness against his skin, hugging and pulling it further around himself as if seeking to absorb it entirely. 

 

By then, God already stood by the door, arms still crossed, impatient.

 

“You know, I’d say I don’t have all eternity to wait for you to stop whatever it is you're doing, but…” God laughed, and the sprout found himself feeling even more captivated than he already had been. “Well, that would be a lie. I could probably stand here until the next kalpa if that's what it took.”

 

“... What’s a kalpa?” the sprout asked, curious, reaching for his previously-discarded gown. “I’ve… never heard that word.”

“It’s what you call the lifetime of the universe. After one ends, new universes split out from it. And so on and so forth.”

 

“Oh. I see.” The sprout nodded. “... And when is the next kalpa?”

“When everything dies, when the sea dries out, when the land falls apart and all the stars expire,” God answered. “That’s when. But you don’t need to know the exact date. Do you?” A pointed glance was thrown the sprout’s way. Did he? “Now, come on, let’s get moving.”

 

God led the sprout out of the bathroom, then, and down the hallway toward his cell they went. And once there, he tucked him into bed and bid him goodnight. A lovely ending to the otherwise horrific story of that particular day, right?

 

It didn’t happen, but it was a good ending indeed.

 

In reality, about halfway through their walk back - a walk the sprout registered nearly nothing of - footsteps made themselves heard behind them. A good way to introduce another character in a story. Except, once again, this sequence of events wasn't quite what had truly happened. Even despite the sprout’s wishful remembering.

 

In truth, what made itself heard was laughter. Laughter that, not unlike a branding iron, seared its shape onto the sprout’s unwilling brain, leaving behind a wound that would never quite go. It was an awful sound, that laughter, an unholy fusion between a wheeze and a cackle. Mocking and condescending. And just hearing it made the sprout feel a shame so visceral he could barely hold back the urge to curl in on himself, to hide his face behind a shield of arms and knees.

 

His own or God’s. Either would do.

 

And speaking of God, he was unfazed as could be by this new arrival. All the sprout saw when looking back at him was the loudest rolling of eyes he’d ever witnessed, followed by an exasperated sigh.

 

“What’s so funny, huh?” God asked, his gaze set on some nothing in particular that was quite far down the corridor. His tone told the sprout that he cared for neither the progressively-louder sound of footsteps behind them, nor the sprout’s once-more growing fear. “Did Pants spill that liquid shit he calls coffee on your humour circuit board again or something? No, don't tell me, actually. I don’t care. At all. Just go plug yourself to a charger.”

 

More of that grating laughter followed, and the next time the sprout dared open his eyes, there he was, right before them.

 

Priests spoke for gods, twisting and shaping their words into ropes with which to bind the faithful. Their meanings thrown away, their sounds no longer the ones that had left their god’s lips. No longer divine. And yet, despite their hypocrisy, despite their lies and heresy, priests still cried devotion, still cried and claimed love for gods they simply kept on failing, time and time again.

 

Thus, the sprout silently hailed the figure before him a priest. He was tall, large, imposing, and wore upon his back a white coat similar in design to God’s own. His face was obscured by an inconvenient mask that reminded the sprout of the carrion-eating birds he’d sometimes see, back on the mountain. It hid his eyes, that mask, his nose too, somewhat, though not his smile. And what a smile it was : as sharp as that of a fox, if foxes could be cruel. 

 

Almost as if about to preach, the priest spread his arms wide, and then spoke : “Can’t help it, doll. Five minutes without me, and you’ve already found yourself a mouse to drag around.” He turned his eyeless gaze to the sprout, and his smile grew wider. “And right from my own stash no less!”

“Oh, fuck off. It’s not like your stupid goons are any better. First thing I see when I walk in is them passing him around, and they even had the gall to try and shit out some excuses. So why don’t you go and deal with them?”

 

The priest waved a hand around and chuckled. “Already reassigned them to the basement. In a week or so, they’ll all be short one limb, hoho. But until then, I’ll just throw in some of the men from the dead god essence project. They’re real good with kids. Keep them clean and fed and with barely any bruises on them. Just perfect, hm? Hah, have I told you about that one time they threw two kids in one room and told them that–”

 

“Whatever, whatever. Spare the spit. I don’t give a single shit about what your stupid underlings do in their free time,” God cut in, his annoyance with the priest growing with each passing moment. “What I do care about - and listen up - is that instead of putting my feet up, I went and hosed off the sad fucking mess they left behind.”

 

Throughout the exchange, the sprout remained silent. He paid no attention to the words shared, nor to the insults thrown in-between his god and that priest. Words were a deceitful, unreliable thing, after all, and they all blended into an incomprehensible slurry once out in the open, anyway.

 

Actions, however, were sharp and clear in what they conveyed, and left little to no room for neither misunderstandings nor pretenses. 

 

And God’s previous actions spoke for themselves.

 

“Is that so? Were you not wearing that sour expression, doll, I’d mistake these actions of yours for a kindness. But you're no bleeding heart, are you?” At that, the priest laughed, and God’s expression soured further. “Well?” the priest prompted. “Now that this mess in question is hosed off, why don’t you just put it back, hm? Since it was suuuuch a bother?”

 

“I was just about to do that, dickhead ,” God spat. “If it wasn’t for your endless blabbering, I’d be taking a bath myself right now. I swear, you better help me pick out that mud from my joints and lungs. You really didn’t have to dunk me whole in it.”

 

Or so the sprout hoped - or so he had believed, once he found himself lying in that plain bed once more, staring up at the ceiling. For a moment there, he hung in a numb nothingness. All was fine. And then, in the next moment, it wasn’t.

 

It started with a small hiccup, then a shiver, and in what felt like naught but a second, the sprout found himself struggling to breathe, his vision suddenly clouding over with hot tears, his whole body feeling cold like never before, each small breath he drew pricking his lungs with icy needles. He was nauseous, and yet he had nothing to vomit.

 

The sprout knew hunger. He knew fear. He knew jealousy. He knew sadness. He knew loneliness. And yet not one of those words could accurately describe how he felt in that moment. It was as if his insides had rotted, leaving him stuffed with writhing maggots and mould. It was as if he’d been replaced from the inside. And no amount of trying not to think about anything made it better. And so he lay there, helpless and sobbing, until exhaustion pulled him under.

 

And he slept.

Notes:

Once again, thank you so much for reading and I'm so so sorry for the delay.

Chapter 6: Genesis

Summary:

Yet, despite being saved from the four beast servants, the Coal Prince found that he was still missing so, so many parts of himself that the beasts had taken from him. With nothing to fill them in, he would sit in his chambers, waiting.

Notes:

This chapter goes a little more in-depth about the aftermath of SA, and it's not pretty. Proceed with caution.

Come morning - or, come next he awoke rather, as he saw neither sun nor moon from within his cell and had no real way to tell - the sprout found he didn’t feel any better. And quite the opposite, in fact, as from the moment he became aware of his eyes being open, the cold, rotten feeling that had festered within his chest the night before returned both at once and in full force, still unnamed.

 

Aching, he rolled over in bed, until his face was buried in the pillow and he was quite flat on his front, to try and dive back into the void of slumber. But, not only was he not granted the sweet release of unconsciousness he sought, the pillow restricted his access to fresh air strongly enough for him to jerk to the side and abandon the position entirely, and then, with the next gasp of air he took, his already-minuscule chances of going back to sleep were fully gone. 

 

Just like that. 

 

And it was then that the sprout realized that, for the first time ever, he truly did not want to be awake, nor to leave his bed at all. Just yesterday, he would get out of bed simply to walk in circles, to pick at the wall, to look at himself in the mirror. Just yesterday, he’d found the idea of staying in bed absurd, a waste. And he still did, in a way. In a strange, distant way. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to crawl off it.

 

He rolled over once again, this time to face the wall, and before long, he was hiding under the quilt ; hiding from that rotten feeling threatening to swallow him whole.

 

---

 

After what felt like both a flash and an eternity, the rot spread to the sprout’s mouth, to his teeth, dry and slimy and terrible and with an awful, awful stench. And, unable to ignore it any longer, he felt himself rolling out of bed and into the bathroom. There was a small sink there, one with a mirror above it. But he didn’t look into it. Instead, he went straight for the sink and rinsed his mouth with water so cold it made his teeth ache, and he didn’t stop until his tongue felt completely numb. And then, only then, when he could taste nothing, did he look up, meeting eyes with his reflection to be once more faced with the image of his mother ; with a face he had been told was beautiful.

 

It was a face that had to be shared, he’d been told. Gazed upon. Seen. Whether or not he wanted it to be, and for reasons he still couldn’t fathom. Not only were the features making it up not his own, and therefore not his to show, but they were features he’d never asked to borrow, to possess. To wear. He’d never asked to be made in her image, so why? Why do all those things? All those painful, painful things? Had he done anything to deserve them? Had he done anything other than simply exist?

 

It was all too absurd, too confusing and cruel for him to dwell on, and so much so that he couldn’t bear to keep looking at the face in the mirror anymore, each attempt at trying to find reason for it all hurting more than the way his hands pulled at his hair, forming fists ; more than the feeling of bitten and broken fingernails digging into his scalp and reaching for his skull.

 

It hurt. 

 

Even more than crashing headfirst into a wall, too.

 

---

 

Soon, the sprout learned that even the simple pleasures that came with eating had been spoiled for him. 

 

The first time he was given food by the people the priest had brought in, he found himself struggling to even look at it. Even if it was only potatoes boiled and blended into a near-liquid, along with what he could only assume were meat and pickles that filled his plate. It looked disgusting.

 

Still, his body was once more starting to remember what hunger felt like, and so, he tried eating the potato almost-liquid, only to barely succeed in stopping himself from spitting it all out. It was warm. It was slimy. It was salty and bitter and everything he couldn’t tolerate right about now. He couldn’t bear to hold it in his mouth for a second longer, he couldn’t - and yet, against his wishes, against his instincts that pleaded for him to do the very opposite, he swallowed. And as he felt the liquid running down his throat and into his stomach, he curled into himself in his bed.

 

The slurry was no different from all the one’s he’d been served before, and yet, the humiliation he felt from pouring it into himself burned through him like acid. 

 

He didn’t finish the rest of the meal until about an hour later - once the pain in his stomach had gotten far too unbearable to keep on being ignored - only to barf it up not ten minutes later, leaving him to writhe in hunger until next he was fed.

 

---

 

It wasn’t long before the sprout knew betrayal once more. This time, though, the traitor proved itself to be his own spoiled, rotten body. And, more precisely, it was his intestines, rather than his body as a whole. All that entered it had to leave it one day, and a bowel movement was the way it all would go about that. 

 

It was a process most natural, this ‘movement’ - one that had to be neither learned nor taught. And yet, despite only doing as nature ordered, as his body demanded, he found himself panting and sobbing himself nearly unconscious, as once again, his backside had been set on fire, this time with a physical reminder of what it had been through.

 

Keeping up with basic hygiene proved dreadful as well, as he learned next. 

 

Painfully so.

 

Upon returning to bed, he wondered if this was how things were going to be, from now on ; if his body was going to forever be covered in bruises he couldn’t even see. Not that he expected that forever to be a very long one, anyway. If that made sense. When he’d left the mountain’s bloody soil-womb, born anew, a part of him had already believed - known, even - his second life wouldn’t last. Much like his first one, really. But he hadn’t thought of that for long. He’d had other things to do. To think about. Now, though, as he lay in bed once more, the thought had returned. Twofold, tenfold. He wondered if this was how he was going to die, this time. Not dissolved in the belly of another, but in a pool of pains so acidic they ate at his everything. It was a heavy thought, but he entertained it nonetheless. And he wondered this, too, when the rumination grew stale : should he truly die from this, would it actually be the last time? Would death keep him, this time? Or would he keep coming back just to experience this heartbreak over and over again?

 

Or maybe, it was not death that did not keep him, but life? Maybe he’d never been alive again to begin with.

 

Maybe he was still just a sprout telling itself a story, dreaming that it was alive once more while still it decomposed within its brother-father’s belly. It was a thought most comforting, this one, compared to the others. Even if fake. To, for a moment, pretend none of this had been happening or had happened was a balm upon his invisible wounds, and so the sprout chose to entertain it further and further. And before long, the troubling ball of thread made of the words and feelings and thoughts unspoken that burdened him had found itself being woven into a whole. And how wonderful it was to look upon, to sink into as it grew far and wide beyond the tiny cell and the prison of his own bed.

 

A tiny freedom, that ever-growing blanket - one he’d later come to know as the sad beginning to his love of stories.

 

---

 

Some more time passed - as that was pretty much all it did, when left alone - and eventually, the sprout heard the door to his cell being opened. Assuming this to mean he was simply being brought food again, he made no move to get out of bed, and none to even look at his visitor, who should be gone soon enough. 

 

The keyword here being ‘should’.

 

Alas, not only did his visitor not bring in any food - according to the lack of food-smell in the air - but instead of leaving, they took a step deeper into the room, and then another. And when the mattress dipped ever so slightly next to the sprout, echoing something terrible, his blood ran cold. And so, panic shooting through him like a bolt of lightning, he found himself sitting up so quickly his vision blurred and his head spun and-

 

“Wow,” his visitor deadpanned, the sound having the effect of an ice-cold bath upon the sprout. “Somehow you look ten times shittier than when I last saw you.”

 

Oh.

 

To his complete and utter bewilderment, his visitor was none other than his God. 

 

His God, who, to the sprout, looked just as pleasant to the eyes as he had the day he first graced him with his presence. Though, of course, not that the sprout had expected any differently, and not that he found it in himself to be concerned with his God’s appearance in any way, as a matter far more urgent bubbled up within him, taking on the form of a not-quite question : 

 

“You came back,” the sprout croaked, his eyes wide and disbelief written all over him. “I… I thought you weren’t going to.”

 

God let out a small huff of laughter. “Oh, did you, now? And where’d you get this idea?”

 

“I don’t know, I… Nice things don't last, usually,” the sprout answered, somewhat hesitant. “Nice people always leave. So I… thought you’d do the same.”

 

For a moment, God was silent. The sprout’s words had seemed to light something within his dark eyes, and the sight of that spark had seemed to set alight the rest of the sprout’s very, very small world. Though gods were typically all-knowing, it appeared as if that simple statement had given him some grand sense of understanding upon… something. And what an odd thing that was. After all, what was it that had yet to be understood by the omnipotent? 

 

Before it could truly unravel into something more, the sprout’s current train of thought was cut short - and by none other than God placing his lithe hand upon the sprout’s shoulder, at that, a small smile brightening his already-bright face.

 

“That's because you've been spending time around mortals. It's in their nature to leave behind those they consider weak, different - to be selfish,” God explained. “Fortunately for you, I'm better than them.”

 

So far, the sprout agreed ; he was better. And with each moment that passed, he grew more and more inclined to believe that having met the young man before him was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and as such, the sprout nodded a silent yes before another part of his God’s words caught his attention.

 

“But I'm mortal too.”

 

After all, he could die, just like any human could. He’d already done it once, so he knew. 

 

God seemed to know what to say to that, very much immediately, but he withheld his answer for a while, opting instead to reach for one of the sprout's wrists, which he raised to eye level before slowly and pointedly pulling at the sleeve that covered it. And there, down and down it went, exposing the red spirals that marked his skin. God’s eyes were on his all the while, and they were amused. Then, as if that hadn't been enough, the hand that didn't hold him by the wrist began tracing the marks, a cold fingertip brushing against each and every twirl. Also pointedly. But there was some semblance of fascination there. Maybe. 

 

Momentarily, the sprout forgot how to breathe.

 

“This,” God began, lightly digging his thumb into a particular spiral that went right over the twin tracks of tendons, “doesn't quite look like something a mortal would have. Of course, I could be wrong, but I’m not. Not in this particular case. So tell me, what are you, exactly? I don’t really feel like playing guessing games today.”

 

A question the sprout wasn’t at all unfamiliar with. He’d asked it to himself plenty of times, after all - though had never quite managed to come up with satisfying enough an answer, even when said answer rang true. He was his Mother’s greatest failure. He was a prelude to her magnum opus, to the culmination of her life’s work. He was an error to be tossed and forgotten. Different answers, different names. Inferiority was his birthright, they said, but how could one possibly accept being any of those things?

 

Putting aside the fate his Mother had left him with, there was so much more to him - so much more beyond the titles inferiority granted him. 

 

When he’d look into his reflection not long after having emerged, he’d notice his eyes weren’t all that different from those of the tiny lizard carcasses he’d find here and there, hidden between and beneath frozen blades of grass. Of course, he was no lizard, and certainly no vishap nor dragon, as he had no control over the elements and lacked the ability to fly and breathe fire, but he noticed.

 

At times, he’d stand before the white tree and reach his hands toward it. Red veins of crystallized warmth raced along its bark, he’d notice, so similar to those his own body displayed. And upon the touch of hand to tree, his heart would race as memories poured from tree to hand. His own, from the past, from the distant past. They were similar, he and the tree, but he was no tree either, for he had no roots of his own, no bark, no branches, and was burdened by sentience.

 

And yet, he was no human. Certainly and definitely, for the strangeness of his fresh eyes and the markings upon his skin. For his sentience. He was still no human. And this truth, he mourned it as one would a long-deceased lover.

 

So then?

 

The still-beating heart of his brother-father held no answers either, when he went to it - provided him only with the ever-present feeling of mute love he’d always felt around it, rendered nebulous, in a way, without a conscious mind to solidify it. He tried and tried to get a reply from it, but all he got was nearly driven mad. The lack of answer filled him with a numb rage. The lack of acknowledgement filled him with a numb rage. How could he be so cruel as to love him so dearly, so deeply, and for so long, only to vomit him back out into the world without a single word of guidance or apology? How could he?

 

The half-assed farewell he got instead of it all certainly contributed to his hurt, the sprout thought.

 

“Now then, this great blessing that pulses through my veins,”

“And lovely sight of the dark universe that gave me birth…”

“They are now yours to inherit.”

 

“Go and see the world outside of this red dream.”

“It will be so much more beautiful through your eyes than mine.”

 

“And please, remember : 

 

Tell them about our Mother and everyone else!

Tell them that the place we were born in is beautiful.”

 

Easy to say, all of this, when he had never seen the beauty of his technically-homeland for himself. It almost felt cruel, that request. To ask him to describe a place he had not been allowed to see, to grow up in. But then again, every now and then, the sprout remembered that his elder brother’s heart being kind and loving didn’t necessarily mean he was particularly intelligent. Maybe it had been an oversight on his part, to think his brother-father wise beyond measure. But in his own defense, his consciousness had been held in a post-mortem stasis for centuries. An oversight was nothing.

 

Not that any of that mattered before his God, though. His God, who was still waiting very patiently for a reply. His God, whose philosophy regarding thoughtlessly-given names the sprout now employed to avoid providing him with a less-than-satisfactory answer. Because he deserved that much, at least. After everything.

 

“I don’t know,” the sprout admitted, shrugging.

 

Simple as. And it was a half-truth.

 

God gave him a half-resigned, half-irritated sigh at that and let go of the sprout’s thin, bruised wrist.

 

“Fair,” he said, bringing his arms back to himself to loosely cross them over his chest. “Few come into this world knowing exactly what they are - who they are - and even less figure it out. But who knows? There's still time. You might just be one of the lucky ones.”

 

“I am.”

 

Taken aback by the sprout’s completely-uncalled-for surge of confidence, God let out a surprised, disbelieving bark of laughter. And there. Right there. It was the loveliest thing he’d ever heard ; and maybe it was the loveliest thing he’d ever get to hear. 

 

In that moment, the sprout certainly thought the sound impossible to best.

 

“You? Lucky?” God laughed some more, mostly to himself, and the sound was considerably quieter, more restrained. Still lovely. He quirked an eyebrow at the sprout, and it matched the pull of his smirk. “Need I remind you where you are? What sick bastard has claimed ownership of you? Look at this room. Not even a window. And I could go on and on. Lucky is the last thing you should consider yourself, I think.”

 

The rest went unsaid, but both knew it to be there. Unsaid, but thought.

 

Need I remind you what manner of luck befell you, that night?

 

The sprout winced a bit. “I… Maybe you're right.”

 

“And maybe you’re not that stupid, after all.”

 

“But you came back.”

 

As simple as his answer was, it somehow still managed to stuff his God’s mouth with a silence so heavy his mouth gaped a little with it. And the sprout found the look on his face a little amusing, because of that. Combined with blue eyes wide with open shock, it reminded him of a fish. Out of respect, however, he kept that thought to himself, and instead, wondered if his words had struck some kind of cord within his God.

 

Before he could think to voice this thought, though, his God spoke up.

 

“Well,” he scoffed, pushing himself to his feet, the mattress un-dipping in the absence of his weight. “Then I guess you’re just that stupid. Not much I can do about that. But at least it makes you kinda funny.”

Chapter 7: Feel Better

Summary:

Hi, I have nothing to say for myself, besides a word of advice :

If your previous fandom hyperfixation was of way better quality than your current one for which you're writing a fic, don't get back into the previous one because then you'll realize that you could have been experiencing actual good media and story-telling this whole time instead of spending three years playing Elden Ring 4kids weeb edition.

I'm still going to finish Tales eventually, but for now, have this short comic.

also watch jojo it got actual gays and poc in it

Notes:

warning for canon typical scaramouche toxicity

 

Chapter 8: Stories

Summary:

Like with all things in life, the Charcoal Prince's exile and imprisonment had it's fortunes as well. The beautiful deity took a liking to the Prince and as such frequented his cell, lightening up the Prince's pitch black life with stories of the past and present alike.

Notes:

Hello. Sorry for such a long absence again. As well as the mild meltdown a while back. This chapter is extra long to make up for it.

Days, weeks, would continue to pass, seemingly unchanging and unchanged, save for one small difference that, in the grand scheme of things, actually changed everything : his God’s increasingly frequent visits, that is. They made themselves more frequent, and more… random. The sprout could have been in the middle of forcing food down his throat, or he could have been long asleep ; the starry-eyed deity would sneak into his cell all the same.

 

“Don’t give me that look,” God would hiss whilst shutting the door ; whilst the sprout, freshly woken and groggy, would glare. “I’m not even supposed to be here.”

 

He found the notion absurd. Why would a god need permission to go anywhere? Wasn't unchallenged freedom the very essence of godhood? As the sprout would soon learn, it was not.

 

“There’s eleven of us, and I’m just the sixth,” God would explain when asked. “That shark-looking motherfucker you met earlier is technically my superior. Only on paper, though ; I know where I actually belong.”

 

During those visits, they would talk and talk, often for what seemed like hours, and always until the sprout’s throat had become sore with use. Naturally, with how rarely he’d normally get to speak, even the simplest of conversations could prove challenging, but in the grand scheme of things - in terms of priorities - a sore throat was as a grain of sand beneath the sole of his foot : it was a small price, an almost-insignificant one, to pay for the pleasantly overwhelming euphoria that would spread through him whenever he so much as heard his God’s approaching footsteps.

 

But what would they speak of, exactly? 

 

As it were, the answer was : many things. So many things. Sometimes, his God would start off complaining about his duties - idle ramblings from which the sprout would learn many a name and many a word, ranging from kind to unkind and back. It was mostly the names he’d retain, though. When asked about them, tales of flaws and failings - and oft idiocy - would begin to flow from his God’s mouth in a seemingly unending torrent. In only two meetings, he’d learned of what truly lay under the Shepherd’s wool cloak and cane and heard of a Knight whose virtues were so numerous it hurt to listen. And he'd heard of the Priest as well. The stories concerning him were always his least favorite.

 

“The bastard actually forgot about me in his workshop, once,” God had told him one evening, scoffing. “Can you believe it? I spent a week on that stupid hook before he decided it was about time to go back and finish what he’d started - and I counted, trust me. What else was there to do, anyway? Scream? Piece of shit.”

 

Each one seemed more nauseating than the last, somehow, and yet, it appeared his God took delight in detailing the horrors they contained. And for what? Was this delight borne of relief? or was he simply amused by the sprout’s reactions? by his twisting mouth and furrowing brow? Did he look stupid? It was hard to say, and at some point, the sprout had no choice but to give up the guessing. What humored his God and what did not were enigmas he could not seem to decipher, and that was the end of it.

 

Other times, his God would tell him stories of elsewhere and elsewhen. On one particular occasion, he even brought a book with him, and if his God was the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on, then in that moment, the book was the most beautiful thing he’d ever been allowed to touch. Upon each and every page was an illustration, a scenery he had never before known nor seen, painted with colors so lively and vivid it seemed even the real world could never rival them. And, satisfied with the sprout’s reaction to it, his God had said : 

 

“Pick whichever page you find most interesting, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

So he did. 

 

He began with the dense forest, the one all the way to the south, and from there, found himself embarking upon a journey with his finger - each image it landed upon indicating his next stop. In his mind’s eye, he saw thick trees that reached all the way to the sky, their leaves forming a green dome that could shield the adventurous against rain and sun alike ; caves, too, filled with ruins and intriguing fungal lifeforms ; and to the north, an endless plain of sand, grave to a bygone civilization that even his God didn’t know much about. Aside from that, bordering the sea was an oasis, and far beneath it, a gate.

 

“It bore an eight-armed star, and all around it were decrepit figures - soldiers of some kind, I’d assume,” God had told him, putting a finger upon the image in turn to showcase the gate’s approximate location. “From what I’ve gathered, it sounds like that's where you might have come from. Initially.”

 

For a moment, the sprout had ceased imagining the landscape, an age-old wish having been brought to mind in its stead.

 

“... Was the place behind that gate beautiful?”

 

God had scoffed, then. “Fuck if I know, that gate was as closed as it gets. Shit doesn't get ominously sealed for no reason, so whatever is left in there is probably better off staying there. I thought you'd know more about it.”

 

“I never actually got to see it.”

 

“That explains a lot.”

 

“... And where did you come from?”

 

“You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you? I guess I can play along - for now. So, to the east, beyond the sea, there's this nation called Inazuma…”

 

From there, they traveled to a wrecked-by-war archipelago. First, they stopped by Ritou, a small port that could neither be left nor entered, save by a select few - merchant fleets, mostly. Red leaves decorated the ground, constantly falling from the sky to pool at the ankles of lost travelers and distrustful locals. After exiting the port, they made their way through the nearby plains, where grass grew pale and high, concealing the occasional kitsune or two.

“What’s a kitsune?”

“A fox, basically. But different.”

 

“What makes them different from regular foxes?”

“They’re sentient, for one, and they live pretty long lives. They spend all their time either sleeping or tricking people, though. Then, every hundred years or so they grow another tail.”

 

“... Should they even count as foxes, then?”

 

After that, God flipped the page, landing this time upon an illustration of a city atop a cliff, beyond which a palace sat, reaching high into the sky to overlook the entirety of the archipelago.

 

“What’s this place?” the sprout asked, tapping the image of the palace with a finger. “I’ve never seen a building that tall.”

 

One that had still been in one piece, anyway.

 

“That’s the Tenshukaku. It’s where the Almighty Shogun and so-called Electro Archon resides,” his God sneered. “Or, should I say, where she hides and cowers from the world. Last time I was there, she’d left the entire nation to a puppet she’d made of herself. Looks exactly like her, but the thing’s like a stone - unmoving and dense as it gets.”

 

“That sounded personal.”

 

“Her and that puppet have both wronged me in the past. But I’m over it now. All of it.”

 

“... Uh-huh,” the sprout nodded, completely believing that his God was over it - whatever it was. “... And what’s this place here?”

“Oh, that’s just the Tatarasuna smithing complex. I used to live there, when I was young and stupid,” God explained, and for the time being, the sprout chose to ignore that last part. “I once had a family there - a lover. But they betrayed me, all of them. Popular thing, that. Their leader went as far as attempting to frame me for murder, and when my lover tried to advocate for me in my absence, he was slain by his master. The smithy’s been active over the years, on-and-off, but not anymore - the civil war and all the workers getting sick and dying really made sure it fucked off and crumbled into ruin again. Good riddance, if you ask me.”

 

“I’m guessing you’re over that too, from the sound of it.”

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re getting at?!”

 

---

With each visit, the world outside seemed to grow, in both clarity and size, which… made the sprout’s cell seem all the smaller, in comparison. When God first started visiting him, he’d hoped the company would take his mind away from how empty and lonely it was in there, but instead, it had only served to reinforce it. Of course, the sprout said nothing - for all he knew, his God would take it as a request not to visit anymore. He couldn’t have that.

 

Eventually, the book with the beautiful illustrations ended, and there were no more stories to tell. God took it away, then, and the sprout never saw it again.

 

“If you want this to work, we have to keep assuming you’ll drop dead the next day,” God had answered, when the question of why he couldn’t keep the book came up. “They’ll haul your ass away - to the dump, maybe. I don’t know. And they gotta keep the cells clean for the next guinea pigs, so what do you think would happen next?”

 

“... Someone would come in here to clean?”

 

“Exactly. And they’d find the book. No doubt about that. And then Dottore would know I’ve been coming over - because he always fucking does - and then , I wouldn't hear the end of it for another fucking century. Any questions?”

 

“... Is everyone in your club immortal?”

 

“First of all, it’s not a fucking club. Second, yes, pretty much. Don’t think about it.”

 

“I love not thinking.”

 

---

God would bring other books, at least. None of which the sprout could read, of course - save one very ancient tome written in old common. As delighted as he was to finally have in his possession a piece of text he could fully understand, its contents were simply and painfully boring. So, he’d pick up the others and sift through the few pictures they contained while listening to his God complain about whatever had troubled him that day. 

 

And all was well during those few days.

 

Later, along with the books, he’d started bringing in food - the scent and appearance of the dishes alone provoking a sort of nostalgia to well up in him, thoughts of what he’d been fed by his long-gone companions resurfacing. The sprout’s stomach twisted around itself in disbelief, the first time, still expecting the taste of some vague, potato-looking slurry to coat his taste buds. But no such thing happened - not this time, nor the next. He simply continued to be greeted by a plate of what he guessed to be pieces of some sort of meat covered in a fragrant, lemon-scented crust, next to which sat a small bowl of rice. As simple as the dish was, though, God seemed quite pleased to present it to him - almost as much as one would when presenting some home-made meal to their beloved. Not that he'd actually know what that looked like.

 

“Pants left his plate alone for five minutes,” his God explained with a small smirk. “Finders keepers, right? He's gonna turn half his wing upside-down to find out who took it, but whatever.”

 

At that point, the sprout envisioned the aforementioned man as an actual, sentient pair of pants. The image of them angrily yelling at everyone passing by was quite amusing - enough for him to find himself smiling as he bit down on the first piece of meat.

 

Upon doing so, light, bittersweet juices - much like those of a Whopperflower - burst on his tongue, and were soon followed by the rich and slightly salty flavor of the almost-tear-apart-soft fowl beneath the glazed crust. Saliva came flooding under his tongue, and soon enough his stomach was yelling out and growling for more. So, naturally, he obliged, scarfing down piece after piece without thought, the golden-brown crust and the lemon glaze smearing all over his face and leaving crumbs upon his gown - neither of those details bothering the sprout, as his brain was solely focused on the sheer euphoria it currently derived from eating something that wasn't a lukewarm slurry.

 

Had his God not been there, chances were, he’d have eaten it all in under two minutes. Alas, just as he was about to reach for another piece, he was stopped by fingers closing around his wrist, and snapped back to his senses, his face heating. God looked a nudge away from bursting into laughter, much like a small child entertained by the sight of a pig inhaling scraps right off the ground.

 

“You gotta eat the rice, too. It's there for a reason,” he said. “And it's not like you're really in a position to waste food, are you? You're not much beyond skin and bones. I could probably fold you like a fan, if I felt like it. Do some origami, even.”

 

For a second, the sprout wondered whether or not this statement was in fact a threat, but he forgot all about it quickly enough, as in the next, he’d gone back to vacuuming the dish before him, shoveling fowl into his mouth with a hand and rice with the other.

 

Then, as one would expect : he got sick, and God just laughed.

 

“Didn’t I tell you not to eat like a pig?”

“Urgh…”

“Oh, wait, I didn’t.”

“Huergh…”

 

“Still. What did you think would happen? I’m surprised this amount of nutrition at once didn’t just fucking kill you.”

 

“Mrgrhn…”

“I know, right? I’ll just feed you some grapes, next time.”

 

---

“… About those people you found me with,” the sprout began one day, ending a half-hour long silence and continuing to avoid his God’s gaze. “I keep thinking about it - about everything. But when I try to not think about it, I feel even worse than when I’m thinking about it.”

“Obviously,” God scoffed from the other side of the bed. “I’m actually surprised you’re taking this so well.” He was reading as well, for once, instead of just watching the sprout skimming through books. “Some people actually kill themselves over that, y’know. Food for thought. Then again, you haven't got anything to actually end yourself with in here, so there’s not much to congratulate you on.”

“I stopped eating for two days, at some point,” the sprout noted, not intending for the thought to actually be spoken aloud. “I’d just puke it all out when I did, and it was even worse than being hungry. It burned.”

“Taking back what I said, then,” his God shrugged, flipping his book to another page. “But you’re still taking it better than most would. Was it not the first time or something?”

With a frown, the sprout shook his head. As blurry as his memory of the time before the cell had become, he knew for certain he’d never been betrayed like that. Not before. Even when pretending to be the other him, everyone had kept a respectful distance. He was better than all of them, and they’d known it just by looking at him. 

So, the sprout wondered once more, what about him had made the woman and three men realize he was beneath them - that it’d be easy to pull him into a game he didn’t even know the rules of, a game only they could win? As per his own words, the more he dwelled on the question, the more miserable he grew. The more helpless he felt and the more unfair it all seemed. And yet, the more he fought it, the more he tried to avoid it, the more it tried to climb in through his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and just about every other hole, crack and crevice he sported. And when it succeeded, it climbed back out through his eyes and nose, because of course it did.

As God turned to him, he realized he had begun to sniffle. Again.

 

“Ew. Stop that. I was hoping you didn’t have tear-ducts. Gross.”

“I… I’m sorry, I just-” Immediately upon hearing of his God’s displeasure with his having a pair of the aforementioned ducts, the sprout began to wipe at his face. “I dunno, I… I thought it was just like when I got beat up or when I fell down or… I thought I’d feel better after a few days, but I didn’t… and I’m… I’m tired of feeling bad and sick all the time. The only time I don’t feel bad is when I sleep, and…I’m tired or that too.”

By then, God had put down his book, and had instead chosen to move closer - until there was barely any room left between the two of them, that is. He had his chin in his palm, and his expression was as enigmatic as ever.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re never really going to feel better. At worst, you fucking off yourself, and at best, you get used to feeling shitty.” God gave his shoulder a pat. “You can always cover all that nasty stuff with it's better counterpart, though.”

“Wh… What do you mean by that?”

“I’m really not in the mood for explaining shit, but fine. Count yourself lucky.” God cleared his throat. “You know how you stopped looking like death when I started stealing Pants’ dinner for you? Yeah, that. Works like a charm, doesn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow to emphasize his point. “And it works with just about anything - covering up the bad shit - so it might just work with your other issues, here.”

The sprout blinked at him a few times. By then, his sight had grown blurry, and his eyes were red from having been rubbed too hard. He gave it his all, to try and figure out the meaning behind his God’s advice, alas, the only answer that made some semblance of sense seemed… absurd. Horrifying, really. He felt ashamed of having ever twisted his words that way, and yet, the question bothered him too much to be left unanswered. Before he could ask about it, though, God spoke again :

“Since you’re so busy not taking it well, then let’s talk about it some other time. Either once you’re sick enough of feeling like shit, or once you're used to it. You’ll know when that happens. Sound good?”

As expected, this development just left the sprout feeling more confused than before.

 

---

Another time - days after that conversation - the door opened once more. Just as the sprout began waking up, too. Already, he was overjoyed, his heart skipping a few beats as he turned to face the door.

Only this time, in the wide-open door stood, not his God, but another person in a uniform - standing firm, upright, and barely sparing him any attention. A stranger.

“The Doctor will be seeing you now.”

Chapter 9: Priest

Summary:

Alas, this fortune too, would come to pass - for no things truly belonged to the Prince - including his brief peace of mind, for the Priest had come to claim it at long last.

Notes:

Once again, sorry for the big hiatus. However, I wrote about three chapters ahead into the future as well, so the updates should be more frequent now.

Oh yeah, and it's only going to get uglier from here.

“Hello again! You’re looking rather fresh for someone who spent the last two months or so in quarantine!” the Priest cackled from behind a clipboard he was scratching at with a pen. “Why, I’ve had patients claw their faces off in just two weeks - really inconvenient, stitching them back on, and even more so when they start pulling the stitches out. Thankfully, amputating a finger or two as a warning more often than not puts an end to that as well. Very effective!”

The sprout wasn’t particularly amused by the man’s seemingly endless stories of intentional medical malpractice. And the shackle around his ankle, attached to a wall in a way that made it impossible for him to even think of getting away, certainly didn't help. The most he could do was tug at the chain, and in turn, risk reminding the Priest of his actual task at hand - whatever that was. The sprout couldn’t begin to think of what would come next, if he did. His surroundings, which were the next best thing to focus on, were as sterile as a room could be, with almost every surface coloured in either, white, gray, or black. Or in an occasional, muted blue, which he could see here and there. The entirety of the room was lit with a bright, white light that left little to no shadows within it, adding yet another layer to the unease it invoked. And as if that hadn’t been enough, the laboratory was cluttered with various devices and containers for things the sprout couldn’t begin to name - much less guess the use of. The more tools his red eyes landed on, the higher his heart climbed in his throat, and the harder he found it to breathe and to hide the dread that had been slowly but surely creeping into him as the Priest enthusiastically rambled away.

“Speaking of effectiveness, I do apologize for the mess - we left in a hurry, you see. The doll and I are working on something that demands our undivided attention,” the Priest hummed, scratching something out, and it was so very clear that he wasn’t sorry about anything. At all, and if ever. “But now that we’re up to date and past some things, I can finally deal with you.

“Let’s start with measurements and such,” the Priest continued, still from behind his clipboard. “Lest we miss some crucial data later on. And neither of us would want that.”

Much to the sprout’s horror, the Priest put the clipboard down and began to approach him, simultaneously adjusting his pristine white coat, and showing a sharp, delighted grin so wide it nearly cut his face in half. Had he not been cuffed, the sight of that grin alone would have sent the sprout running. As he was indeed cuffed, however, he could only sit there as the Priest proceeded to bluntly grab his wrist and pull his sleeve up in what felt like a cruel caricature of the same gesture his God had used upon him once, as he’d revealed the pulsing red patterns and indents spiraling over his skin - the very same that were now being exposed.

“You have some… pretty interesting qualities . I don’t recall any of my previous patients having skin similar to tree bark. I’d ask what you are exactly, but… from the looks of it, you don’t know either, do you?” he chuckled as he began moving his fingers up and down the sprout’s bare wrist. “That’s more than alright. I suppose we’ll learn about that on your next visits. Liyue Harbor wasn’t built in one day after all, haha!”

The sprout, for lack of better word, froze - all of him came to a halt indiscriminately. Blinking. Frowning. Stirring. Breathing. He didn’t realize when he’d stopped thinking, hearing, and remembering only the sound of the Priest’s voice.

“Hm, looks like someone is still a little skittish after last time, hm? Well, isn’t that just unfortunate… Oh, someone’s heart rate sure is picking up, hoho!”

Suddenly, the sprout found himself being forcefully rid of his only clothes, and with barely enough air in his lungs to try protesting, he could only muster a weak attempt at fighting back. The Priest remained larger and stronger than him, however, and the most his feeble attempts at self-defense earned him was a laugh.

“Feisty one after all, aren’t you?” he heard, a strong arm wrapping around his midsection, his gown now lying on the floor before him. “Wonderful. I was getting worried you’d be no fun at all.”

And then…

And then nothing happened.

The sprout had anticipated the worst - a repeat of what still filled him with dread in the dead of night, of finding himself struggling to breathe under the man’s weight, his nostrils clogged with the smell of sweat, fabric and skin, his flesh set ablaze in pain once more. That, of course, wasn’t horrid enough on its own, as another realization proceeded to sink its cold claws deep into the sprout : would his God be able to save him again? Even if he wanted to, would it be possible?

Yet, nothing happened. 

He stood there, his back to the wall, bare for the world and the Priest to see, and the Priest simply sat before him with his clipboard in hand, clinically jotting down every aspect of his form down to the finest details. Every now and then, he’d raise his nose and proceed to give him a sermon of some kind, but other than that, once more, nothing happened.

“You know, this reminds me of a story I heard, back in my youth,” the Priest chuckled, tapping away at a line of what were probably words with his pen, a smile slowly cutting through his face. “Supposedly, Primordial Men walked around in the nude, for they were ‘not that different from the wild animals surrounding them’. Not much support for that theory, though - as if it wasn’t controversial enough on its own. Still, do you think they walked on all-fours as well?”

The sprout didn’t reply, a cold, invisible hand clenched tight around his throat. The most he could muster was an attempt at coverage as the Priest continued with his sermon.

“Anyway, the story goes that Men began wearing clothes only after their first contact with the divine, believing that if they wrapped themselves in cloth like the gods, they might just become gods themselves - their hubris simultaneously being their shame and all. But really, that’s just stupid. It’s more likely that-”

The sprout stopped listening.

 

---

Afterward, God visited his cell once more, and from the moment his eyes came to rest upon the frightened, curled-in-on-himself sprout, he knew. Sighing ever so quietly, he closed the door and sat next to him on the floor, his back against the bed. The sprout wouldn’t look in his direction.

“So, what did he do?” God asked, his voice lacking any hint of surprise. He sounded indifferent, jaded. “Let me guess… he took pictures of you. Clothes or no clothes?”

“… No clothes.”

“Mhm. And after that?” God asked. “None of your fingers are missing and it doesn’t look like you were waterboarded.”

“… He only took pictures of me. And talked about some weird things.”

God smacked his lips and let out a quiet hiss of what sounded like ‘ kuso’ , which the sprout didn’t understand nor particularly care to. “Alright, what part of his face was covered up, then?”

“Eyes.”

“Shit, almost got it.” God smacked his lips again before smiling. “Well, you’re lucky it’s Omega you’re dealing with. Lambda and Delta are the worst ."

Confused, the sprout tore his gaze from his knees, eyebrows furrowed. This was the first time God had ever mentioned anything like this. Omega, Lambda, Delta. He was at a loss. Had he fallen asleep during one of his visits? Had he forgotten? Either option sounded awful, and led only to the conclusion that he ought to have listened more, when instead, he’d carelessly wasted his God’s time and energy. Through the backdoor of his mind, guilt began to creep in, a fact his God remained oblivious to - which could not be said about other things.

“What are you making that face for?”

“I… forgot what you mean by… Lambda, Delta and… the other one,” the sprout confessed. “I’m sorry. I’ll… listen better next time.”

God scoffed, but kept on smirking.

“You better. I won’t repeat myself again.”

Unbeknownst to the sprout, God was more than well aware that he’d never mentioned the Priest’s many eyes and arms. He knew he wouldn’t actually be repeating himself. As God saw it, however, truth could at times be an inconvenient thing. Like a loose shoelace, it could get in the way and trip its very owner. And yet, there the sprout was, already lining up to take the fall despite there being no faulty shoelaces to trip over.

God liked that very, very much. 

Correcting the sprout now would have been pointless - the course of this story had been set. It would’ve been unwise of him not to walk upon the beaten path, and especially so when following it was sure to lead him to small joys such as this one. And such was God's wisdom. 

From that point on, they moved onto another story : one from very long ago, from a place that was far, far away.

“There once was a student at the Sumeru Akademiya,” God began, settling down on the bed and beckoning the sprout to follow suit. “Not a very good one, mind you - got booted only a few years into his studies because he skimmed through Ethics in Medicine 101 and called it a day. But before that, because the student couldn’t shut up for five minutes, his then-lover ended up finding out about his human experimentation hobby, so he went and strangled her to keep her quiet. That, somehow, got him booted even harder, to the point where the Akademiya decided to stage his murder.”

That sounded stupid, the sprout thought as he sat on the bed. When you kill someone, you don’t stick around long enough for anyone to recognize it was you behind it. But then again, that principle didn’t work for the sprout either. For all he knew, the student was being hunted by an all-knowing and all-present star as well.

“Of course, that caught the attention of a certain someone - a Sage from a country far, far to the North. Since his Lady wanted him to assemble a team of super-sociopaths from all over the world, the first place he went to was a desert - obviously, since that’s one of those places only sociopaths would willingly go. After having a few heat strokes, the Sage eventually found the student rolling around in a sand-covered robot.”

By then, the sprout wasn’t sure whether or not the story was true, or whether or not it was supposed to make him laugh. Either way, he listened, getting ever so close to his God and drinking up each and every syllable that dripped from his lips.

“He offered him opportunities - ones that would allow for his miracles to happen, so long as he worked for their Lady and served her cause, rebelling against the divine. Since the student was broke after being kicked out of school and doing nothing but wandering about the desert gathering garbage for a while, he agreed. And so, the man - no longer a student but a doctor - became the second of the Sage’s many hands, traveling far and wide and seeking along the way miracles to replicate with none but human hands. But none of those really matter.”

The sprout disagreed. He wondered what the student did from then on and what kind of wonders he was witness to. Little did he know, God knew very little of them as well, save for a few vague remarks and anecdotes, of which even fewer were interesting enough to keep in mind.

“What really mattered” - God raised a finger, and the sprout immediately froze - “was what arrived one day at his doorstep, without him ever having to look for it.” He paused and smiled at the sprout, his sharp eyes narrowing as his cheeks lifted ever so lightly. “Can you guess what it was?”

Rapidly, the sprout shook his head, unashamed of his own ignorance, completely and utterly captivated by the story. Much like a man starved, he momentarily forsook all good manners, and was left with nothing but his yet-unsatisfied need to know more. But instead of satisfying it, God only beckoned him closer. And, entranced, closer the sprout came.

“Do you really want to know the rest?”

“I do, I really do.”

“What’s the magic word?” God asked, though his voice was light, there was a hint of reprimand to it. “Come on, say it.”

“… Please, tell me what happens next.”

God smiled and reached for his cheek, cupping it with a cold and gentle palm as he began tracing lines upon his cheekbone with a thumb, his blue eyes meeting the sprout’s. Fleetingly, the homunculus wondered if this encounter, too, had been one of the many stories he’d tell himself before going to sleep. If so, it was a dream so wonderful it was petrifying - waking up from it suddenly becoming a matter of if and not when .

“Good,” God praised him, and his heart did a little somersault. “In that case… it just so happened that earlier that month, the Sage had visited a secluded archipelago to the East.”

The sprout gasped, only to find that he was out of breath, making what little of it remained trapped within his chest as he awaited his God’s next words.

“And he’d brought something back. Someone.”

God’s smile widened.

“A puppet. Made by the Electro Archon herself. In her own image, too. The fairest of them all, strong and durable, it was everything the doctor adored about mechanical constructs, but without the typical harshness and ugliness that accompanied it. And that’s to say nothing of the usual lack of sentience. Above all, the doctor believed that artificial life was an art in itself. Therefore… he thought that the puppet was the hottest thing since his own reflection. So, curious, he asked about the puppet, to which the Sage told him :

“ He used to live within the Tatarasuna smithy. The simple men there were incapable of seeing his true worth, and so, he agreed to join our cause. ”

Finally, the sprout - by then nearly sitting in his God’s lap - gasped out loud, shocked by the revelation. His God seemed oh-so-pleased with himself. It had been quite some time since he’d last had to entertain a pair of hungry ears with a story, and needless to say, it was a pleasant surprise to see his storytelling had not become any less engaging. But then again, how hard was it to surprise someone who had seen so little of the world? How challenging was it to keep someone as deprived of everything as the sprout at the edge of their seat? A satisfied audience was not what God pursued, though : merely applause.

“And so, for the first time, the doctor caught a glimpse of the ultimate miracle : eternity, all-enduring and unchanging.

“And he, too, was unchanging. Fueled by his unending desire to recreate all that is divine with his own, very mortal hands, he first tried to understand what eternity meant, when written upon intricate mechanisms. And to that end, he took his beloved puppet apart, and learned - even gave it what was rightfully his, in exchange. Or a fraction of it, at least. He couldn’t have it running off.

“And just like that, using artificial life made up of both flesh and steel, he began preserving Segments of his past. As a whole, he called them exactly that. And individually, he gave them names : Alpha, Omega, Sigma, Lambda, Delta and the like.

“That way, even after his body died, his mind would remain. Or so he’d say. They’re more like caricatures to me. Every chapter of his life, all existing simultaneously, with no beginning or end to them. Timeless. Unchanging. Especially in how fucking annoying they can get.

“And that’s basically the whole story,” God hummed, playing with a strand of the sprout’s hair, wrapping it around his finger and letting it go, only to coil it around the digit once more. “Comments?”

The hand that the Sprout had held up to his mouth in a moment of shock had, by then, slowly gone down to his neck, his fingertips now resting on the dark red star at his throat - practically forgotten, right until this very moment. He stared at his God with a gaping mouth, waiting for some sort of disappointing clarification : that it was just a tale and that the truth was boring, mundane, and only two sentences long. He waited, but none came - his God looked just as pleased with himself, just as certain in his words.

“… You were made, too?”

Suddenly, so many previously-unexplained things made sense.

His God was never really warm, and his fingers occasionally made strange noises, when they moved around. The way he walked, usually firm, steady, could seem strange at times, if one cared to notice it. And over the course of their meetings, his God’s dark hair had never grown, never changed - always pristine, clean, and combed-through - while the sprout’s own would soon reach the middle of his back. The subtle red paint around his eyes was never smeared, either, never messy, never different. And his face barely wrinkled as he smiled and laughed. 

As to the cause, the common denominator, of each of those oddities, he had finally received an answer. And he had no idea what to do with it.

At his question, his God simply nodded. His hand trailed down to join the one already at the sprout’s throat. “Funny, isn’t it? Just as I’m finally about to become more than a god’s attempt at copying humanity, you showed up, just as I was all those years ago. Made and abandoned, betrayed and humiliated, naïve and stupid, without a name or purpose.”

God’s other hand came down upon the sprout as well, then, right above his collarbone. Cold, frail.

“If that’s not ironic enough… your creator’s sin was what led to my creation. Without her provoking the wrath of the Heavens, my own creator, my mother, wouldn’t have ever brought me into being,” he continued, his voice low, quiet. “And now here you are, five hundred years later, right at my doorstep.”

The silence hung heavy between them, nearly impossible to breathe in. There wasn’t much else to be said, and yet, the ever-present quiet was nearly crushing now. Suffocating. God’s palms rested steadily upon the blonde, unmoving, all while the sprout had yet to process what he’d been told, having long since forgotten all about the Priest and his segmented person. Doubt and shock alike were painted across his face, rendering him mute, which his God wouldn’t have.

“You don’t believe me, do you? That’s fine. I can just show you,” he said, promptly pulling away from the sprout. “I was going to sooner or later, anyway.”

Before the sprout could even begin to think of uttering a word or reaching for him, God turned around and showed him his back, which was, notably, now devoid of the outer layer of his robes. The sprout’s face went numb at the sight, surely twisting into an expression that was of great amusement to his God, who smiled as he pulled the skin-tight fabric around his neck away.

“Look,” he said. “My mark is practically in the same spot as yours.”

And there it was : pale, purple, made up of three lightning bolts spiraling around one another, perfectly united, perfectly balanced. Lacking the irregularities of scars and the discoloration of old tattoos, the sprout had no choice but to once more believe. Awed, he briefly traced his own mark, neither in envy nor insecurity - merely in acknowledgment.

“… Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Just like so, the mark was gone from his sight, once more concealed by black, skin-tight fabric - his God’s gaze aimed at him, their closeness abruptly resumed.

“You don’t tell a story just anywhere and anytime, do you?” he asked, purely rhetorically, his cold palms now resting upon the sprout’s clothed thighs. “Like all things, they need a good time and place to grow as well - and now seemed like the perfect time to share this with you.” Less than a few hours after a mortifying, intrusive examination? How that could’ve been a perfect time for anything was beyond the sprout, but like most things, it was not up to him to judge and decide. This was a simple truth he had since grown accepting of.

“… But if you were made too, then… how come everyone respects you? How come you get to go everywhere you want? How come you’re not trapped as well?”

At that, his God momentarily fell silent, but only for a brief moment, as he soon found an answer satisfying enough for them both :

“Because I’m almost at the end,” he smiled. “But you? Your three acts are nowhere near over. You’ve got a long road ahead, and I can’t wait to see just what you'll crash into.”

Chapter 10: Would've Been Nice

Summary:

Along with peace, the Priest would take other things from the prince as well - while at the same time, the deity would keep on giving.

Notes:

This chapter is heavy in descriptions of medical proceedures. Since it's Dottore we're talking about, you can imagine they're not exactly the fun kind.

Not long after two became three, God’s visits grew shorter, and began varying greatly in frequency - no longer did they last for what felt like hours. Like the breeze, he’d come and go. One minute he was there, and the second not. The change had greatly worried the already-disturbed sprout, who could no longer tell whether the footsteps from behind the door would reveal the beautiful deity, or a large man in a heavy winter coat. Was his time running out? 

No other answer seemed to suffice. 

 

“Why did your mother abandon you?” the sprout asked one day during one of God’s visits. “Did you fail her, somehow?”

God’s hand halted, less than an inch short of the sprout’s lips, a small green grape trapped between his fingertips. Offended, he rolled his eyes and scoffed :

“You’re getting ahead of yourself with these questions,” he said, following which, he proceeded to shove the grape into his mouth. “I’d advise you to start watching your mouth before you babble out something you shouldn’t have.”

 

Busy chewing, the sprout nodded, ever so slightly readjusting his position. For reasons unbeknownst to him, after their last conversation God had begun initiating all manners of physical contact with him ; be it something as simple as the brush of a hand against his arm or as odd as personally feeding him grapes while having him sit in his lap, God would not elaborate on what had led to such a sudden change in behaviour. Somehow, the sprout didn't mind it - at least, as far as he knew.

 

“But I’ll entertain you,” God continued, picking another grape from the bowl he’d brought into the room. “I was meant to be a vessel for a Gnosis, as my mother wanted to have nothing to do with it. But in her eyes, I was too weak to fulfill what was my very purpose, so she sealed me in a cave and left me to rot. That’s when I was found by a man who would become my first lover.”

Another grape landed on his tongue, cold fingertips gently pressed against his lips. For a lack of better understanding, the sprout shivered as he swallowed down. He couldn’t help but wonder what else transpired, but he knew better than to pry into those scars, lest his God chose to abandon him as well.

 

“What about you?”

“… After I was born, I didn’t wake up. My Mother knew I wasn’t going to live for very long, so she fed me to my brother. Keeping me alive was a waste of time.”

 

“Hah, at least she took some responsibility, I suppose.”

 

---

The next time he found himself under scrutiny, he met Delta - an even younger iteration of the Priest, who donned black and blue robes from afar and dark bags under his red eyes from up close. A mask through which the sprout could feel a world-hating grimace covered the lower half of his face, and from the moment the sprout stepped into the workshop, it was clear that he was even easier to set off - and far more eager to jump right into the procedures. 

 

Not that time, however, as he would quickly learn, for instead of instruments he held a stack of papers.

 

“Alright,” Delta groaned, his voice coming out oddly rumbly from underneath the mask, “while we’re still processing your current samples, just fill this out and quick - and no stupid questions, I’m really not in the mood for answering any.”

 

Though seated by a table with one hand cuffed and the other holding a pen, papers stacked before him, the sprout did nothing but stare. After all, in his uneducated eyes, the forms as presented to him were nothing but a mountain of incoherent scribbles. Some of the letters he did recognize - though not one of them made sense when put together and in lines, leaving him without a hint of how exactly he was meant to fill them out. Looking up at the Priest proved just as unhelpful, as he had been entirely focused on some sort of contraption, taking it apart and putting it back together, over and over. He had been left to his own devices then, the sprout concluded and that, too, was good - being left alone for once.

 

So fill out the forms he did, to the best of his ability - or lack thereof. Some letters he copied, some he made up while scratching away at the paper, others he borrowed from the old common tongue. All in all, what he produced made even less sense than what he had been originally presented with, but none could deny he had done as asked.

 

Except for the Priest.

 

“What in oblivion is this?!” his scream rang out in the workshop, much like the slap he had delivered to the sprout’s cheek upon recovering the papers. “Do you honestly think you’re in a place to waste my time like this!? Who do you think you are?!”

More blows came - from the rolled up papers, to his bare hands, shielding his face from them was pointless all the same. By the time Delta was done, his hands and face were bright red and burning, much like the rage in the Priest’s eyes. Though he wanted to cry, no tears came, his sobs remaining trapped deep in his chest at the sight of the man’s still shaking fist.

 

“Now, you better be honest : do you even know how to read or write?!”

The sprout quickly shook his head, still hidden in his arms and knees both - the answer unsatisfactory regardless, as the Priest promptly threw the papers onto the floor.

 

“Ugh! You have no idea how lucky you are that the old man is still looking forward to seeing you! Otherwise, you’d be on a fucking pike by now, I swear!”

 

---

 

A clock continued to tick away, somewhere far away. Time was slipping between his fingers with each passing day. The sprout already had so little of it left, and yet, he still had so much more to learn about his God. Though desperate, the reprimand lay heavy on his mind and soul, like a hand perpetually sitting upon his shoulder. It was not his place to delve into his God’s past, nor into any of his few and in-between failures. After all, his God was a divine-made piece of art, while he was just a failed experiment that had managed to crawl back from disposal. To expect equality between them would have been to also expect a miracle that certainly would not occur.

 

“… Besides that mark, what else shows that you were made?” he asked during his god’s next visit, his head in his lap and a hand in his hair. “… Like how I’m covered in those red lines, I mean. Do you have something like that, too?”

 

Upon hearing that, God ceased caressing and stroking the blond’s hair, his dark brow furrowing in thought - or in resentment, perhaps? Still, the sprout failed to find any sign of regret or guilt within - only desperate curiosity, concealed yet revealed by his own furrowed brow.

 

Eventually, his God let go of the silence, banishing it with a sigh as he reached for the homunculus’ palm, so rough and dry against his own. “Still asking questions, huh? I can’t tell if you’re getting smarter or dumber than you already were, but I might as well tell you,” he said, whilst dragging the hand to the crook of his elbow, pressing the sprout’s fingers against it. “So, can you feel anything?”

 

He could. In his soft, cold skin there was an indent, right around where his elbow bent forward and back. It felt looser, easier to press into - and as he did, he felt a strange sharpness at each side of the gap, varying ever so slightly in depth and width. Surprise suddenly wrote itself across his face, and God just smiled, ever so slightly chewing at the inside of his cheek.

 

“Since I’m not connected by bones and tendons, my body is held by hooks and strings that run through my joints,” he explained simply. “Ever seen a doll?”

 

His answer was a no, conveyed through a small shake of his head, his mind otherwise occupied by what lay beneath his palm - even more so as his wrist was moved upwards, to his god’s shoulder. Though clothed, there once more was a gap where his body stopped being firm and strong, instead collapsing under the faintest of touches. To demonstrate, God moved his shoulder around - and to both his amazement and horror, the sprout felt something move under his fingers, in ways he couldn’t describe beyond that it did not move the way his own shoulders did. 

 

“I don’t have an extra layer of skin over this one. It gets inconvenient fast,” God said, resting his shoulder back in place, an odd expression painting his face - one decipherable as neither satisfaction nor annoyance. “One more and enough for today.”

As the sprout was no prophet, he couldn’t have predicted where his hand would be led to next - clueless, he played along, believing he might feel a knee or hand now. Not more than three seconds later, he realized he could not have been more wrong. Without any prompting, God reached for the edge of his skin-tight shirt and proceeded to pull it away - just enough to slide the mortified sprout’s palm beneath it and against his skin, holding it there. Upon doing so, his expression grew more undecipherable, incomprehensible, and yet : the sprout couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d seen that kind of face somewhere already. 

 

“So, what are you feeling?”

 

Yet another set of gaps - this time without any cloth obstructing them, much to the sprout’s panic and fascination alike. As he traced his fingers across them, he felt that they curved around his god’s ribs, making a bow-like shape that soon led him higher and higher up God’s chest - soon resting right in the middle, where he noticed something else. “…You don’t have a heartbeat…?” he asked. “Why?” 

 

The sprout regretted that question, very, very much.

 

---

As the sprout noticed, after every sixth meal or so, someone would come to fetch him and take him to the workshop, where he’d sit for anywhere between one to five hours. It had started out somewhat innocent, or as innocent as such thorough examinations could be, anyways. At first, he’d been tied to a chair as the Priest held his jaw wide open with one hand and inspected the inside of his mouth with the other, be it with strange tools, swabs of cotton, or only his own gloved fingers.

 

“Pretty healthy teeth you have there,” the sprout had heard the Priest mutter under his breath, once. “Surprised you even know the basics of hygiene, considering they picked you up from some frozen middle-of-nowhere wasteland.” Then, unceremoniously, he thumbed at his canines, almost as if trying to make them pierce through the thick leather glove. “Though, since it looks like they weren’t made for killing, I suppose I won’t have to rip them out.”

As if the humiliation of sitting there like this hadn’t been enough, the image of having his teeth pulled out one by one made him nauseous with dread. He made a few attempts at shutting his mouth - before the Priest changed his mind and reached for the pliers lying on the table next to them - and of course, failed. Though the man wasn’t particularly muscular, his height and weight remained superior to the sprout’s, leaving the blond with nothing else to do but to occasionally writhe and quiver in his seat, hot tears slowly building up under his tightly-shut eyelids.

 

“… Hm. I don’t recall sending you off with a bruise,” the Priest noted, narrowing his gaze at the sprout’s cheek. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll interrogate the guards later. For now, I’ll check how far down I can reach, in case you ever feel like swallowing some of my equipment.”

 

In the Priest’s memory, this was also the first time of many that he made the sprout scream.

 

---

“… What was your lover like?” the sprout asked the next time he saw his god, his voice low and hoarse, his throat still on fire. “Uh, you don’t have to answer, though…”

 

God, as per usual, scoffed at the notion that something as measly as a little sprout could have the audacity to not only ask such questions, but to then grant him permission not to answer them. He momentarily ceased playing with strands of blonde hair, allowing them to fall onto the face of the one currently lying in his lap.

“He was a deputy. Tall and strong, built like a wall, but he had a kind face and an even kinder heart. While he was still nowhere near as durable as I was, he still handled me as one would handle a precious piece of pottery,” God explained, his face turned away from the ever-attentive sprout. “Though I was made with strength in mind, I didn’t have to be strong - not for as long as he was by my side.”

 

“But of course, it didn’t end there. As I didn’t know any better at the time, I wound up carrying his offspring. Not a very pleasant memory. It had to be kept a secret, and as soon as the child was born, it was given away - to the very man who would then frame me for killing one of his workers. Two-faced liars, he and his wife. Claiming they were desperate for a child, yet abandoning it soon after. Last time I saw the child, he was a grown man under the name Yoshinori and an adopted son of the Kaedehara clan.”

 

“… What did you do then?’

 

“I spared him and left,” God shrugged. “He had the same kind eyes, my only weakness.”

 

“… Do you miss him?” the sprout asked, not clarifying whether he meant the child or the man. God didn’t answer this time - changing subjects as swiftly as one could, his lips curling into a small smile.

 

“Why would I miss some humans from centuries ago when I have you right now?”

 

---

“The file said some of your bodily fluids are poisonous, so I’m gonna need a sample to see that for myself. I wonder if the rest of you is tree-like as well!”

 

He felt needles. Going into his skin and underneath. It hurt, but he couldn’t react.

 

“Not even a squeak? The file said nothing about you being mute. Dolly also said he could hear you screaming yourself hoarse from the other side of the wing, that one time. Then again, not the first time he’d be lying to little old me…”

 

Though he had the intention to make his pain known once more, nothing came. Only the sound of his own heart, drumming away in his ears.

“Hm, now I’m wondering… Did your mommy even bother giving you a name? No? Well, that just made things far more difficult than they needed to be. Truly, I admire the sheer lengths your mother goes to to inconvenience as many people as possible without ever seeing them with her own two eyes! Now, don’t tell this to anyone, but I found her work rather inspiring ever since I was a scholar at the Akademiya. Especially her infamous craft of artificial life - and look at me, five hundred years later, finally seeing it for myself!”

 

“… I always say, the creation of artificial life is an art-form in itself, but whether you’re anywhere near being a masterpiece like that doll… that’s another story.”

 

---

“I’m gonna stop you right there.”

Before the sprout could utter a word, a finger was pressed against his lips. Though initially surprised by the quick reaction, he soon realized his surprise was misplaced ; of course a God would know his most precious possession better than it knew itself. But stop the sprout did regardless, resigning himself to simply looking up at his god, curious.

 

"I’ve already told you enough stories of myself to last a lifetime - so why don’t you tell me more about yourself?” God, just as curious, smiled, retracting his finger. “Such as… what will you do once you get out of here?”

 

“… But I’m not getting out,” the sprout stated. “I’m going to die here, aren’t I?”

 

---

The next time he saw him, the Priest had presented him with a set of vials filled with various fluids, as well as what looked like a child’s morbid attempt at drawing a butter knife. Sadly, the sprout would learn it did not possess the same bluntness as its kitchen counterpart. Yet again the priest had strapped his arm to a chair, exposing the fragile skin there.

 

“Now, I know that from what Delta said you might be convinced that we’re going to rush through these tests and whatnot,” he began with a shrug that was soon followed by the snapping of gloves against sleeves. “But really, that’s just the impatience of youth speaking - I do want to know everything about you!”

Before he knew it, the sprout saw blood building up at his wrists - dot after dot, marking where knife grazed skin. It stung, much like a mosquito bite, he thought, despite only ever being bitten by five very brave and very stupid mosquitos. Each one died within seconds.

 

“For instance, if it’s possible for you - a synthetic life form - to develop an allergy.”

Each dot was then dotted with liquids from the vials, sinking under his itching skin. Yet no matter how much he pulled against the belts, to his dismay the itch remained unscratched.

 

“That, and if you do, Tsaritsa knows we can’t have you dying of anaphylactic shock in your cell between visits. The guards would be heartbroken, don’t you think?”

---

 

“… I’d like to see somewhere that’s not snowy or gray again,” the sprout said the next time. “And it would be nice if you were there, too.”

His arm still itched. The more he rubbed at it, the worse it got, so he resigned himself to simply holding it as covered as possible under the gauze he had been provided by the Priest’s unending generosity. God, too, in his endless love for his dearest, had offered help - his consisting of a cold piece of cloth being pressed against the gauze without disturbing it.

“And what would you do then?” God asked, tilting his head to the side in interest. “Since you wouldn’t just lie around, either eating or sleeping. There’s more to life out there, in case you’d forgotten already.”

 

He had. 

 

“And what would you want to do?”

 

---

His jaws had been pried open yet again - the Priest swabbing away with a piece of cotton without a single care in the world. Each time he thought his mouth couldn’t get any drier, the Priest found another crevice yet untouched. Like always, the uncomfortable procedure was accompanied by an equally uncomfortable lecture - or rather, disorderly rambling that simply happened to contain a smidge of educational value.

 

“You know, back at home, we had a rather insufferable species of reptile. Fast, deadly and always hungry. Gods help you if it happened to feast on the carcass of a godborn beast,” the Priest chuckled, momentarily pausing his swabbing but still keeping his hand between the sprout’s teeth. “And that’s not all : its saliva is one of the deadliest substances of them all. Not only is it dense in harmful bacteria, it contains enzymes that essentially dissolve and tenderize the flesh it comes in contact with. Once it bites you, you’re already dead.”

Horrifying, the sprout thought somewhere at the back of his head, maybe it was for the better that he’d never be leaving this place. Though he still remembered the blueness of the sky on a sunny day and the bright orange of fading leaves beyond the gray walls, he remembered the terror of running away from wild animals even more. Surely, staying and dying here couldn’t be that bad, the sprout thought.

 

Eventually, the cotton left his mouth. And yet, just as the sprout was about to release a sigh of relief, the Priest returned with a strange, translucent pipe - as well as his signature smile.

“I wonder if your stomach acid is just as corrosive as your blood - why don’t we find out?”

 

---

 

God took his time to answer that question, the air between them heavy and stagnant, and a deep worry filling the sprout’s heart. Strikes for transgressions usually came immediately after and without a warning - which was fair and just, the naive sprout concluded, long since convinced he was merely deserving of being put in his place every now and then. Besides, his god leaving was always the greater punishment between the two. But neither continued to happen, and the atmosphere only got heavier and heavier, until finally, God sighed.

 

“I suppose it would have been nice to wander once more,” he shrugged. “A god and his only follower, the whole world the walls of their temple and the sky above their roof - held down by nothing and no one. It certainly has a poetic ring to it, don’t you think?”

 

The sprout couldn’t help but nod - his eyes bright with glee, even if for just a moment. Though brief, the description alone made him forget about the humiliation he’d suffered seemingly just a while ago, akin to the stories he’d tell himself before falling asleep, yet so much more beautiful.

“You wouldn’t have to eat scraps and wear rags, nor would you have to hide from mortals. I’d get to have you all the time. I wouldn’t have to share you with anyone else ever again,” God continued, his voice low and slow. “You’d be mine, all mine. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

By then, for once, God was the one resting his head on the sprout’s shoulder - his eyes half-lidded and narrowed further by a wide smile - the sprout had never seen him this happy.

 

Nor had he ever seen him this frustrated, either.

 

“… It does sound nice,” the sprout blurted out. “What else would you have liked to do?”

 

---

“Hey, hey, hey Doc!” a foreign voice rang out from the doorway once. “Mind fixing me a stitch or three?”

 

The Priest scowled, and the knife was returned to its tray, an outline of red at its edge. It was to see how quickly various layers of his skin would heal, he’d said. The previous cuts made into the outermost layer had already healed into faint scars, but as the blade made them deeper than ever before, the sprout could do nothing more than whimper in his seat, chewing at his lower lip and scratching away at the chair he was once more confined to.

 

“I do mind, actually. I think even you are smart enough to see that I’m in the middle of something.” Exasperated, the Priest gestured at the frightened and hurting sprout who was now ever so slightly distracted by the visitor. “Can’t you go bother Little Mary about it?”

The sprout’s first impression of the visitor was that he was, first and foremost, a mosaic of scars that happened to be attached to a person : specifically, a young man with a head of jarringly bright, messy red hair. Only after a few more seconds of looking at him did a person notice the array of freckles dusting his face, the ever so slightly rosey cheeks or the dark blue eyes that refused to light up even above the widest and brightest of smiles. For a while, the sprout found himself staring into them, even as the Priest did in fact begin stitching him up.

 

“You know very well that she’s only really good at detaching body parts, not the other way around!” the man laughed as the needle pierced through him again and again. “Last time, I went to her to treat a stray bullet that’d grazed my backside, and she went ahead and stapled the wound together. Wanna see?”

 

“Keep your pants on, or I’ll staple your mouth shut as well.”

 

As the sprout’s lack of worldly experience would indicate, it was his first encounter with someone so happy in the face of pain. It made him think of a fox, still laughing and cackling as it was pecked at by a murder of bloodthirsty crows. But simultaneously, the man did not have the double-sided courage of a fox - he more so had the endearment with life, death, and everything in-between that a Huntsman would.

Eventually, the time came for this Huntsman to leave. He donned his heavy cloak once more as he stood at the door, and then, and only then, did he look in the sprout’s direction, blue meeting red. 

 

His feeble heart raced.

 

“Thanks for the help, I’ll be off now!” He bid the Priest farewell, yet still smiled in the sprout’s direction. “And hang in there blondie, haha!”

And just like that, the Huntsman was gone, off to search for a predator greater than he, and once again, it was just the three of them in the sprout’s cold, gray world.

 

---

 

God bit down on his lips and let out another sigh, his hold on the blonde’s sleeve tightening. Puzzled, he looked down, only to see God looking back up at him as well ; with those big, dark eyes that seemed so very bright, right then and there. It was as if they were holding the entirety of the cosmos. And there was something else, too - something that wouldn’t evade even the ever-exhausted and naive sprout. For once, his God looked at him as if he - the scrawny, pale thing akin more to a stick than a person - was the beautiful thing worthy of veneration and adoration. 

“Even though I don’t dream anymore, it would have been nice to lie and… rest with you, I suppose,” he said, and just like that, that light was gone. The same could not have been said about the sudden tension. “Maybe the stars wouldn’t be so hideous if I were to look at them from your eyes, and maybe giving eating a try again wouldn’t be so bad if it was with your dumbass.”

The hand that had held him by the arm had since taken a seat upon the sprout’s chest, and it lay there, absorbing each thump of his heart as its beat grew faster beneath his palm. Fingers dug into fabric ever so slightly, too. Though as careful as ever, that touch alone seemed to push the sprout deeper into the bed, dissolving him into the mattress.

 

“That would have been really nice.”

Notes:

WHEW. Sorry for another long hiatus. Word of advice, NEVER start playing video games early on during your free days. Especially the Elder Scrolls games. Keep that stuff for the evening or otherwise you'll find yourself playing for ten hours straight for three days in a row. Cheers.

Chapter 11: Time

Summary:

Time was among the things that the Priest took from the Prince, the loss of which the Prince mourned the most as from all of his belongings, time was the scarcest.

Notes:

The Dottore-isms are particularly intense this chapter. Proceed with caution.

Life went on for the sprout, God, and his Priest - though the sprout certainly didn’t feel like it did. For him, life crawled, dragging its near-carcass along a seemingly endless path. He’d long since accepted the cell as his grave, despite his god’s wondrous stories and wishes for a time and place that couldn’t and wouldn't be.

In-between visits, he eventually succumbed to the temptation of scratching the paint off the walls. After each meal, as those were yet again the only constant in his life, he’d carve a small line with his fingernail. With one blink, there were six ; with another, the number had tripled. He must have been there for about two hundred meals now, he realized one day, and a part of him regretted not having begun counting sooner.

But even then, and as all things did, the lines became part of the mundane, not enough to entertain his stagnant mind. He needed more - and more he dug up, like a corpse-eating mutt in a graveyard. A circle, a few sharp, curved lines and suddenly he found himself staring at a very crude image of his god ; blocky hair, awkward bangs and a wide smile beneath two round eyes. Still, the image brought him comfort.

After all, life went on for all three of them - especially God, who wouldn’t tell him why he wasn’t visiting as often anymore. Just that he was busy accomplishing something far beyond the sprout’s comprehension.

Somewhat satisfied with his work, he rolled over in his bed and allowed sleep to take him.

 

---

The next visit marked the first time he and the Priest truly spoke - the first time the discussion wasn't entirely one-sided. That time, he was fully strapped to a table, a belt firmly holding his head in place. As if the process of being forcibly restrained hadn't been horrific enough, the Priest went and pulled out a syringe. Its needle was very long and very thin.

It took the sprout some time to realize the needle’s destination, his body frozen as his mind slowly and carefully put two and two together like one would wooden blocks. And as soon as that castle of a conclusion was built, cold horror washed over him.

“N-No, no no no, please no !” He squeezed his eyes shut, for the first time truly thrashing and writhing against his restraints, but to no avail. “ No, please don’t !”

The Priest paused for a moment, and then a wild cackle escaped him. Like a beast on a leash, the sound proceeded to close its teeth around the sprout’s throat. At once, the Priest’s hand reached for him, for one of his eyes, and forced his eyelids apart.

“Well, look who finally decided to speak up! And there I thought you’d just keep whining and whimpering like a dog!”

“No- No no no no no-!!”

A shriek rang out throughout the workshop as the needle slowly and gradually sank into his sclera.

 

---

As a reward for his patience and obedience, the sprout was once more graced with his god’s presence - who scowled as soon as he saw the gauze plastered over the sprout’s right eye. Was he more upset about the act that had caused the wound itself, or about the fact that his most precious belonging had been damaged, if only temporarily? That, too, became yet another question the homunculus wouldn’t know the answer to for a very, very long time.

“… Would you kill me if I asked you to?” he asked as he rested his head upon his god’s chest, his one working eye focused on some invisible spot on the wall. “… Since I’m going to die here anyways, it’d be nice if it was you.”

Taken aback, God pulled his gaze from the wall, where his very own image had been carved. He scoffed.

“If I did that before the Jester saw you first, he’d make sure I’d wish for death as well.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance, his hand resuming its idle play within the sprout’s hair. “I’m already on thin ice with him, barely allowed to keep the Gnosis. Ha, as if he has any rights to it to begin with. As soon as Dottore and I are done, he can kiss my ass clean.”

Somewhat disappointed, the sprout sighed and closed his eyes. For what felt like weeks now, he’d heard these vague mentions of the Priest and his god collaborating on something. If only he’d been made privy to what it was about.

Yet again, he chose to take one step out of his enclosure.

“… And what will you do once you’re done?” he asked.

He could not see it, but he knew for a fact that his god smirked. “I’m going to become a true god, like I was always meant to be.”

As always, the ever-so-grateful sprout accepted the answer, but a part of him still wondered… if all this time, he hadn't actually been a true god, then who was he?

 

---

The knife cut even deeper. The sprout had never seen this much blood pouring out of him at once. Though he wept, though he sobbed and sniffled, his vision only grew blurrier as the blade continued slicing into his flesh. There wasn’t much else he could do regardless. As he often did, the Priest stuck needles into him. Today, however, something was being pumped in rather than out. Whatever it was, it left the sprout unable to move, thrash, or flail, but still left him feeling each and every millimeter of the path left by the Priest’s blade. He wanted to vomit, but alas, he’d been taken out of his cell before breakfast. He had nothing to actually regurgitate.

Ever since that time he’d spoken up, the Priest’s sermons had grown longer and more frequent, as if he took great joy in running his mouth, now that he knew his subject to be fully aware, understanding, and sapient. Had the Priest believed him to be an unintelligent animal trapped within a human body before? As if, a fool would think. But the sprout was anything but a fool, and therefore, he knew it was the objective truth. What good did it do him? Nothing.

“Back in my homeland, we have this species of colorful birds, and the thing is, they don’t hatch with those colors. Instead, they get them from algae and some kinds of shrimp, so by the time they’re grown, they’re a real eyesore. Super bright. Annoying too,” he concluded as he wiped his scalpel clean - only for a pink-red residue to remain on its surface. “Which brings us back to your bodily fluids : they're all toxic to some degree. Results came back - from testing your aqueous humour - and wouldn’t you know, eating your eyeball would send just about anyone to a hospital! And for a week, at the very least!”

Just at the mention of that, the sprout winced - the gauze over his eye had been removed just the other day, but it still itched every now and then.

“Same goes for your urine,” the Priest continued, and the sprout shuddered, shame washing over him. “Lambda thought it would be hilarious to water some of my plants with it - lemons, if you’re curious - and half of the seedlings died immediately! The other half started mutating, so I suppose that’s one good thing about it. Hah, imagine if your piss was the start of a new breed of poisonous fruits!”

The sprout couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed. All he wanted was to bury himself alive, should that be the only way to escape the humiliation.

“… Anyways.” The Priest coughed. “I’m going off-track yet again. I’ve been wondering what your body depends on to produce those toxins, or if you somehow retain more harmful substances from food than others. After all, it’d be great if you didn’t manage to contaminate half my equipment with barely a paper cut, you know? Plus, I can't have you spontaneously bleeding all over the Jester’s carpets. I wouldn’t hear the end of it for another century if his furniture started producing some abysmal critters!

“So, you’re not getting any food today, tomorrow, or for the next few days.”

Truly, the universe hated him. So much so that it was going out of its way to forever prove to the sprout that anything could always, at any given time, get worse. Having to urinate into a cup under surveillance yet again didn’t seem so bad, suddenly. He looked up from the corner he’d been staring at, his face pale as snow, and was met with the Priest’s back. He no longer sought his reaction. Meaning : he was not joking - a cue he’d taken note of not that very long ago. 

Along with a deepened sense of dread, the large people in coats arrived, soon taking him away.

 

---

 

Just as the Priest had promised, the guards didn’t come to give him food that day. Above all, the sprout felt stupid. This whole time, he’d been content with staying locked in, if it meant never being hungry, cold, or dirty ever again. And now, there he was : his stomach shrinking on itself, the sweaty covers unable to warm his shivering body, his precious gown dirty with blood from the cut he’d received. No matter how much he tried to scrub and wash it away, it had been tinted a brownish-red. He wanted to cry, but his eyes were drier than ever. And more than even that, he wanted to fall asleep and die.

No such thing happened. After all, his sleep cycle had long been determined by the time of his meals - without them, he was essentially stuck in what could only be described as the limbo between restlessness and exhaustion.

Plus, he was bored.

Groggily, his gaze trailed towards the crude carving of his god : a simple white outline on a grey wall and nothing else, with plenty of space all around it. He blinked, and before he knew it, his fingers had peeled away the fresh scab on his thigh, fingers wet with red.

Red.

… If, no matter what, the room was meant to be cleaned out after he died, he might as well make the task harder on those who’d put him there in the first place. With that thought in mind, he got to work.

 

---

God was just as flattered as he was disturbed by the now crudely colored-in outline. The moment he saw the sprout’s face, however, exhausted yet proud, his expression softened.

“Maybe I should have brought you some paper and crayons instead of books,” he mused, producing a small closed tray from his clothing. “Wonder what kind of portrait you’d make then. Now…”

With a sigh, he opened the tray. When the sprout looked inside, he found eight balls of green-tinted dough. Upon poking, he found out that while cold, the dough was soft and smooth, dusted with a white powder. 

Then, it was his god’s turn to look ever-so-slightly proud.

“First time I cooked anything in decades,” he scoffed. “I gave up on it since I don’t need to eat, but I can’t really keep stealing dinners and desserts from Pants or the Mayor. So… I thought, why not make something from my home country. The nation itself is corrupt beyond redemption, but the food can be good.

“So, here it is,” he gestured. “Matcha mochi. Eat up.”

Even if it was sand and dirt he was presented with, he’d gobble it up all the same. 

Carefully, he picked one ball up with two fingers and proceeded to take a bite. His teeth sank into the dough with ease, and it stretched ever-so-slightly between them before softly splitting open, a cold and creamy filling immediately melting onto his tongue. While sweet, it had a refreshing, bitter aftertaste to it, reminiscent of the tea his god would bring over at times. As he continued biting down, the wrapping proved delightfully chewy and soft, perfectly complementing the milkiness of the slowly melting filling. It was as if he had been fed pure happiness, wrapped up like a gift in what felt like a scratch in a place he hadn't even known was itching.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!” the sprout exclaimed, lips white with powder that was promptly licked off. “It’s so good, can I have some more?”

By the time the question was asked, God had already picked one mochi up, holding it between his fingers. The message was clear enough. Without hesitating, the sprout gobbled down the dessert from his god’s hand. One bite, two bites, and it was gone without a trace, save for some of the white powder that still clung to his god’s fingertips.

The next thing the sprout heard was a choked up noise, coming from none other than God. It was a reasonable reaction to having one’s fingers licked clean, he’d later think. His tongue idly traced each digit, and his lips closed around each knuckle - almost as if in a kiss - right up until all he could taste was skin and his own saliva. Upon looking up, he saw his god’s face. It was contorted in a grimace of… something. Shock, mixed with that same frustration he’d seen before, sprinkled with even more shock. For once, God had nothing to say or do, his blue eyes simply transfixed upon the sprout. Had it not been for his quicker-than-usual breathing, the sprout would have thought his god had abandoned the mortal realm right then and there.

The sprout furrowed his eyebrows, still too hungry to understand the weight of his own gesture. “Can I have one more…?”

That seemed to do the job of shaking God out of his stupor. Thus, he returned to picking the desserts up, holding them up to the sprout’s face while sporting a delighted grin on his own.

“Say ahhh…”

 

---

“What’s that?” the sprout asked another time, pointing at a pendant hanging off his god’s neck. “It’s really pretty.”

 

It was a piece of gold, shaped into a feather, with above it, a ball of what looked like white rabbit fur. Both were tied to a red thread. Upon having it pointed at, God nearly flinched, his expression just barely remaining as relaxed as it usually was.

 

“Oh, this? There’s a long story behind this one, and it’s not exactly a happy one, either.”

God, of course, kept speaking. After all, he loved being listened to more than he hated picking at old wounds. And on top of that, was it not his duty as a god, to tell his followers truths, so that they may be spread far and wide? It was in his nature - it was something he couldn’t reject.

 

“As my mother had failed to give me a name before abandoning me, she left this feather on my person. A proof of identity, she called it. It was supposed to make my origin known to all, just like how you put a collar with a tag on a cat.

 

“Most would think that such proof of identity from a god would inspire respect and admiration in the mortals who worshipped her, and I thought the same. Alas, when I told my first lover of the feather’s meaning, he begged me not to reveal my identity to anyone, ever.

 

“I found that ridiculous, at first, as I was naive and couldn’t comprehend the reason for his fear. But, turns out” - God cut himself off with a quiet, bitter chuckle - “he feared that, should his superior learn of my origins, he’d get it into his head that taking me as a bride would restore the honor of his tarnished family name.”

 

Upon merely hearing the word ‘bride’ , the sprout’s blood ran cold. Why, up until that moment, he’d been content enough just listening to his god’s story without butting in. But now, with ‘bride’ having had an entirely different meaning burned and carved into his memories, he felt his mouth flinch open.

 

“But- But that didn’t happen, right?!” he asked, panic filling his eyes and closing in on his chest. “He didn’t make you a bride?”

 

His worry was genuine, and so was God’s amusement upon witnessing the display of it. It was almost pathetic in his eyes, like a dog sniffing its owner after seeing them bump into something. Pathetic and adorable. God couldn’t help but briefly caress the top of the sprout’s head, much like how one would soothe a scared dog.

“Of course not, my lover made sure of that. He sold some story to him and his fellow deputies and smiths, and they left me alone. I reckon something about me being a shrine maiden from Mount Yougou, there to grant them fortune in their endeavors, so long as I wasn’t tarnished by any of them.

“… And that would certainly explain the panic that followed when I started getting rounder. No one knew who’d done it, but everyone thought the Shogun and Guuji would smite them regardless, when word got out.”

 

With that, the sprout was reassured. He let out a sigh of relief, only to regret it not five seconds later. 

 

“So, naturally,” his god continued, “they decided to keep me locked in some house away from the smithy until it was time. The only people allowed to see me were my lover, his superior, and of course, that thrice-cursed smith and his wife.”

 

… How familiar, the sprout thought when the subject of isolation was brought up, not remotely comforted by his deity’s words. As if they were ever intended to comfort him.

“After a while, I stopped wearing this entirely. I’m not really sure why I kept it either,” God finished with a shrug, idly playing with the feather, allowing it to sway from side to side. “Or why I decided to wear it today. I suppose a god’s train of thought is just as incomprehensible to themselves as it is to a mortal, haha.”

 

Since the sprout didn’t know any other gods personally, he had, once again, no choice but to agree with this one.

 

---

 

Needles, yet again. By then, he could barely feel them sliding in and out of his arm as more of his pink-red blood left him in vials. 

The same couldn’t be said about yet again being handed three large glasses of water, then having to pour them back out ten minutes later in front of the Priest and into a small container. Though the Priest never really looked , the shame of the act itself was enough to make him want to claw his face off. Only after passing the container to the Priest was he allowed to sit in the corner, watching as the arms of the clock moved with the speed of a dying snail.

He thought of the meals he had been brought by his god over those few days. 

Glazed fowl cutlets with baked potatoes : the meat had a sour-sweet crust, hiding tender and juicy flesh beneath, and the potatoes had a lightly charred, buttery skin that tasted of herbs. 

Baked apples and peaches : the temperature rendered them mushy, yet kept them sweet all the same, the oven’s leftover warmth adding to the flavor. 

Another small meal from his god’s home country : raw salmon with rice. While the rice was rather chewy and ever-so-slightly salty, the salmon was soft, delicate, and practically melted on his tongue. 

All that, and more, caused his mouth to flood with saliva. As he reminisced, the workshop seemed to disappear right before his eyes. But then, a pair of gloved hands yanked him up by his gown, and he was faced with Delta, fuming with rage.

“ You piece of shit! ” The sprout, frightened, confused, was shaken back and forth. “Who?! Who was it!?”

Right over Delta’s shaking shoulder, there was the first Priest, clicking his tongue but smiling all the same. He gestured, and immediately, the sprout was tossed back into his seat.

“Though I ordered your guardians not to feed you anything, your cholesterol and sugar levels are higher than before,” he hummed as he approached the sprout, arms crossed over his chest. “Unless, by some miracle, you can spontaneously generate nutrition in your organism, would you mind telling me who took pity on you?”

I’m an idiot , thought the sprout in an unusual-for-him instant. It usually took him quite a while to realize what was happening around him, but right then and there? It was as if he had been hit over the head with a glass mallet, with how crystal clear the realization had been. Of course, he said not a word, much to Delta’s fury, who appeared five seconds away from ripping each and every individual strand of hair from the sprout’s head. But again, he was stopped by the first Priest, who sighed in mock-disappointment.

“Of course you won’t tell me. Don’t they say a dog won’t bark at the hand that feeds it?” He shrugged. “It seems there's some truth to that - I’ll just have to find out for myself who that hand belongs to. Oh, and Delta?”

“ What!?”

“Go over the verbal tests while I go have a talk with the guards.” Before Delta could protest, the Priest was already by the door. “And no touching. We need to deliver him in one piece.”

 

---

During the next visit, he wasn’t restrained in any way. After all, he had demonstrated that when struck, the thought of striking back wouldn’t ever cross his mind, obedience having long since been beaten into him. That, too, had its perks, both of them supposed.

“Alright, let’s just get this over with,” the Priest groaned upon sitting down in his chair, legs spread. “As previously established, you’re illiterate. What about counting?”

The sprout, for once, nodded. Only on the segments of his fingers, though, something he’d learned on a sleepless night during a blizzard. While he didn’t know the names or symbols of the numbers themselves, it was still more than enough to be of use every now and then.

“Great.” The Priest crossed off one answer. “Not sure what we even need that one for, but that’s one question out of fifty-five.”

Oh dear , thought the sprout. He had no idea how much fifty-five was, but it couldn’t be a good number of questions to have.

 

---

Delta flipped the page, even more frustrated than before, as the already-answered questions didn't even yet number twenty-five.

“So, what do you know about your creation?” he asked, ever-so-slightly raising an eyebrow. “If you don’t know anything, just shake your head and move on. It’d be a bloody miracle if you somehow had prenatal memories or something.”

For a while, the sprout entertained the possibility of concealing the truth, but then, what would happen, were his lies to be uncovered? That thought straightened him right back, forcing the answer out of him.

“… My mother grew me in a big glass bottle. She used her own flesh and that of a man to do it. There was chalk involved.”

Delta rolled his eyes. “And how do you know that?” he asked, turning the page to where he kept his notes - mostly scribbles that went into great detail about how much he wanted to exterminate the sprout for the crime of wasting his time. “You got anything backing up that story?”

It didn’t need to be said. The sprout was yet again five wrong words away from receiving a verbal lashing. Afraid and nervous, he swallowed and looked down to avoid Delta’s wrathful gaze.

“… My mother fed me to my brother, but then he died as well. His body remained somewhat alive, and eventually I was given consciousness again. He talked to me while I was still in his stomach. Everything I know about my mother is from him.”

“Oh, classic, getting eaten by something and connecting to its consciousness. Tried to pilot a beast like that, once. Threw a few people in, but safe to say, the average human is not really corrosion-resistant. So, we threw one Rho Segment in there instead since he didn’t make some deadline. And what do you know, now he’s making all the deadlines from inside that half-alive thing!” Delta sneered. “He has no idea we stopped doing maintenance on it. Any day now, he’s gonna find himself stuck in a decaying beast, and while still conscious. Do you think he’ll manage to get out, or are his batteries gonna run out before then?”

Lesson learned : answer the Priest as infrequently as possible - even the least talkative one had plenty of gruesome tales to share, which the sprout wasn’t particularly keen on hearing. So, he stared at him and blinked, intending on answering with a simple, I dunno .

But for some reason, he instead asked, “… Why? You don’t get anything out of tormenting… uh, another you, so wh-”

His mouth was fast, but the Priest’s unforgiving palm was quicker. A sharp, stinging pain shot through his skull, burning through his cheek, and then his ear, on the other side of his head, the sound of skin striking skin echoing in his skull for what felt like forever. The force of the slap practically sent him flying off his chair. Perhaps, had it been angled differently, it would have made his head spin a full circle.

“Who do you think you are, to talk back like this, hm?” Delta sneered as he sat back in his chair, clipboard once more in hand. “But fine, I’ll entertain you with an answer : why not?”

 

---

 

Eventually, they made it past question twenty-five, but it felt as if hours had passed. The pages on that clipboard seemed endless, unlike Delta’s patience. The sprout’s knees, like a shield, were already raised in preparation against it.

“Great, and how much do you know about Khaenri’ah?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? That’s a bit hard to believe, but whatever. It’s not like we need you to know anything about the damn place,” Delta grumbled, scratching away one answer. “Okay, up next…”

That was somewhat of a lie. He knew they had fake skies. He knew they had no seas, so to speak. He knew they had ways to nurture life without ever needing the sun. He knew, somewhat, of their customs - though none of them carried any relevance now, especially if it came to knowledge relayed through word of immaterial-mouth, as opposed to experience. He could certainly talk about his Mother all day long, however. How would it sound to the Priest?

Wah wah wah wah, my mommy was smart and pretty but she thought I was useless and didn’t want me, wah wah wah. I look just like her look at me look at me look at me. Wah wah wah. Did I mention she made another son-boy just like me?

God , thought the sprout - not naming any in particular, not even his own - did he actually sound like that to those around him?

Even if, was there anyone out there that respected him enough to tell him?

 

---

 

By the time they made it to question forty-seven, the sprout had begun answering on instinct. Yes, no. Nod, shake. Maybe two or three sentences, if that was required. His brain had gone numb, all thoughts sliding off it like raindrops off a roof.

Save one.

At that very moment, the first Priest was getting answers out of the guards. The sprout knew they weren’t nearly sympathetic enough to lie for him - they barely looked at him when passing him food. Not one of them would be stupid enough to stick out their necks for a worthless, disposable sprout, and essentially out themselves as having disobeyed orders. That much, he knew for sure.

So, what? What would happen after that? The sprout dreaded the answer. Learning of it wasn’t a matter of if, but of when , and it’d be very soon. Maybe it’s finally time , the sprout wondered as he answered Delta’s questions like some machine. Maybe this was where his story ended and he went back to that dreamless slumber within his brother’s intestines. At this point, though afraid, the sprout almost felt relief at the thought.

Almost.

He had yet to receive his name from God.

He heard a clunk behind him, and suddenly, two guards stood at his sides. When the sprout looked up from his knees, the iteration of the Priest was already up from his seat and off to another part of his workshop, papers tossed to the side.

“Alright, you can go now, I’m sick of looking at your stupid face,” Delta sneered over his shoulder, gesturing at the guards. “See you in another century, hopefully.”

Like always, he was delivered back to his cell. The guards didn’t even bother to look at the blood smeared over the wall, further solidifying his hypothesis that none of them would care enough to lie for him. 

Usually, after visits like that, he’d go to sleep immediately to try and forget about whatever procedure had taken place. But not this time. Still hungry, he sat down on the bed and waited. He waited, waited, and waited, since that was all he could ever do. If it wasn’t waiting for bad weather to pass, it was waiting until the men in cloaks left their supplies alone for long enough to be stolen, and if it wasn’t for that, it was waiting for the other him to stop looking for him.

Did anything good ever actually come from waiting? He certainly knew actively pursuing something had only gotten him tossed at the back of a cart and into a cell. Nothing else. What else was there left for him to do but wait for something to happen, be it bad or good? It wasn’t as if he could pry the door open from the inside. The walls around him wouldn’t budge for another few centuries, and the same could be said of the floor. Graves were meant to hold the dead entrusted to them for good, after all. He counted the seconds as they passed, watching the door, waiting.

But no one ever came through, not to his knowledge. About two thousand seconds in, he drifted off to sleep once more.

Chapter 12: Lover

Summary:

Thus, to compensate for the loss of time, the deity decided to gift the Prince with something that transcended time itself.

Love.

Notes:

Warning for non-explicit smut after "Can I see them?"

If you'd rather not read it, stop reading the chapter from that point on.

A feather-like graze of fingertips stirred the sprout from his slumber. Before opening his eyes, he first jumped up, much like a dog would if pet in the middle of a nap. Half conscious, he realized two things : he’d fallen asleep sitting against the wall, and as such, a numb, cold ache spread across his back, one that would last for hours. The other thing? It was God whose presence had woken him - a rite most familiar to him by now, after weeks of visit upon visit at any and all times of day. Per its usual proceedings, it would now be his turn to look upon God’s hands : should they hold nothing, he would then be expected to jump into his arms, and from there, they would discuss that which God would deem worthy of discussing.

As always, but not that time.

The Priest had said something about dogs not barking at the hands that feed them, but had said nothing about not barking at the hands that had promised something very, very long ago and that had yet to deliver. Did he know what he was asking for by yet again stepping out of line? Certainly. As previously established, that particular lesson had been burned into his flesh the moment his god’s palm had struck him across the face. But he didn't mind that ; what he truly feared was not the palm, but the mix of disappointment and disgust that would cloud his god’s beautiful features whenever he’d ask one question too many. Still, somehow, the image of God’s annoyance was nowhere near as horrifying as the thought that he might die without ever having had a name of his own. Whether it was courage or entitlement, he couldn’t tell. At that point, any name would be good - as long as it was his own to bear into his grave.

With his heart crawling up his throat and his ribs shrinking around his lungs, the sprout opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by God.

“You look somewhat better than usual,” God remarked, raising an eyebrow. “What was it this time?”

Silent, the sprout closed his mouth. With only a few words, his courage was gone and he found himself sinking beneath his god’s words again. Something hurt in his chest, something that couldn’t be pinned on either the Priest’s procedures or hunger. The distance between them closed as God shuffled closer with another chuckle.

“Verbal tests, he called it. He asked me questions about whether or not I knew or could do some things,” the sprout answered, beckoning his god’s awaiting gaze. “He only took blood from me again.” To think there had been a time when having his blood drawn was the second worst thing that had happened to him. It was almost amusing. But then again, what did he expect? Nothing of the sprout was for himself to own, be it blood, time, or whatever stood in-between - a truth that was further solidified by his god shrugging.

“And what about the mess in here?” As God rested his chin on the sprout’s shoulder, he tapped the side of his head twice. “I don’t believe you managed to get over that so quickly.”

Ah, the sprout thought as his whole body immediately got cold.

One would have to be a fool to assume that particular night had departed his mind. And yet, over those few weeks, the Priest’s visits had managed to drive his thoughts away from the memory. With his skin covered in real, tangible wounds, the invisible hand prints under it didn’t itch quite as much. By a similar principle, faced with the cold gnawing at his bones and flesh, he’d once managed to ignore hunger, focusing only on finding food when the first distraction expired. Ironically, and morbidly enough, he was somewhat grateful for the distraction the Priest had granted him. After all, matters of the spirit were not for the simple of mind to dwell on. The privilege was one exclusive to those as enlightened as the Priest. It was natural he’d enforce this order of things, even if only unintentionally.

Only for God to re-gift him the burden of deeper thought, dropping it right on his doorstep, as one would a precious heirloom fished out the bottom of a lake. Was this on purpose? Was this a new way of punishing him for his transgressions of days most recent? Or was it his attempt at teaching a stray dog deeper thought and about its nature? He wouldn’t know. As he pondered the question, his expression soured.

“The way he handled me sometimes reminded me of that,” he confessed after a moment, his head lowered. “I felt like the thing that makes me different from an animal was always turned off then. Somehow, it felt even worse than… than when it actually happened, sometimes.”

God raised an eyebrow. “How so, exactly?”

“… I know that if he decided to do that as well, you wouldn’t come save me.”

God, in his everlasting wisdom and composure, was for once too taken aback to form a reply, to deny the sprout’s accusation. For a lack of better words to paint a picture of his expression : he gaped, eyes wide open, as if he’d been submerged in a tub filled with nothing but ice. The silence was akin to a hammer used for carpentry, deafening and piercing all the same ; it would have hurt less to hear his God come up with a comforting lie, feeding it to him straight from his hand. How cruel a truth must it be, that even a God was unable to defy it? But then again, perhaps that was precisely what he meant by not being a true God yet. Godhood implied the ability to decide what was true or not, based on nothing but one’s own principles, and with his god still obeying the Priest, he had yet to climb that particular peak.

“But that’s fine,” the sprout shrugged. “I was born beyond saving.”

---

 

Rarely would the sprout look in the mirror after cleaning himself, for it reflected the rest of the world as well, in the sense that there was nothing for him within. Nothing but a face that wasn’t his, eyes that had been stolen from someone long ago, and hands he could do nothing but wipe his weepy features with. He was only borrowing them, he told himself. They weren’t his. They weren’t him.

Or so he thought while scrubbing his gown clean in the sink. Some lukewarm potato slurry had gotten on it, and the gown was already dirty enough on its own, even without the crusted-over yellow stains.

Still, either by fate or by chance, he found himself facing his own image in the mirror. And it was bare, of course, as the gown lay wet in the old sink. Not intentionally, that much he knew, as he was surprised by the sudden realization. His first reaction? To look down and away. There was nothing for him within, after all. Right up until there was something looming in the corner of his vision.

So, curious - and most importantly, bored to the point of madness - the sprout looked up. Out of nowhere, there he was : a young man, scrawny and pale and ghostly, but a young man nonetheless - as opposed to the familiar vision of a young lady from centuries past. A lass. A bride.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, amazement filled him. He stepped away from the mirror, more of the young man becoming visible on its surface. When had his shoulders broadened? Since when was his abdomen this defined? When had his jawline sharpened? Enchanted, the sprout turned around, back and forth, the image following after, its form gaining depth. His focus shifted to the bright red spirals running up his arms to his shoulders, and then down his back to his legs. Had he ever seen them this clearly? Curious, he reached for his hair and pulled it up behind his head, and for it had grown significantly during his exile, his wrist bore a mild, dull ache as he did.

A price good enough, the sprout supposed, for in the mirror he saw a face and body that - even if only momentarily - belonged to him. Not only that, it was a face he enjoyed looking at, and how refreshing it was, after a lifetime of owning only things that were ugly and unwanted, tossed aside and forgotten.

Absently, he reached to the side, where he had left the makeshift belt he tied his gown with. An eternity had passed since the last time he’d tended to his hair - or rather, the hair that he had briefly shaped into an image of the other him’s own, back when it was short and firm. 

He remembered sitting above a puddle, hair and fingers tangled up in stolen hairbands thanks to his poor attempts at braids constantly slipping from his grasp. The frustration of it had been enough to burn the memory of that day into his very bones. Recalling it now - not without a hint of bitter fondness - he got to work, and before long, his hair was secured into a ponytail. Much like his body, it too, was entirely unlike what he had first sought to replicate. It was long and fell over his shoulder, braidless, and had a faint waving here and there. A pleasant sight as well, that. 

Idly he turned his head around a few times, watching as the weight of his hair shifted from side to side, sliding off and on his shoulder. He observed how the remaining hair above and around his forehead framed his face, flattering like it had never been before. Certainly, it brought more focus to his somewhat sunken cheeks and the deep bags under his eyes, but for the first time in forever, he did not see himself as a lost child, too-tall for his age.

This entire time, he had truly been a man. 

Or resembled one on the outside, at least. How strange it was to see himself in that light.

“Nice!” he concluded simply, smiling as he tightened the fabric that held his hair, before going back to scrubbing his gown - which was, amazingly enough, no longer the only thing he owned.

He couldn’t wait to present himself to God as such.

 

---

 

Not unlike a curious cat, God tilted his head from side to side as he beheld the sprout, taking in his appearance. Before the homunculus could try and guess the meaning of his raised yet simultaneously furrowed eyebrows, however, God reached for the makeshift hairband and tugged at it. With this one move, his hair cascaded down like water released from a dam, falling heavily on his shoulders and back.

“Much better,” God hummed with a faint smile. “With how terrible your hair is as of now, you’re better off keeping it down.”

A needle pricked at something, somewhere deep inside the sprout, and so, ever so slightly disappointed, he asked, “Then is there any way for me to make it better?”

Except, deep down, he did not think that it needed to be any better, or that he looked terrible when donning that particular hairstyle. But then again, what if that line of thought was simply another transgression waiting to happen? What if there was a lesson to be learned, still? Maybe that his appearance was not his to make decisions over? He couldn’t guess, once again, and in silence and compliance, it was driving him mad.

“Cutting it all off and regrowing it from the start, I suppose,” God chuckled, shrugging. “It’s not like I can start bringing you actual shampoo and conditioner. Not only is it too late for that, Dottore would know. He took some of your hair too, didn’t he?”

That he had. Few were the things the Priest had not yet taken from his body and examined, by then. Certainly, a sudden change in hair texture would not be something that could pass him by undetected. Why, he already had all the tools and knowledge in the world to know when something was different, deep beneath his flesh and bones. No hope was lost, however, for he had none to begin with. 

With that out of the way, they sat on the bed once again, God idly combing through the sprout’s coarse, dry hair as he sat in his lap with, for a while, nothing to speak of. Even if it was evident from the furrow of his brow that God wanted to speak of something specific, but struggled to find the right words to do so. He did that for a total of five minutes.

“Your dress smells of old pipes,” he pointed out with a smirk. “What’s that about?”

“I spilled some food on it,” the sprout answered, sighing. “So I had to wash it by hand. It’s the only piece of clothing I own, so I can’t have it rotting away.”

It was already filthy enough, and he had a feeling that if it reached a certain point, the Priest would take it from him as well, leaving him naked and no better than a wild animal. What did he have left, if not for his status as a person and not a thing? He couldn’t be a scholar, a friend, a son, or even a human. A person was all he was, at that point ; nothing more, nothing less. God, meanwhile, nodded in acknowledgment, though he had likely guessed the reason for the smell when he first walked through the door. Those questions, after all, weren’t truly for God’s own sake ; he was giving the sprout a chance, so to speak.

“And what was with the ponytail? You didn’t really seem to care about your appearance before,” his god asked, as if reading his mind. “Did you have some kind of epiphany?”

“Maybe…?” the sprout hummed. “I don’t know. I just didn’t hate what I saw in the mirror for once. I didn’t feel like I was looking at a mishmash of doppelgängers.” A smart word his god had taught him once, when telling him one of his many stories, and he’d finally found a way to use it. Idly, he reached for the dark star on his throat, fingertips lightly grazing the scar-like indent. And tenderly, for once. “I didn’t hate seeing this.”

Briefly, he recalled the image of his bare form in the mirror : sickly, scarred. The red swirls and spirals stood above it all, however, overshadowing each cut and bruise. Permanent. Unchanging.

“I had no idea the marks on my body were that pretty,” the sprout mused aloud, his gaze trailing to his own wrist. “I can’t believe I used to hate them.”

“They're what makes you stand out against mortals, idiot, of course they're beautiful.” 

At that particular choice of words, the sprout’s heart fluttered. Was it intentional, or did his god simply prefer the use of stronger language for anything and everything?

Regardless of the answer, his god continued :

“… You know, I used to consider my own marks ugly as well. I believed they were a blaring stamp, a proof of my being less than a person, less than a human - less than what I wanted to be more than anything in the world.

“But then, when it finally dawned upon me that I could never truly be human, be of flesh and blood, and that a human was not something worth becoming, I realized I might as well start seeing some worth in those.” God lifted his forearm and moved it about alongside a finger, a quiet clicking and clacking following as joints shifted. He chuckled. “I realized they’re proof of what I was meant to be, what I was denied.”

An idea introduced itself to the sprout’s thoughts, then, blunt and sudden as a strike from a conveniently disguised mallet. And soon after, before the sprout could stop it at the door, it introduced itself to God as well with a short, simple question :

 

“Can I see them?”

The sprout found it astounding how quickly one’s expression could change, and his god had secured first place in those non-existent championships, time after time. Amusement, annoyance, pride, curiosity, and many more emotions seemed to always be holding an invisible tournament of sorts behind his eyes, the victor ever-changing. Who had been the victor this time? Surprise intertwined with mild disbelief. 

He looked up at the sprout, his eyes wide open, his lips ever-so-slightly pursed. Did I hear that right? he seemed to be asking without uttering so much as a word, and the sprout, in a similar manner, stared right back at him in confirmation, before promptly following up with an explanation.

“You saw my marks when you first saved me,” he said. “Would it be alright for me to see yours as well? Fully, I mean.”

To his own surprise, God didn’t take very long to answer. Momentarily, his gaze shifted to the side, followed by a faint lifting of the corners of his lips. It was as fast and as fleeting as a falling star on a summer night. Had it been anyone but the sprout who sat before him, those slight changes to his expression would have gone unnoticed. Had his god’s image been a constellation - a barely cohesive cluster of stars aligned in no specific order - he’d be its most devout astronomer. He’d spent far too long observing, carving each line that made him into his memory and the walls of his cell, to miss that look on his face.

“… Of course,” God shrugged, pulling away from his beloved sprout. “That’s been my intention for a while now, anyways.”

Had it been anyone else but the sprout who sat before him, they would have thought about those words and their implications twice, if not ten times, over. Unfortunately, it was indeed the sprout who sat there, and he possessed not the wisdom of the average person, and so, he swallowed them without as much as a thought.

God took a new seat on the other side of the bed, his expression pleasant. The sprout didn’t think too much of it when he started undoing the clasps and laces on his pants, which led to them being put to the side. His heart did skip a beat when knees emerged from under the black cloth, however. Each was visibly separate from his god’s thighs and calves, but somehow, still held the two together in place. The sight, while somewhat disturbing, was twice as fascinating to behold. While he had no hopes of understanding the deeper intricacies within just yet, he found himself in awe. Such a precise mechanism, and not a single flaw or indent was to be found upon it. Had it truly been made by hand? Had he? Was he staring too much? Was he not staring enough?

“You look like this is your first time seeing a pair of legs,” God remarked with a chuckle. The sprout’s face burned red. “Ever actually seen anyone without clothes? Besides yourself, obviously.”

To that, the sprout shook his head. The closest he’d been to that had been on the unfortunate night that led to them meeting. Before that, every person that had passed his eyes was clothed from head to toe, be it in loose and light linens or thick furs and leathers, for just like the Priest had said, clothing was a sign of sapience and vice versa.

“That was to be expected, I suppose,” God said. “To see one’s bareness is both a privilege and a travesty among men, and I doubt you’ve been alive long enough to experience either. That’s nothing to blame yourself for, really.”

His hands were just as soothing and gentle as his words, for once again they rested upon the sprout’s shoulders - though only for a moment. The sprout’s back was pressed against the carved wall, the ever familiar weight of divinity holding him down as it once again settled upon his lap. The sprout, by then long since a living shrine to his beloved deity, still found himself dumbfounded, but above all, intrigued. Something was different. His fingers scratched at the quilt trapped beneath him, just as he was trapped beneath his God’s gaze, sharp and hot as steel that had just been hammered into the shape of a sword. As smooth and cold thighs closed around him like the jaws of a ravenous animal, the sprout looked down and away in shame, only for his chin to be gently lifted and angled right back at God.

“Weren’t you the one asking to see me in my entirety?” he asked, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “What, don’t tell me you’re backing out? Something tells me that’s not really the case, though.”

“I… I didn’t think you’d actually want to show them…” the sprout admitted under his breath, or what little he had of it, anyway. “Isn’t it a little sudden?”

“I assure you, it’s not. You and I have known each other for months, now. Most of your current lifetime, I’d guess. It’s understandable you’d want to see more than what I initially allowed you to.” God shook his head, chuckling. “And it’s not as if I’m doing this solely because you asked.”

Clouds parted and God leaned down from between, his two hands cupping the sprout’s ever-so-shocked face. Within his red, wide-open eyes, God once more perceived the carving-portrait of a lover he’d left there. A small, portable thing though it was, it remained beyond impossible to simply leave inside the average person ; yet there it was, almost as if it had always been part of the sprout’s body. It was almost frightening how easy it was to leave the ‘carving’ inside him.

“I want you to look at me as well.”

With those words upon his lips, the fair deity leaned towards the sprout one more time.

His sharp eyes closed, and his breath was lukewarm against the sprout's cheek for a moment before a sudden warmth pressed against the sprout’s lips. It wasn’t long before he remembered that the gesture was not foreign to him, that it had been taught to him in a lesson he’d be happier off forgetting by people whose faces he’d be glad not to remember. Such reminders usually made him wince, at the very least, or at worst, drove him to a freezing panic.

Neither of those things occurred, he realized. 

No fear was to be found in his heart ; only warmth. Only embers that grew brighter and hotter within his chest, the fire spreading across his body in a shiver that was enough to shake his immovable deity as well. This reaction was interpreted as a sign : a sign for God to let out a huff, for his hold on the sprout’s face to grow tighter, for his lips, humid with their shared breaths, to part.

At that moment - both as fleeting as a flash of lightning across the skies and as long as eternity itself - the sprout reached two understandings. The first : that he had been born hungry. For something that couldn’t be bought nor hunted down, for something he hadn't known the taste of until then. For the first time in forever, he felt, for a lack of better words, as if an invisible stomach within himself had finally been filled.

The second was that he finally understood God’s lesson from weeks before. The one on seeking joys that were counterparts to his invisible cuts and bruises. Initially mortifying to even think of, yet so clear and obvious now ; so much that he almost recoiled in a late surge of embarrassment. Had this been his god’s intent all along, to try and mend that particular wound as well, only for him to keep on shoving that helping hand away for months? Truly, genuinely, he felt stupid. So stupid that he almost wanted to cry.

That thought held onto him for even less than a blink. 

When God pulled away once more, the smile he donned was enough to make the sprout immediately forget about his own obliviousness.

“Remember that one time you asked me if I would kill you if you asked me to?”

Quickly, still out of it, the sprout nodded, much to his god’s satisfaction. He was rewarded with an explanation :

“Well, the answer is… not really, apparently,” he snorted, momentarily undignified. The sprout couldn’t care any less. “Not with those big, puppy eyes of yours. My only weakness.”

Shocked, the sprout had no time to process that moment of honesty, as another one followed suit. God let go of him, only to reach for his shirt. One tug of a string and it fell open, revealing the same skin-tight black undershirt, its scent long since known by heart. The shirt was carelessly thrown to the side in a flash, which could not be said about what transpired next.

It was simple and brief, to take one’s clothes off, or so one would think. When God took the edge of his undershirt between his fingers, it was as if time slowed down between the two of them. Transfixed, wide-eyed, the sprout watched in awe as the black fabric began sliding up bit by bit, slowly revealing fair, ever-so-slightly lilac-tinted skin. He wouldn’t dare touch without permission, but there was no doubt about it being soft and pleasant to graze with the tips of his fingers, were he to do so. 

Following the curves and dents of his abdomen, God unveiled the bow-shaped gaps where his ribs ought to be. There was a strange, round emblem in the middle. Just as his shirt began going over his head, his smile widened, only to be immediately hidden as something else was exposed.

While already somewhat aware of the differences between them, the sprout still found himself in awe upon seeing them with his very own eyes. His god was softer around the edges and ever-so-slightly wider in places where the sprout was narrow. Where the sprout was flat, God meanwhile was curved. Though he had never seen a chest quite like this one on another man, he paid it no mind ; wouldn’t dare to. God, having the privilege to take himself apart and modify himself as he pleased should he wish to, certainly had his reasons for appearing as such. Who was he to question them? One thing was certain for sure : he was almost too beautiful to behold.

With a prolonged sigh, the undershirt too was cast aside, leaving God sitting there almost fully in the nude, if not for his underwear, which was still sitting snugly over his hips. His expression was one of simultaneous satisfaction and impatience, one the sprout couldn’t exactly describe, for all words left him at the sight.

“So, what do you think?” his god asked, his hands settling on the sprout’s face again. “Like what you’re seeing?”

The sprout nodded. His vocabulary was nowhere near extensive enough to phrase how taken aback he was by the image before him. It was best summarized with a single, reverberating ‘A’. But God didn’t need to ask to know that, of course. The answer was written across his face, which was as red as his eyes. Steam was practically pouring from his ears. It was a sight for sore eyes and it was all his, God surely thought, proud. Chuckling, he leaned in closer once again.

“You do know we’re not going to just leave it at looking, right?” he asked. “Besides, you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Tentatively, the sprout nodded and then shook his head. Did he want that? What, beyond looking, was there to be done? Still, that was enough of an answer for his deity. But vague gestures could only do so much ; could not amount to that which God sought most at that very moment. 

Unprompted, he reached for one of the sprout’s unoccupied hands and, much to the homunculus’ surprise, pressed it to the softness of his chest. A gasp left the sprout.

“Then I’ll show you how to go about this,” God told him. “What you’ve been taught by force won’t be of use to me. Or anyone else. Not that you’ll ever be offering yourself to anyone but me, right?”

Why would he ever do that, the sprout wondered for the whole of five seconds. No one else in the whole wide world had been so kind and merciful. It would only make sense that his returned affections would go to the highest and only bidder. Decidedly, he shook his head. That, and he likely wouldn’t live long enough to even have that kind of opportunity. God interpreted the answer as permission to continue, which he did, further pressing the sprout’s palm against his chest, cupping it.

“You’re allowed to touch here, but not too much,” he explained, his tone almost casual, had it not been for the unusual, airy note there was to it. “It’s not a part of myself I particularly enjoy, you see. It’s a constant reminder in whose image I was made.”

Oh. Oh, that explained a lot, the sprout thought as he experimentally caressed where he had been instructed to. He didn’t think his god meant he’d been literally made in the Electro Archon’s image, whoever she was. Aside from an artist, of course. Satisfied with the gesture, God let out a short sigh. He was still clearly left wanting.

“Kissing there is nice, too - but again, not too much,” he continued, leaning down to the crook of the sprout’s neck. “Like this.” Immediately after, the sprout felt his god’s lips briefly pressing to the side of his throat, lukewarm breath briefly fanning over it. His own stopped for a while once again, the warmth in his chest growing hotter and tighter. “And no biting, or you’re going to regret it. No sucking either, the child I had did enough damage for a lifetime.”

What a strange time to mention such an occurrence. Still, fascinated, the sprout tried to picture a scene of his beloved god in his youth, cradling a fragile little babe to his chest. Though fabricated, the image his imagination produced made his heart sink a little - though not in repulsion, mind you. Strange as it was to think his god had been a father once, long ago - when they both looked to be around the same age - it was even stranger to realize that he had twice, if not thrice, outlived said child that he’d certainly loved dearly. Was it a good time and place to ponder such things, however? It couldn’t be, surely.

Curiously, the sprout tried instead to do just as God suggested, leaving a kiss where his chest was softest and not cradled in his hand. He noticed God lacked a heartbeat.

“… Was this alright?”

God nodded, kissing the sprout’s neck again. His lips landed directly over the dark star upon his throat, to which the sprout let out a choked up noise. “It was,” he confirmed. “You don’t have to ask every time, just so you know. It’s cute, but it gets annoying rather quickly. If it stops being alright, you’ll be the first to know.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. The message had been conveyed well enough. That marked the time to move on with the lecture, to move onto another bullet point. 

To one God found bordered on hilarious. 

When he had first learned the ways of his own body in regards to that of another, it was just him, his lover, and their mutual curiosity, with all the time in the world to make mistakes, to enjoy themselves. He remembered the man apologizing for something stupid, promptly after explaining what he was apologizing for. They both laughed about it, for a lack of better things to do. Not even two minutes later, they found themselves embracing one another, smiling still.

Five centuries and a few other lovers later, there he was - giving out an instruction manual of his own body. Pull this string to make me see stars, pull this one to make me think I love you for five seconds. He was a puppet and that would never change, that much he knew. That was one thing. But making this stupid, naïve little thing his puppeteer - on a whim, of all things? The idea was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh, nearly ruining what he’d managed to build up so far.

“But of course, you’re here as well, aren't you? It’s your wounds we’re patching up,” God said, knowing all too well it was never about soothing the sprout. “You should know something about yourself as well. For a start…” God stood on his knees, just enough for there to be space between him and the sprout’s lap. “Take off your gown as well. Hop to it.”

As if shaken out of a trance, the sprout did in fact hop to it. Along with his soul that almost jumped out of his body. With haste, he pulled himself up, pulling the bottom of the gown from under his thighs then upwards, over his head. God had seen him naked before, in all his un-glory, so surely, there was no shame to be found in undressing in front of him, right? 

The gown landed on the already existing pile of clothes on the floor, and to his complete and utter surprise, he saw that his body had changed significantly since he had last seen it. Three meals earlier, that is. It looked… wrong. Diseased, almost, to his naïve and uneducated eye. One could easily imagine the shock he experienced when God’s hand closed around him, grasping him as one would grasp the handle of a spear or a torch, made vocal with a short, choked up gasp.

“Hm.” God nodded in satisfaction, as if he had merely been appraising the value of a trinket. “Not bad, that’d make quite a snug fit, I’d say. You’d be capable of making more than a few people happy.”

Not once had the sprout considered that particular part of him capable of making people happy. To him, one could as well say that a teapot’s snout was capable of making others happy, when its only function was to pour tea. Poor comparison, he’d realize when drinking tea in the days to come. And it’d never quite leave his mind. A shiver shot him out of those contemplations, brought about by one of God’s gestures, his motion something and nothing between a caress and a rub - and much like a caress, it was strangely pleasant.

“So, how is it?”

“… Good? But… in a weird way…”

God chuckled. Years ago, he had provided the exact same answer to his first lover. Well, one of the same nature, at least. Knowing his younger self, it had likely been something more akin to ‘Mmm, this is nice’, or something equally childish. Much like the homunculus, he too, had once lacked his now colorful vocabulary.

“Nothing weird about that, I assure you. That’s just how it is by design,” God reassured him, the motions continuing, along with the sprout’s quiet and held-back gasps. “Now, I wonder if you’re even capable of producing offspring.”

God didn’t dwell on the question for too long, even if it would have been in his best interest to do so, considering past incidents, and even more so, considering his current circumstances. Why, the Priest’s most recent session of rummaging around his insides had been bothersome enough even if it had been with the intent of granting him true divinity ; stars knew he would never hear the end of it if, during one of those experiments, he’d open his abdomen to be greeted by a fetus. 

Centuries later, he still had no idea what had become of the last one, and the shark-looking bastard still reminded him of it, every now and then. So, in the event that he’d find some offspring belonging to one of his test subjects within him? He’d assign a self-repairing Segment to him just to keep reminding him of his weakness up until the end of time.

Anyways.

The sprout had no idea why his ability to produce children was relevant. Wouldn’t it be better if there weren’t more of him out there? Besides, why was it relevant in this particular moment, he wondered in his ignorance of his that was interlaced with bliss. 

Abashed, he half-watched as God grasped the most sensitive parts of him as if he were shaping something out of mud. Half, for he also looked upon his deity, trying and failing to decipher his expression. He could tell nothing beyond that it was one of satisfaction and excitement. Hunger too, he supposed.

Guessed. 

Guessed correctly, for God took the sprout’s free hand and put it elsewhere. Namely, his underwear, and what sat beneath.

The first thing the sprout noticed was that there wasn't much there, and that it was damp. Slimy, almost.

“I see that puzzled look on your face. You probably expected something more similar to what you have, didn’t you?” To that, the sprout nodded. The emptiness was strange, to say the least. “Don’t worry about it. Despite what it feels like, our anatomy is quite similar, in that aspect. So, if you move your hand-”

That was exactly what the sprout did. His hand sunk further into the damp nothingness beneath the equally damp, black fabric. In the process, it had brushed up against something. Something swollen. It reminded the sprout of a particularly bad bug bite, full to the brim with pus, painful.

To his relief, the gasp that left his deity wasn’t one of pain.

“… You learn quickly. Or you just know me that well,” God chuckled after recomposing himself, his smile deepening. “Maybe you were made for me, after all. With all that led to us meeting, I don’t think that one is out of the question.”

“… I’d want that,” the sprout confessed. “It would mean I have some purpose, and that purpose would be being yours. I’d really want that.”

“But you’re already mine in the only way that matters, aren’t you?” God asked, purely rhetorically, of course. “Now, keep going. Watch the fingers, though.”

Permission now received, his fingers trailed around the nothingness he had yet to find a name for. Particularly, the odd nub that had at first been reminiscent of a bug bite, as it appeared God preferred his fingers there above all else, with the occasional gasps and sighs trickling out of him like rain to indicate it, droplet after droplet. 

The comparison was oddly fitting, considering the dampness grew significantly with the help of his ministrations. More and more, it felt like he was sticking his hand into a jar of diluted slime. He wondered how that worked and why ; what for. Or so he tried. It was difficult, when his God was returning the favor, his grasp growing firmer, the caressing growing quicker, the strange warmth in the sprout’s chest growing heavier, trickling down to his gut, escaping. 

Which it did in other ways as well. 

Through his mouth and nose, namely, as his breathing grew increasingly strained with each of his attempts at keeping himself quiet. And much to his mortification, a gasp would at times turn into a whine. 

It also left him through his eyes, as he refused to look away from his god.

It was beyond him, how someone already so wonderful to behold, to witness, could get any more beautiful. He was long past dwelling on how that was possible, however ; that was just how gods were, nothing more and nothing less. He’d learned to accept that.

“A-Alright-” The sprout’s hand was suddenly swatted away and pulled out of his god’s undergarments. Upon further investigation, it was glistening with some kind of translucent substance. Similarly enough, God let go of him. “I’d say that’s quite enough.” 

To that, the homunculus raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide, full of question marks. Had he done something not quite right? 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d do that all night if I could, but we don’t have that kind of privilege. Not yet, at least.”

With both of his hands free, God reached for the edge of his underwear and rather unceremoniously pulled them down, if the rite the sprout had bore witness to mere minutes ago was to be considered an adequate comparison. One leg, two legs, and just like that, the garment was thrown into the pile. 

Then, and only then, the sprout could say that he had seen his god at his barest - in his entirety. But only for a grand total of five seconds, as once again, the deity perched himself atop the sprout’s thighs, his eyes hungry and his lips twisted in a ravenous grin, teeth glistening with saliva.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?” he said as he once again grasped the sprout - intently, this time around - and closed the distance between their chests, artificial flesh pressed to artificial flesh, beating heart to lack of heart. “Here goes, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It was rather unceremonious. In one second, God was holding him where he was most sensitive, and in the other, he slotted himself down onto the sprout with a long, relieved sigh. Before, just about any lingering touch of a hand or a hushed whisper felt like a ritual of its own, each word dropped between them sacred. This, however? It felt just about as holy as lapping blood from a freshly slain boar after days of going hungry. The wetness, the warmth, and the hot, heavy breaths trapped between them : all of it was purely primal in ways the sprout couldn’t even begin to describe, with his mind so occupied by the outermost layer of this particular interaction.

It felt good. Better than anything he had so far experienced in his short life, better than and beyond the simple pleasure of a full stomach after a night of uninterrupted sleep while fully clothed. The more he tried to understand it, the more his train of thought clouded with a dense, warm fog. What about God? He didn’t seem to be doing any better, as natural as the act of welcoming another into himself was to him, his eyes half closed and his lips ever-so-slightly parted as he settled further down, the action sending a shiver through the sprout’s whole body.

“You’re perfect for me, even in this aspect… Who would have thought?” God sighed. Though they were merely words, the sprout squirmed beneath their hold nonetheless, promptly biting down on the inside of his mouth lest he do - or say - something unsightly. “Surprise after surprise with you, that’s for sure. So-” with an intentful grin, he repeated the movement, eliticing yet another shiver from the homunculus. “- how are you feeling? Any thoughts?”

“… Really good?” the sprout answered tentatively, voice cracking in the process. “Really warm, too? And wet?” He ran out of descriptors, for he had only four in total. “I’m… not really sure what I’m supposed to be… uh… rating? You or the… uhh…”

He still lacked a name to call what they were doing, he realized. God, of course, realized that, and so, decided to enlighten him. “Love-making,” he chuckled, deeply amused by the sprout’s ignorance, of both the basic knowledge of words and of the true feelings behind his amusement. “We’ll be making love. How does that sound?”

It sounded wonderful, the sprout thought.

Love-making indeed was the best name for what was about to transpire. It was the true ceremony. To think that moments ago he’d been worried about the sudden closeness not being blissful enough - only numbing - when it was merely the act of lighting the candles in preparation for the real rite. Indeed, though he was a child born of sinning parents from a godless land, for that night alone, the land of eternal snow had none more devout to their faith than the sprout, who would have been praying loud and long enough for the stars and void to hear, had he been allowed onto his knees. 

But God had other plans : ones that involved inevitably pushing him down onto the bedding, just as he had been pushing himself back and forth against him. Love certainly had been made, so much of it that it was overflowing from them both, be it in the form of the quiet yet visceral sounds their bodies made against one another, their voices kept quiet as their words were intertwined with words, gasps, sighs and moans alike, or the occasional brush of a hand against another, the occasional meeting of eyes. 

There was so much love - more than the sprout had ever received or given in his short life - that it gathered in his eyes and poured down his cheeks, just as God poured down on him as relentlessly as rain. While the sprout felt like he was about to choke on it, whenever he looked up at his beloved deity, he saw that behind pink cheeks, behind parted and glistening lips, underneath the erratic back and forth, there was hunger. He ate, drank, consumed, and yet, it looked like he was the one being consumed by something else. Still hungry. Always hungry.

So hungry it was driving him into a fury. 

With gritted teeth and furrowed eyebrows, he settled his palms upon the sprout’s shoulders, the rest of him not settling for one moment.

“C-Come on, say it-” God growled between a flurry of gasps that belonged to the both of them, his nails digging into the sprout’s collarbones, his gaze burning alongside the rest of his face. “Say that you love me.”

There wasn’t anything he wanted more in the whole, wide world. It was as if he had finally opened a gift he didn’t even know he had. An opportunity to do something he had no idea he’d dreamed of doing. Once more rendered a formless mass free of thought, he could do only one thing, and that was to obey the urge, prompted by the order.

“I-I love you, I love you, I love you-!” he cried, like he had never cried before, cheeks hot and wet with tears. The words, though heavy, came flying out of him like feathers. Were they supposed to come that easily to him? Still, his two shaking hands reached upwards. “Please, I… I-”

His prayers were heard and so God crashed atop of him, their lips connecting once again. Almost afraid, he wrapped his arms tight around his deity’s back - any looser and it would all be gone. An absurd thought for an equally absurd life. It was most fitting. Little did he know, God had no intention of leaving. Like a vulture, he sank his claws and teeth into the sprout and refused to let go until there was nothing left to hold onto, until the formless mass eventually became one with him. To lay this final, ultimate claim on what had been his all along.

Love overflowed from them, and they drowned in it, sinking right back into their insides as their breaths grew shallower and faster, as their gasps shifted into groans, their bodies shivering and squirming against one another as slowly but surely, they were about to become one with love itself. To the sprout’s surprise, that was precisely what happened.

In one spectacular flash, he felt himself briefly become nothing : nothing but the brief spasming of his lower half, coupled with him singing his god’s name under his breath, his vision momentarily going dark. 

Something had left him - he could say that much, at least, with what little clarity of mind he’d managed to retain. What exactly? He didn’t know, but he knew God had noticed, and that he was delighted by this fact, should his sudden smirk mean anything. His act did not cease, however. He kept making love enough for the both of them, until his composure crumbled and became nothing more than debris pushed into the shape of an usually aloof and unaffected person.

Prayers now seemed to be trickling from him, and perhaps that was something for the sprout to remember later. If he could, that is, for how could anyone ever hope to remember anything while experiencing such bliss? Or perhaps… it was an expression of mutuality? He didn’t have it in him to guess.

Eventually, God reached that peak as well. He fell on top of the sprout then, fully, almost smothering him with his hair in the process. And for a fleeting moment he, too, wept without tears as he shook all over. He spasmed in places the sprout didn’t know could spasm, places where he happened to be still. The blonde couldn’t help but hold his god closer as his insides tightened around him a few times, and then… that was it.

The rite was over, leaving them both panting and shivering, their limbs tangled together, the covers beneath them messy and disheveled, the pile of clothes on the ground having long since gone cold. For a while - a blissful while that seemed to last an eternity and a half - they lay silent, interrupted only by their breathing. 

The moment was cut short by God rolling off the sprout and falling onto the other side of the bed, smiling.

“H-Hah, hah… You did great…” he praised him, still out of breath. Somehow. “Can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”

The praise went easily to the sprout’s already disorganized head. All inhibitions had left him in the act, leaving nothing to stop him from doing what he did next. He rolled onto his side so as to wrap his arms around God, and buried his face in his side.

“I’m… so happy… I didn’t know I could be this happy…“ he mumbled under his nose, eyes closed. “I love you, I love you so much…”

God’s smile widened at that. “I know. As my lover, you ought to.”

 

His lover. While not a name, it was still more than nothing.

Notes:

Hi, rhineposting here. I hope you had a great time reading this chapter.

However, I may or may not be legally forced to clarify that I do not condone the actions as depicted in the second half of the fic. The main character due to his unfortunate circumstances is not in position to give proper, educated consent. In case it wasn't clear enough, Scaramouche intentionally uses that to take advantage of the sprout.

The relationship as depicted was never to be interpreted as an equal, affectionate romantic relationship.

Chapter 13: Faith

Summary:

Upon being given love, the Prince found within himself hope and faith in a better future, far from his prison.

Notes:

Sorry about the long break, school - but worry not! The next few chapters have been written well in advance, so the break shouldn't be as great between this and the next chapter!

For now, enjoy this one!

Bearing a new title, the sprout happily trudged into the next chapter of his life. In so doing, he was frankly no better than a blind man frolicking across a fragrant flower field that ended upon a cliff, but to judge him for it would have been akin to judging a child for their naiveté in gleefully throwing around a curse taught to them by an elder.

A lover, he was a lover , he thought to himself in the late hours of night when he struggled to fall asleep. And a lover to someone so wonderful at that.

With God’s love still clinging to his lips, for a few days the cold tray of overcooked sausages and mushy beets tasted sweeter than honey. Giddy, he crossed off line after line. One, three, five, each one bringing him closer and closer to another one of his god’s visits. Why, for a moment it was as if the Priest had ceased to exist, the scars on the sprout’s body being his only proof of the contrary. Fleetingly, he had returned to a paradise that he had never truly known.

Lo and behold, not long after his fifth meal, the door opened quietly and closed immediately, on the other side of the room stood God. He was not in his usual get-up, and instead, he wore that very same white coat he’d worn on the night of their meeting, invisible trails of the sprout’s filthy handprints still clinging to it.

Of course, upon seeing his deity, he felt joy, but it was now interwoven with confusion and bitterness.

The latter for reasons that were quite simple : he had not seen that cape since he’d been shared between the four beast-guards. Even though it was not his to wear, the mere sight of it made him recall the ever-present and overwhelmingly sour feeling of filth clinging to him all over, of cheeks wet and sticky with tears and the other thing that he would prefer not to name or recall. 

And the former, confusion, for he remembered the cape to have looked rather different the last time he had seen it. Now, instead of a thick collar made of black fur, it bore a comically large hood with the same black fur at the edges. Did it always appear that way? Did he imagine the hat? Each solution he came up with sounded more and more implausible, and by far the most implausible one was that somehow, God had rewritten the past to match his current aesthetics better. The idea was so ridiculous that the sprout, even as unwise as he was, cringed at the mere thought.

“Guess who just got off a meeting!” God huffed as he cast the coat aside, revealing the form the sprout was more familiar with before collapsing onto the bed, where the sprout scooted closer to him. “Three guesses what it was about!”

“I ‘unno,” the sprout shrugged. “You never told me much about those meetings.”

He only ever heard the aftermath : the Tinkerer throwing chairs, the Shepherd hissing insults left and right before being obscene with the Maiden, Pants throwing sobbing fits, the Mayor beating someone with his cane - the list went on and only got more unreasonable. Save for the Knight - somehow, he always evaded the worst of it, usually by brewing tea for God and himself, after which they sat and watched while one of the Segments had plates broken over his kicked-in body. That part was the one the sprout liked most, knowing all too well any attempts at fighting back against the Priest himself would only result in a fate worse than death.

God rolled his eyes. “Alright, then. The Knave and ginger demand a cut from my salary. Ginger, to refund the trips he went on while looking for me before I decided to work with the Jester and Dottore again. The Knave, because she thinks it’s unfair that I get to use the Gnosis for something so useless - according to her - after obtaining it at the cost I did.” With an exasperated sigh, God shrugged. “It’s not my fault Rosalyne tried to flaunt her power before the throne of Tenshukaku only for some blonde alien to kick her teeth in.”

Up until that moment, the sprout had been happy to just listen. Any story from the outside - God’s world, especially - was a good one. There were only so many stories that he could come up with himself, and should he run out, his sleep would become even more restless than it already was.

Then he heard that description.

“… Hey, um…” the sprout murmured. “Is that person a woman? With a flying baby following her around everywhere.”

The response he got from God was harrowing in its simplicity ; a short snort, followed by a fit of laughter.

“Ha ha hah—! Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me, you too?” he asked through almost tears as he struggled to catch his breath. In a similar mannger, the sprout’s frown was enough of an answer. “Okay, now you’ve gotta tell me - how come even you’ve heard of her? Did she screw you over? Did she sell you to us to feed the annoying insect-thing she keeps around?”

“… Close. If it weren't for her, I wouldn’t be here,” the sprout said, defeated. “I’d probably be back in Mondstadt. With friends, family, a warm bed and whatever food I felt like eating, going wherever I wanted.”

“Then why are you here? How did that even happen?”

“… I never mentioned it, but… There’s another me in Mondstadt. We’re practically the same but he got everything he ever wanted. So I was going to kill him and take his place.”

“Pah! That sounds like a master plan alright. Didn’t think you had it in you. Then again, you probably don’t, since clearly you screwed up somewhere.”

“I didn’t,” the sprout defended himself. “I just bumped into the woman on the mountain. She took one look at me and she knew. It was doomed to fail from there, I think.”

Being the pitiful thing that he was, God pat him on the back, his hand shortly after moving to the top of his head with a sigh. “Yeah, that sounds about right in-character for her. Then again, I guess if it hadn't been for her, you’d never have met me either.”

The sprout nodded with a happy hum. Where was the lie? The more he let the words simmer, the more he wondered if there even was such a thing as a happy life for him far from his god’s side. Memories of the City of Windmills had long since become but a blurry dream, and he no longer knew why it had ever been so important to him to secure a place within its walls. He had everything he needed right here, did he not?

“… How did that meeting end?” the sprout asked after a short pause, dissolving into nothingness under his deity’s palm. “Did they cut your… salary?”

Dismissively, God waved the notion away with his free hand. “I got back-up from the Jester and Dottore. In the face of their verdicts, the other Harbingers’ words have no meaning. Quote, unquote : all debts shall be repaid in due time. Makes sense, since I won’t need to be paid for anything anymore.”

Right. Gods need not be paid with anything but devotion, after all. The sprout thought nothing of it - or of anything at all, as his head fell upon his God’s collarbone, eyes closing but mouth still moving on its own, no longer backed up with logical thought.

“… When you go, pl’se take m’ with you…”

Whether he was graced with an answer or not, that would remain an enigma to him even after waking. Until then however, his dreams were filled with a sweet fragrance of tea and yasmine.

 

---

 

Yet again, he sat before a plate of food - quite simple, this time. Steamed buns with a seasoned mushroom sauce. For a while now, God had had issues with taking meals from his coworkers and delivering them to his cell, and beyond his god’s precious explanation, he had a growing suspicion of why this was the case : that he was being watched. Of course, the sprout chose not to entertain that particular thought. Or not yet, at least. His time in this world was already short, and therefore concealing impending doom from himself for a little longer was of little consequence. There was not much he could do to prevent it, regardless.

“… You said you like tea,” the sprout mumbled in-between dipping the buns in sauce and chewing on them. “Are there any foods from your home that you miss?”

God rolled his eyes, his signature scoff following soon after. By then, the sprout could recall the sound of it accurately enough that he’d sometimes convince himself of God’s presence in the room, even when it couldn’t be the furthest thing from the truth. In a way he’s always with me, somehow . Or so he’d tell himself. Maybe those sighs at the back of his head were one such sign of his omnipresence.

“You know all too well that if I feel like eating, I can afford to have someone cook any meal I request from them, and that includes cuisine from the next world over,” the deity answered, seemingly unbothered. But of course, the well versed in non-verbal cues sprout knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. “Though, at times, I do miss the flavor of grilled eel from Inazuma. Replicating the recipe with local eel has proven futile, so I haven’t eaten that in a while.”

Suspicious, he then narrowed his eyes at the sprout, who momentarily ceased chewing under the weight of his gaze. Was this another transgression? Was he thinking of ways to put him back in line? When and where had he stepped over a boundary, the sprout wondered as his hands shook. As he tried to decipher his deity’s expression.

“And where did that question come from?” To the sprout’s relief, no unbidden strikes came, nor was the door suddenly slammed shut. “Curiosity again?”

“… No, I just… miss one meal in particular,” the sprout sighed as he shook his head and went back to chewing. “Fowl braised with peaches, apples and Whopperflower. I ate it once on my way here, and I want to cry whenever I think about it. It was the second best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Then how about this : I’ll treat you to some when I’m next free.”

“… Promise?”

“Promise.”

 

---

 

The next time he was led to the Priest’s workshop, God was already there.

The sprout barely managed to conceal his horror when their eyes met across the room, and worst of all, the same could be said of God, who was sat on a table and bare from the waist up, surrounded by tools that were unfamiliar to the sprout. Before him, of course, stood none other than the Priest, his teeth bared in that horrific smile that haunted the sprout’s nightmares.

“Well, you’re just in time!” he cackled, joining his hands in a singular clap, the rubber of his gloves letting out an awful squeak. “Unfortunately, our schedule is exceptionally tight in the upcoming days, you see? As such, I had to kill two birds with one stone. Good thing multitasking is no challenge for me, isn’t it? And now that I think about it… It must have been quite some time since you two last saw one another, no?” As he said this, he turned his head to God, surely raising one eyebrow. “You look quite surprised, doll. Didn’t I mention earlier that I might have to merge a few of my schedules?”

 

He knew.

 

They all knew.

 

God sighed and closed his eyes. “Not like it would make any difference. If you felt like it, you could invite the rest of the Harbingers to come watch and I wouldn’t really have a say in it anyways. Good thing they all hate your guts, I suppose.” As he spoke, the sprout marveled yet again at his ability to stay in control of his expressions. He, meanwhile, could barely manage to appear as frightened as he usually was. “Mind at least withholding the saws while I’m stuck here? The screaming does get quite obnoxious eventually, you know?”

Silent, the sprout watched as the scene before him unfolded. As the Priest turned to face the ever-immovable deity and approached him, his gloved hands reaching for God’s perpetually pink cheeks and cradling them as gently as one would a work of art. For a moment, a single torturous moment, the Priest’s expression softened as he spoke to his god, voice low :

“Doll, darling dearest, do you honestly think I’d perform my dirty work right in front of you?” His tone was a confusing mix of earnestness and mockery. “And risk your pretty eyes getting exposed to unspoken horrors that come included with my work, hmm?”

To that, God tried swatting his hands away. He failed, and they remained firm on his face.

“I do, because you kept doing that for the last few centuries, dickhead. I doubt you’ll stop anytime soon.”

“You’re no fun, doll. No fun at all, can’t have any banter with you anymore.” The Priest smacked his lips. “When did you become such a bore?”

“Right about when you stopped pretending to give two shits about me, that’s when.”

It was then the Priest’s turn to scoff as he let go of the deity and moved onto other things, mainly the dreaded clipboard that lay discarded for the entirety of this little scene the sprout had been an unwilling audience to. There was a brief flash of red from beneath the mask as the Priest started flipping through the papers attached to it, before finally, he landed on the last page. A cackle left him, and in that instant both God and his sprout knew what it heralded. 

“Well, would you look at that, we’re left with just one more examination!” he uttered through gritted teeth, placing the cursed clipboard down next to God, who then peeked at the papers. Still, he maintained his composure, somehow. Though, had it been possible for his face to turn pale, it surely would have. “Looks like Lambda decided to save the best for last. Well, best for him anyways, because of course he wouldn’t show up for his own work.”

Just as those words were said, the door opened and from beyond emerged…yet another Priest. He was nigh-identical to the one already within the room and just as happy with the scene that was transpiring within the workshop. His sightless eyes immediately focused on the sprout, around whose arm a hand soon closed to lead him away from the door and to the other side of the workshop. Frightened, the sprout turned his wide eyes to God, finding him looking back with naught but mild annoyance in his own. Surely, it must be directed at the Priest, he convinced himself as he was held down and restrained once again. Still, what good would this do him, even if true?

He was there, yet couldn’t - or wouldn’t, rather - save him.

As for what transpired next… 

It was perhaps for the best that it remained omitted and undescribed upon the pages of this story. And that the truth of which would forever remain between none other than the tormented sprout, his prideful God, and his cruel Priest. 

Throughout it all, however - throughout this unmentioned event - the sprout could see his beloved God’s face, and still, right until he was being dragged back to his cell, weeping, not once did he see pity or despair cross that eternally beautiful face.

---

 

God did not return to his cell afterwards. 

The sprout waited, waited, waited, waited and waited. Each passing minute worse than the last, the pain within only growing. Once again, that rotten feeling was eating him whole, bite by bite, and now, with no one there to comfort him. None but himself, of course. Even should he find himself in the middle of a city full of people, he’d still have only himself, alone. He found it almost ironic how close he’d been to forgetting that simple truth - the essence of his very existence. So, how would he help himself with passing time while waiting? His gaze landed on the mostly empty walls of his cell, and that was an answer in itself. Desperate, he rolled up his sleeves and approached the wall closest to his bed, getting to work immediately. The sooner the better, and the more time passed.

He scratched at the paint on the wall until his nails hurt, more and more crude drawings appearing on its surface. Oft he replicated the patterns on his skin, spirals and swirls creating paths all over. Indeed, they were beautiful, even more so when placed on a flat surface. In between, there were faces taken from others : his mother’s face being the blurriest, the most inconsistent, and God’s the clearest. More often than not, he found himself scratching onto the wall the image of God’s eyes, meticulously chiseling each detail from memory. Still, he was no artist, and so the replication was crude at best and horrific to behold at worst. When he eventually couldn’t bear to look at the eyes he’d invited into his coffin, he moved onto scratching other things. Namely, scenery he’d seen in another lifetime, even if it hadn't been all that long ago.

The hollowed skull of a brute dragon, its remains broken off and scattered in the snow, teeth the size of a grown man. A tree, reaching for the sky and missing, its bark white but its branches bright red, enormous butterflies of crystallized blood forming from them. A mountain as seen from afar, a pillar from the heavens looming ominously above its peak. And then, a city on the lake, a statue watching over it with outstretched hands - its winged back turned to the heavens. He got to see its visage up close, once. It was that of an old friend - though he’d never had any friends of his own, let alone old ones.

Eventually he stopped, as he simply couldn’t scratch anything more. Had he tried to, he’d soon have run out of space entirely, and it wasn't what he wanted - not just yet. What else, then? The carvings weren’t enough.

Staring at himself in the mirror wasn’t enough either. Even when he adjusted his image to appear as if he belonged to himself, he grew weary and frustrated. The bags under his eyes almost looked comical and drawn on, with how deep and dark they were. His hair appeared as if someone had slashed at it with a dull knife, some time ago, broken ends sticking out of the tangled mess like dead blades of grass. One would have to be a fool to consider that image beautiful, surely. It infuriated him. So much so he didn’t realize when he’d begun lashing out against the mirror - and breaking it in the process, of course. Shards of glass scattered like petals around him, dug into the soles of his feet, and left his knuckles bloody and aching. Even when he had diligently picked out each bit of glass, his footsteps still left a bloody trail, and it hurt to walk for too long.

More days passed, and once more he started filling in the crude carvings with red. It hurt and left even more stains on his gown, bed and floor, but none of it mattered anymore, did it? The dragon gained red eyes, so did the tree, and so did his mother’s lips and the lake around the city. They looked almost real, almost just how he remembered them, as he could barely recall the color of the sky or water anymore. There was only red, gray and white, with the blue of his God’s eyes and the Priest’s hair.

And yet, though he hurt and bled, even his attempts at making the carvings more real weren’t enough to soothe him.

None of it would ever be enough to occupy that space that his beloved God had carved inside him. Like an open wound, it ached and it burned and it stung, and there was nothing he could do to feel better. Besides dying, maybe. The bloody pile of glass was still sitting in the corner, waiting.

Why was he not coming back?

Did the Priest stop him?

Did anything happen to him?

Where was he now?

Was anything going to happen to him?

Was he even still nearby?

Would he come back, or had he finally gotten bored with him?

Madness - anger, grief, despair, fear and every other curse under the sun - was about to swallow him whole, never to spit him out again. He rocked and swayed in his bed. He walked in circles. He stood in the lukewarm water of the poor shower. He tried burying himself under his covers and pillows. He began throwing the food he was given at the wall of his makeshift bathroom, not knowing why. Then, there were clumps of hair between his fingers. There were red streaks running up and down his face, leaving a numb ache behind. They moved onto his shoulders and knees. His whole body itched and itched and itched, and the only thing he could do about it was try and scream himself deaf or mute. But just when he was a mere few seconds from doing that, fists balled up in his hair, teeth grit and tears pouring down his cheeks, the door opened, and in it stood another figure, one that the sprout did not recognize.

“The Jester would like to see you,” it said.

 

And at last, the clock somewhere far away stopped ticking.

Notes:

Chapter 14: The Jester

Summary:

At last, the master of the Palace and servant to the Goddess of Love had summoned the Prince to himself. Coveting his loyalty, the Jester imparted upon him the knowledge of their shared origin in the Kingdom far away, in hopes of swaying the Prince's love to his and his Lady's side, presenting him with all that he ever wanted : freedom, great renown, power and above all, a name.

And the Prince, as faithful as he is unwise, declined the offer oh so genereous, and for what?

Notes:

Hello, lovelies.

In the event you haven't paid much attention to the word count for which I wouldn't blame you, this chapter is approximately 10k words long. Not without reason, as just about everything had been leading up to this very point, right before the middle point of the Snezhnaya arc. With that said, make yourself comfortable and set some time aside, because this ride will be a long and not all that pleasant one (for the sprout, at least.)

For the first time in months, the sprout got to see the palace that stood beyond the short hallway between his cell and the workshop. Not only that, but for once, the guards took him in the direction opposite that of the workshop. Only half aware of the impulse to do so, however, he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting the Priest to come out of some dark corner with his teeth bared and his hands outstretched as he came charging at him to inevitably drag him back to his tiled den. To his faint and brittle relief, no such thing happened, and with each corner turned, the workshop grew more and more distant, so that eventually, even that worry was set aside in favour of focusing on his surroundings - the further away he was from the dungeons surrounding the Priest’s workshop, the livelier the palace became.

Besides the guards escorting him, he saw, in passing, many more crowds - other guards and soldiers, some busy and some standing idly by. Though no opportunity presented itself for him to stop and properly take in their appearances, he noticed certain units stood out from the rest. 

For one, there were the men and women clad in elegant suits and masks fashioned in the likeness of animals, their pristine white gloves sticking out like sore thumbs in the sea of dark furs and leather. As he passed them by, he felt their gazes lingering the longest and heaviest upon him - almost as though they were trying to commit him to memory, just in case.

In contrast, he saw, kneeling on the floor with their bodies pressed to the walls, women of various ages clad in flowy fabrics, clutching their heads as they rocked back and forth, mumbling and humming in a language the sprout did not recognize. Occasionally, one of them would cease, only to shoot up straight and rush off somewhere. Though only a few of them passed by close enough for the sprout to see their faces, he saw that each one was blindfolded with bandages meticulously layered over one another. While to him the scenes looked straight out of a nightmare, the soldiers seemed, for the most part, unphased. 

A regular occurrence, then.

There were many more, and he took them all in - who knew, after all, when another opportunity for him to venture this far out into the palace would present itself? He certainly didn’t know and didn’t have the privilege of guessing. Entranced by the novel sights, the trek across the palace seemed to pass him by in a flash, until he was led up a stairwell framed by windows with panes of stained glass, through which the sprout attempted in vain to peek through. He managed only to note that it was day from the grey light filtering in.

As he’d expected, the stairs led to another hall - vastly different from the rest of the palace, that one. The floor was covered in a dark purple carpet that felt warm under the sprout’s feet, and in that moment he could understand why exactly the Priest feared contaminating them with his blood. While the hallway was very dimly lit, and only by the occasional candle, the weaved patterns were unlike anything he had ever seen. It really was a nice carpet, he thought to himself.

Beyond the carpet, along the walls, various artifacts were on display - dried flowers, a spear that appeared as if it would fall apart at any moment, as well as a thick tome held tightly shut by a padlock, to name a few. Some, he could vaguely identify, others he could not.

There were portraits too, each lit better than the last. As he followed the guards down the hall, he recognized some of the faces. The Priest, of course - one of the first among them. His nightmare-haunting grin was meticulously painted, detailed by the faintest of brush strokes, and his red eyes seemed to be staring into the sprout’s very soul. That one he didn’t look at for very long. After that, there were more portraits of people he didn’t quite recognize, but he knew for sure they were of his God’s coworkers. When passing each one, he assigned to them a title, going off the vague descriptions God had shared with him a few times.

The Knight was fairly easy to guess : out of all the subjects pictured within the portraits, he appeared the most noble - an upstanding man bound by a strict honor code, who needed not assert his dominance, as his presence alone commanded respect. That, and by his side in the portrait was a pony clad in tailored armour. God had made sure to tell him in detail the story of how the Knight was once fooled into purchasing a pony, as opposed to a steed bred for battle, only to then refuse giving the animal away, as he’d grown fond of it.

It took him a moment to identify the Maiden, as her portrait was the blurriest, made with only the broadest, swiftest of brushstrokes - as if the painter was in a rush to finish the painting. Instead of sitting on the chair she had been provided, she stood in front of it, holding no pose whatsoever. She only frowned at the viewer. Much like the Priest’s portrait, the sprout couldn’t bear looking at it for too long.

Similarly, it took him a moment as well to identify the Shepherd. From his god’s descriptions, what he expected to see was a brute of a woman clad in both sheep and wolf hides, but when none of the other portraits matched the image he’d made of her in his head, his eyes settled on the painting depicting a young girl with a boyish face, clad in a coat two sizes too large for her. Despite that, she did not appear to be out of place.

Rosalyne was rather easy to identify, given that her portrait was covered in a black veil and the candles next to it were put out. Still, from what little he managed to see, she was beautiful, her cold blue eyes filled with sadness.

The Mayor, Tinkerer and Banker were the easiest to guess of them all. Only one portrait depicted a short, elderly man with a cane whose face seemed to drown beneath his large, feathered hat, his small stature oddly comforting. Of course, God spoke about the man enough for the sprout to know that this particular impression couldn’t be further from the truth, and that he could be just as vicious as real roosters. Not that the sprout would know. He’d never actually seen a rooster for himself.

The same went for the Tinkerer. As opposed to sitting in a chair like the majority of her peers, she sat in the palm of a customized machine - while also, visibly, being a machine herself. From what God had told him, she had been crafted by human hands, so the disparity between the two of them was glaringly obvious. She didn't even look alive. Unlike his god, she resembled a preserved corpse taken apart and turned artificial.

The Banker, for a lack of kinder words, looked the least intimidating of them all. With his big glasses and the airy smile on his face, he almost looked as though he’d wandered into the artist’s workshop by accident and was kept afterwards, simply because he’d looked good enough for the role.

Then, of course, there were the other two figures he actually knew.

He recognized one as the Huntsman, for none other had hair redder than his - or eyes as dark. Even had he never seen him in person, he’d know, for his portrait was the most peculiar : not only did it appear the newest, it was… unfitting, out of place. It depicted a young man, practically a boy still, dressed from head to toe in regal clothes that were clearly not meant to be worn when not posing for a portrait. He had one hand resting atop the hilt of a sword, and the other proudly holding up a line at the end of which hung the largest fish the sprout had ever had the honor of seeing. The fish didn’t look as detailed nor as finished, as the painter had likely been thrown out the front door along with the fish before it could be completed.

As terrified as he was of what was to come, the sprout couldn’t help but smile a little at the liveliness of the painting, contrasting so greatly against the others’ blandness.

That, sadly, included God’s portrait too.

He wore a large coat, had his hat in his lap as he sat upon a throne, and his face bore a pleasant, peaceful smile that did nothing to hide the deep contempt in his eyes. Still, he was just as beautiful as the moment they’d first met - as beautiful as he'd been when he had last seen him within the Priest’s workshop. 

As he looked upon the portrait, questions he’d asked himself far too many times already resurfaced, and so, with a heavy and aching heart, he continued down the hall until he’d reached one, final door. Before the guards could even knock, it opened by itself with a quiet creak, and he was promptly ushered inside. Like doors always tended to do when he was involved, it closed behind him, and by then, he knew better than to try the knob.

 

“Come closer.”

 

From the other side of the room, a raspy voice rang out, the sound making the sprout jump. Upon looking in its direction, he saw a table - dimly lit by the pale sunlight coming in from the closed, tinted window. On it sat a chessboard with two odd pieces, one coloured teal and the other yellow. The sprout, of course, couldn’t care less about them - not when faced with a pair of cold, silver eyes staring at him from the other side of the table.

“Take a seat.”

That, the sprout did, sitting on one of the two free chairs before him. Once again, he realized how dirty he appeared in comparison to all else around him, which in this case was pristine, in perfect condition, and with not a speck of dust to be seen. That partially applied to the man who sat before him. His appearance brought to mind that of an old man pretending to be a young man who, in turn, pretended to be an old man again. While his hair was bright silver - save for one black streak starting right above his forehead - the man did not look nearly old enough to go gray. It was as if his face had not yet received a manual on proper aging. 

And similar was his form.

Though he’d previously been described as some wise old sage, his stature rather reminded the sprout of a warrior - a battle axe and armour being his daily burden, as opposed to old tomes and a cane. 

And for someone who bore the title of Jester, he certainly didn’t seem to have ever heard of the concept of jesting.

“I’ve been awaiting this meeting for quite a while,” he uttered, each word drawn out and bordering on a whisper and a growl at the same time. Still, his voice had a morbidly warm note to it. “Would you like anything to drink? We have plenty of time and you must be parched."

As he had left his cell before his first meal of the day, his throat was indeed dry. Sure, he could get water from his little sink in the corner, but he tried not to drink it unless necessary. Too much, and he’d feel sick for hours. Who knew when the pipes had last been cleaned, if at all? In the end, who cared if a disposable thing such as him fell ill from something as trivial as old pipes in an area meant for prisoners? No one. So, at that very moment, the sprout was in no place to refuse the offer. He nodded to the man, who briefly looked most pleased. Everyone was pleased when he kept quiet, after all. He didn’t expect him to be any different in that regard.

“Wonderful. I have water and tea, and if my memory serves right, I should have some raspberry syrup lying around. A late comrade of mine liked drinking it, diluted with some water, and the habit rubbed off on me,” the man said as he got up from his chair and proceeded to make his way to a poorly lit part of the room, where the sprout could faintly see an outline of a cupboard. Despite the lack of light, accompanied by the man casting an even deeper shadow over the cupboard, he navigated it just fine. The boy couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’d opened that cupboard, how many times he’d prepared drinks in the dark - and he buried himself in those aimless wonderings so deeply that he barely registered when the man began addressing him again. “So, which one would you prefer?”

“…Tea, please,” the sprout answered without much hesitation. God would bring him various kinds of tea to his cell, usually from his own homeland - the green kind, with a bitter aftertaste. There were others, but the bitter green tea was by far his god’s favorite. Though the sprout held no love for bitter things after eating only frozen, near-wilted mint for the first week or two of his second life, he did hold love for the small, pleased smile on his god’s face as he relished in the bitterness. It was more love than he held even for himself, and so he’d drink along, the sight of his deity’s satisfied expression sweet enough to compensate for the bitterness.

“Sweetened or not? If yes, then with sugar or syrup? I also have honey,” the man said, not even looking over his shoulder to face the sprout, focused entirely on the task at hand. “This one was made from the nectar of long-extinct flowers. It's one of the few jars left in the world.”

It’d be a waste to sweeten his - of all people - tea with something so precious. Heaven knew he wouldn’t even be able to appreciate the taste. He never even had regular honey. So, he voiced that thought, quietly : “… I think the honey would be better off given to someone else…” 

To his surprise however, there was no nod of confirmation, that indeed gifting him such a thing would've been a waste. Instead, the man finally looked over his shoulder and from afar the sprout could see one eyebrow being raised. Not that his other eyebrow was visible under that pointed half-mask - for all he knew, both of them could’ve been raised.

“On the contrary, I think this is the perfect occasion. Not only do I scarcely have the time for such moments of leisure, but your presence in itself is worth celebrating, either way you look at it,” the Jester spoke, his tone serious - so much so that the sprout’s jaw almost fell open. Him? Being celebrated? Was he hearing correctly? “You must think you managing to live this long is a miracle, merely a matter of various circumstances aligning at the right place just in time to keep you from perishing a little longer. I don’t blame you.”

The man’s hand suddenly lit up with a faint blue glow, bright enough to illuminate the cupboard and the small table next to it. Upon its surface stood an intricate tea set consisting of eight-pointed plates, painted to match with a beautiful, floral teapot and teacups, all of which sat steadily upon an equally decorated tray - though the patterns on it matched not the tea set. To the side, where the man’s hand had just been, there was the smallest stove on which stood a metal kettle, heated by a pale flame. To not waste time, the man returned to the teapot, pouring into it a generous amount of dried up leaves from a metal container. Oddly enough, it had the same floral pattern, though they were visibly made by a different hand. It made sense, the sprout supposed. Even God had a flower he favoured the most, as much as he claimed to care little for trivial, mortal matters.

“I, however,” the man hummed as he reached into the cupboard once more, pulling out a jar of an amber-coloured substance that he pretended not to struggle with a little as he opened it. In turn, the sprout pretended not to see it. “- believe that this meeting was ordained by fate.”

To that, the sprout furrowed his eyebrows ever so slightly, recalling what he had been told time after time, “I was told you gave the order to keep me alive until you could see me in person.”

Despite his words likely being worthy of a punishment of some kind, the Jester did not dash in his direction to strike him in the face at best or kick him into the ground at worst. Instead, he kept preparing the tea in silence for a moment before resuming his words with a quiet laugh. “Though I laugh in the face of fate, I am unfortunately a slave to it just like anyone else. Had you been in my place, I’m sure you would have made the same decisions.”

To keep someone in a cell for months, he meant? If so, then he didn’t exactly want to understand what it was like, to remorselessly push onto someone so free the fate of a caged animal. Even when furious with the second version of himself, he’d never even considered being so cruel to him - he’d merely wanted to remove him from the scene, as one would remove a prop, and take his place. Quick and painless. From beyond the fog of his thoughts, he suddenly heard the kettle beginning to whistle, the flame beneath it going out before the whistling could turn into shrieking. It was dark around the cupboard once again.

“As a matter of fact, very long ago when I was still a young fool, I nearly drove myself to madness by trying to prove your existence.”

Like the edge of a knife, those words swiftly cut through the sprout’s train of thought. Before the young man could fully realize the implications behind them, their weight came crashing down on his head. His eyes and mouth opened wide, question marks written all over his face, yet not a single word could leave him. Undisturbed, unbothered, the Jester continued making tea, the only sound in the room being that of hot water being poured into the teapot.

“As it happens, me and your mother - or creator, rather - go a long, long way back. Why, I’d like to say we served under the same King at the same time, but… she was too arrogant to ever serve anyone but herself and her endless ambitions. Even back then, I knew deep in my bones that she had been using her position as Court Alchemist as a front for her own goals, hiding behind those miracles of hers.”

There was the scratching of metal against porcelain as the tea was stirred around, and a soft clunk when the lid was set back in place. Finally, the Jester picked up the tray and returned to the table, but before he could even sit down, the table with the chess board abruptly slid to the side as if pulled by an invisible rope, though none of the chess pieces swayed in the process. In its place suddenly appeared a small table, with room for both of their cups. Amazed and horrified, the sprout could not believe his eyes as the chess board faded into the shadows, with only the yellow and teal pieces still glowing like a pair of mismatched eyes. The same could not be said about the Jester, who continued setting the tea down like nothing had happened. Why would he be shocked, after all? It had to be his doing. In no time, the sprout stopped caring as well, once more focusing on the Jester’s words.

The last time he had heard anything about his Mother was in the Priest’s indirect praise of her work, and before that there was the memory of her, coming from his brother-father. None of this would have happened had his Mother been anyone else in the whole wide world, and to know next to nothing of her in spite of that felt… absurd. Unfair. So, he listened as intently as one could, because when would he next get to speak to someone who’d known her personally and lived to tell the tale? He had no idea.

“Of course… none in the court listened. I was regarded as a jealous madman at best,” he sighed, and though his words retained their softness, the sprout could feel steam rising within the man at the mere mention of Her. “Naturally. The Court thrived with her around, and there was nothing that could be used as evidence of her treason. Though, looking back on it now, even if they’d found evidence of her sin, there wasn’t much they could do, with how essential she made herself to the Court.”

How odd, the sprout thought - this was the third time he was hearing of his Mother from another, but the first time she was spoken of with disdain. It was the closest to reality anyone had ever made her sound. His brother thought her some almighty and infallible creator, whilst the Priest saw an idol to follow - neither of those visions aligned with who he knew, if one could say he’d ever known her at all.

Alas, that was not the end of it.

“It certainly did not help that, though likely unwillingly, and along with four other individuals, your father was in on her ruse. Everyone - including me, unfortunately - had placed their faith in them to raise the alarm in the event that someone wound up provoking the wrath of the heavens, but alas…”

That was a first : hearing of his nameless, mostly faceless father from someone other than the disembodied consciousness of his brother. He was usually left out of any stories justifying the sprout’s confinement and torment, his role deemed irrelevant by the rest of the world. Good to know his father’s sin later than never, he supposed. Or anything about him, really.

“... Amusingly enough, I always wondered why he would remain complicit in such a grave matter. He was an otherwise upstanding man, loyal to our nation and King ; a sword first, a man second.” The Jester joined his hands over the table, his piercing gaze practically drilling through the sprout as he observed his features carefully. “When the Doctor first gave me pictures of you, I finally understood why. You have his eyes, do you know that?”

He did, on a level deeper than the memories passed onto him, but he chose to shrug in reply. What was he to say to that? To finding out that his father was as much a traitor to his homeland as his Mother? Not only that, it even sounded as though the Jester was, in some way, fond of his father. Was this his cue to ask about him further, the sprout wondered until he remembered something :

The story of how he had first been discarded, as told by his brother. How his mother had presented him with a swaddled child while the man had turned around on his heel and dashed out of the workshop, not once looking back. 

Just like that, in an instant, what little curiosity he’d had regarding his father dispersed into almost nothing. He’d abandoned him as well, and was then forgotten by the world - that was all there was to the matter. There was no point in asking, was there?

Some time passed without anything being either spoken or done, during which the sprout peered into the still empty cup he’d been given. At the bottom, he could see a thick, gold-brown coloured liquid. He took that time to subtly smell the steam rising from the teapot. Its scent was faint yet pleasant, though nothing like the tea his beloved god had given him, smelling moreso of flowers. As if the man had read his mind, he proceeded to reach for the teapot with both hands, promptly pouring the tea into their cups. It had a dark, brownish colour but was otherwise clear. The sprout could see his own reflection on its surface, and heavens, he looked awful - worse than ever before. Ashamed, he looked away.

“Here, stir it,” the Jester said, passing him a spoon. Once again, the utensil was adorned with various flowers. It was probably worth more than the entirety of his life, the sprout thought as he accepted it and stirred the tea. “Now, how have you been settling in?”

Almost offended, the sprout looked up from his cup. Never mind , he thought, he does know how to jest . Moreso, he knew how to mock, and in a way that one couldn’t help but smile bitterly on the inside at upon realizing the irony there. Funnily enough, the one time he was asked something instead of being subjected to a monologue, he did not want to answer. Still, the Jester’s expectant gaze was heavy on him, heavier than his determination to stay quiet.

“I haven’t seen outside in forever and I’ve been wearing the same dirty gown for most of my life now,” the sprout mumbled, carefully taking the warm teacup in his hands, though not yet tasting the tea. He thought about the man’s question and the answer he was providing, and… well, he might as well mention it, since he was asking. “In my first month here, your people tricked me into becoming their bride. I want nothing more than to die again so this can all be over.”

The Jester, though not surprised, didn’t seem too pleased by the answer either.

“You’ve been settling in quite terribly, then,” he summed up. “However, I cannot control each individual soldier of mine, you see. I hope you understand that.”

Though inexperienced and not in the position to have such thoughts, the sprout found that last statement most ridiculous. Certainly, he understood why he had been kept in a grave for most of his new life, only taken out to have his already dead body kicked around. No grudges, none at all. He almost wanted to cry, but his whole body felt dry.

“Though, do tell me what exactly you mean by wanting to be dead again .”

Confused, the sprout furrowed his eyebrows. “I thought… I already mentioned that on those verbal tests the Pr- the Doctor made me do.”

He couldn’t believe it. Months’ worth of being pricked with needles, drained of blood, injected with substances, cut, humiliated, beaten and starved - all for the person behind it to not even read the results? Not even a glance? Briefly, in a faint spark of anger, his hand itched to pour the hot tea onto the Jester’s face, but he knew the pain that would come after would last a hundred times longer than the satisfaction from getting back at the man.

“I’d like to hear it from you. I don’t trust the Doctor to always be truthful in his statements.”

A fair reason, supposed the sprout as he finally lifted the teacup to his lips, tasting the tea. It had a strong, floral flavor - and sure enough, he could taste the honey. Sweet at first, then slightly bitter, as he hadn’t stirred it thoroughly enough, some of it sticking to his teeth like resin. Even after he rinsed it out with the tea, the bitter-sweetness seemed to stick to his throat as well. What a peculiar substance. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

“…Then,” he repeated once again. “My Mother fed me to her other son, my brother. I was dead, but then something happened and I left his corpse in a new body. That’s about it.”

Little did the sprout know, the Jester had actually read every single one of the reports. Still, he knew better than to blindly trust his subordinates, even those he had known for most of his life, such as the Doctor. While he was a reliable- well, doctor, only a complete fool would put their faith in him regarding anything else.

In turn, the man nodded in acknowledgment. “So she discarded you. And to think I’ve spent weeks, nearly spiraling into lunacy, searching for her greatest work, only to now learn she threw you away so carelessly. What a waste of potential.”

Him? Her greatest work? Wasted potential? If he was a waste of anything, it would be others’ time. So much time and energy, and for what? A walking corpse that would have nothing to his name, if he’d even had a name to begin with. Confused, he stared at the man and the man looked upon him in turn, his gaze thoughtful.

“You’re no fool, I can see it. Nothing like how the Doctor described you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had concealed other things from me regarding you as well,” he said. “Therefore, I suppose you’ve known for a long time why you’re here.”

That he certainly did. There wasn’t a day when he wouldn’t think about what he’d heard on his very first day here from his carriage companion, the she-beast guard - and then from the Priest and his god, and now from the Jester’s own monologue. The justification for everything being done to him :

“It’s because of who my Mother is,” he answered with a resigned shrug, avoiding the man’s ice cold gaze to the best of his abilities. “Being born as her son is the worst thing I have ever done, it seems.” He genuinely, truly believed that - fortunately for the Jester. He observed the sprout’s expression and demeanor, not sharing a word of his thoughts. The room was filled with the sound of the wind, flailing against the windows and the ever so slightly swaying curtains, occasionally accompanied by the scratching of the sprout’s nails against the cup, the sound dreadfully loud in the heavy and stagnant silence, to the point where the sprout felt compelled to hold his breath. What could the man have been thinking of, for it to occupy him so greatly? After all, he’d summoned the sprout to speak with him, no? An eternity seemed to have passed before, at last, the silence was cut short - by none other than the sprout.

“… Are you going to let me go?” he asked, immediately feeling his face going cold. “… Will I see outside ever again?”

“Why, could it be that you have something worth returning to beyond the Palace?” the Jester asked, only to be met with a bitter look of realization from the sprout. “… I had presumed as much.”

What a polite way of denying someone freedom, the sprout supposed - not that he’d ever had much from freedom anyways. Outside or inside, there was no true happiness to be found either way, for true happiness was a resource to be given and taken away by the divine alone. Or so he had believed. Still, there was amusement within the Jester’s eyes, if only for a moment.

 

“But make no mistake : it would be a great waste to merely keep you confined to a cell for all eternity. I keep you here not as a trophy, after all. Those hold no meaning in the grand scheme of things : for in the charade to end all charades, even the props and decorations play an important part, no less than those of the actors - and that includes actors and props initially discarded from the first script.” Thus did the sprout lose track of what the conversation was meant to be about. Why the sudden comparisons to theater? What did it have to do with anything? Not that the man provided a proper explanation for his words, of course. He merely leaned forward in his seat, placing both of his elbows on the table and resting his chin atop his joined hands. He didn’t even drink his tea yet.

“I trust you remember what I told you when you said the honey should be kept for a better occasion?”

The sprout nodded. “… I do. You said you think this meeting was fated.” Once more, the Jester was pleased : both by the obedience and perhaps, the confirmation of his suspicions regarding the sprout’s intellect. Then, and only then did he take a sip of his tea, and the sprout observed him as he did. There was little to no savoring the flavor on his part, and the Jester swallowed the sip nigh instantly. No wonder - if he had such easy access to tea, he could afford to just drink it like water. That, and with his age and experience, perhaps the mundane act of drinking tea wasn’t worth paying attention to anymore. Briefly, the sprout felt a pang of envy - but not for very long, as the man addressed him once again.

“We’re all slaves of fate, from the smallest insects to gods themselves, and each aspect of our existence is but a carefully placed detail in the divine design of all things. That is the first truth of the Principles that control our world, but certainly not the last.”

A tree will always reach for nothing, be it through roots or branches ; a wolf mother will devour her weakest young ; a cat will forever chase after a bird, so long as it stays within eyes’ reach. Each of those things, the sprout had understood from the very day he was reborn, although he’d never quite had a name for the simple rule behind them. He’d merely called it the rule of stories. It was… liberating, almost, to know he was not alone in holding that knowledge. In silence, he waited for the Jester to continue speaking. Curious.

“However, I’ve come to understand that some people in the world aren’t merely blind followers of its most fundamental rules. Some of them are omens, heralding greater things to come.”

Curious, endlessly curious, the sprout leaned forward while drinking more of his tea. By now he had nearly forgotten about the hurt he’d felt from the Jester’s previous words. He remembered, but he couldn’t stop listening.

“Take flowers, for one. Most of them lack the sapience necessary to understand the concept of seasons and time, as they don’t need to know it. To them, the sole purpose of their existence is to grow, multiply and wilt. They need nothing more,” spoke the Jester, and there was an unwavering certainty to his voice and expression alike that the sprout couldn’t help but be enthralled by, for he couldn’t fathom being capable of such confidence - that alone carried as much weight as the words carried by that confidence. “Yet, there is one flower in particular that stands above the rest, though it leads an equally simple existence : the snowpiercer. Just like them, it grows, produces offspring and retreats into the soil after shedding its petals. In that regard, it is entirely unremarkable to the unknowing eye.”

“But” - and there, he raised his finger swiftly. So much so that in his startling, the sprout nearly spilled the remainder of his tea in his lap, the Jester remaining in the center of his attention in spite of it - “we, as humans, understand the rules which their existence adheres to, as simple as it is. They grow only out of freshly thawed soil, damp and cold - at the end of winter, heralding the arrival of spring - even though they themselves do not understand that it’s spring, they know deep down when it’s time for them to sprout. Not sooner, or later.”

The Jester paused and a faint smile lit up his worn, faded face - he couldn’t help but shiver.

“I believe you are one such sprout, rising only now at the end of winter of this world’s current order - and though you know it not, there is a purpose behind it. A goal not even you can perceive, so you try to grow in every direction, without aim. Why else would you rise only now, at this time?”

He’d be a liar if he told someone his first thought wasn’t to disagree with the man - for in all his wisdom, he somehow could not see that the sprout’s life was of no greater importance ; that him still existing against all odds was a mistake of so little consequence that the world couldn’t be bothered to correct it just yet, troubled with things far grander than he. The sprout believed that and knew it to be true, and he wanted the Jester to know it as well.

Or so he thought, for one fleeting moment, for less than a blink. He knew that his life held no grander purpose. He’d be a fool to deny it. He was a fool for denying it once.

And yet, upon hearing the Jester’s words - wise, passionate, brimming with conviction and devoted to his beliefs - the sprout was made to believe in a story ; one in which he mattered. He should have known better than that.

And yet.

“… What do you think my goal is?” he asked innocently, so full of hope - which he didn’t realize he was even feeling, having long since forgotten the shape of it.

“That is for you to find out, I fear. Without anyone or anything to direct you, it might prove nigh impossible.” Like a true fool, the sprout smiled. He already had someone to direct him, therefore-

“What would you say to being granted such direction under Her Majesty the Tsaritsa’s guidance?” the Jester asked, his words seemingly reverberating through the sprout’s bones and the room’s wall all at once, thunderous despite the fact that he hadn’t raised his voice once. “Why not join us in our cause to uproot the very fundamentals of this world, and take part in creating a reality where you are not cursed to forever endure the heavens punishing you for your mother’s sins?”

Smiling still, he reached over the table. “Join our cause, and the future will be able to repent for the past and in turn sever the ties between them.”

Thus, just like a flame on a tattered candlewick, the sprout’s hope was extinguished. How long had it been since the last time he was raised so high, only to be let down so terribly? Why, with just a mention of the foreign goddess’ name, it was as if his very being had been poked open with countless needles and drained of what little remained inside him, even after being robbed and stolen of everything so thoroughly. It was so obvious, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t he noticed earlier, all the similarities between this and the story that God had told him not that long ago?

… His Lady wanted him to assemble a team of super-sociopaths from all over the world.

It should have been so clear to him, shouldn’t it?

He offered him opportunities for his miracles to happen, so long as he worked for their Lady’s cause of rebelling against the divine. So, since the student was broke after being kicked from school and wandering around the desert gathering garbage, he agreed.

Distraught so deeply, he couldn’t bring himself to control the disappointment radiating from him, practically deflating in his seat as he lowered his half-empty cup of tea. It had gone cold. He felt stupid, so stupid for not realizing the Jester’s true intention from the very beginning. Why else would someone so important ever waste their breath on him, if they weren’t getting anything from him?

God would. God loved him, and didn’t need anything from him - save for his ceaseless devotion.

…God, who still followed the Jester’s orders and walked wherever their Lady pointed. God, who only watched as his sole follower was sullied and tormented by the Priest before his very eyes. Though no longer ablaze, the cinders of the candlewick flickered. Maybe this was it - his chance to make something out of finally being heard out and offered a way out, and maybe…

“… And what would be in it for me now, in the present, and not years from now on?” he asked. He was confident that he had never before felt so desperate yet so determined. Still, to his surprise, the Jester seemed to appreciate that ; more so than he did his obedience and attentiveness. After all, what use did he have for a pawn with no ambitions of their own to weaponize?

“For one… you would no longer be our prisoner. You would receive a name from the Tsaritsa herself - and perhaps, even a title and a seat at our feast - as one of them will be vacant very, very soon.” As he uttered that last sentence, the Jester smirked ever so faintly.

Anyone else with more brains would have been thanking the Jester on their knees for that generous offer, if not downright blessing. Fame, power and a name known far and wide - what was to be naught but a dream that could never cross over into reality, presented to him at the end of a rope attached to a rod, suddenly just within reach of his greedy, lucky hands.

The sprout didn’t want any of those things, however.

“When my god leaves, will I be able to go with him?”

Once again, his ignorance was to be his greatest sin, as well as his punishment. 

It was the Jester’s turn to feel disappointment and anger, now - from a wise and dignified sage, his image contorted itself into something unsightly and terrifying to behold, his teeth becoming bared in a grimace, his eyebrows furrowing, and his one eye opening wide and looking down at the sprout as if he were the most putrid thing he had ever seen. But then, before the sprout could finish hiding his head in his arms, the man let out a single, resigned sigh as he placed his now empty cup back on its designated plate. To the sprout, it sounded like the growl of an irritated animal. Entirely inhuman.

“… I was wondering if the Doctor’s inane speculations were anywhere near correct about the Balladeer visiting you in secret, or if it was merely his jealousy speaking.” As though he hadn’t just allowed himself to put on such a display, the Jester had gone back to being polite and cordial. Still, the sprout did not lower his hands. “Unfortunately for you, that will not be possible, for his role under the Tsaritsa’s guidance is coming to an end.”

The sprout only wanted one thing. Now that it had been made clear he couldn’t have it, he retreated - or more so, showed his unwillingness to participate in this charade in return for nothing.

“… Then I’m not going to join your cause. I’m not gonna follow any God other than him, ever.”

This time, he was prepared. He could already feel the man rising from his seat - fast enough for his chair to fall - and walking over to him, one palm already flat and firm, the other with fingers stretched out to grab onto him and make sure he’d stay in his place for a long, long time. Without even realizing it, the sprout shut his eyes tight, already feeling the blood draining from his face.

He stood up from his seat.

 

And nothing happened.

“What a waste,” the Jester repeated with another sigh. “It’s a shame you haven’t matured into seeing reason yet, but don’t fret : you will have plenty of time to change your mind. You’ll soon learn that only the Tsaritsa’s love is eternal and unwavering, child.”

No time was left for him to decipher the meaning behind those words. When he next opened his eyes, two guards had entered the room and stood by his side, waiting. The Jester turned away, facing the window, leaving the expression he was donning an enigma.

“You may take him back now,” he ordered, in a firm voice befitting a Sage. “And make sure to take the longer route.”

 

---

 

Once more, he was marching down the grey halls of the Palace, his brief half-freedom expired and his mind still occupied with thoughts of the meeting. Should one consider his circumstances and past a punishment for his transgressions, the meeting had been an incredibly successful one. Not only did he get to meet the one orchestrating his unlife, he was treated as someone intelligent enough to hold a conversation with, and on equal ground. Most importantly, he hadn’t been struck once for the audacity he’d shown in denying the Sage. How incredible was that? Certainly, the disappointment was unlike anything he’d felt in a long while, but usually that meant some time would pass before something horrible happened again. If bad things happened all the time they wouldn’t hurt as much, and he had to suffer greatly, the sprout thought.

Speaking of… now that the Jester had finally seen him, that could mean two things.

The Priest could finally discard him one, final time - put him on a pike, maybe, just as Delta had promised. Or maybe he’d be fed to some monstrosity that Prime bragged about keeping in his basement. Where the four guards were relocated. He wondered if they were still alive, and if they’d take pleasure in watching him getting torn open and split in half, just like they had done with their hands.

He felt sick just thinking about it, so he moved onto considering the second possible option.

Now that he was no longer desired by the Sage, God could finally take him away. Just like he had promised, it’d finally be just the two of them : a deity and his only follower, the whole world beyond the palace walls their temple. Now that was a thought for sore bruises - one that the sprout entertained greatly as he obediently marched down the hallway between the two guards. Once again, they put no restraints on him, not even a chain around his ankle. They knew he had nowhere to run to, and he knew that too - such was the cordial, unspoken agreement between him and the masked guards.

Usually, only someone else’s anger would be the thing to pull him out of the swamp of his thoughts - and yet, out of nowhere, he found himself sharply aware of his surroundings. Afraid. He looked at the guards, neither had their fists or weapons raised, barely even looking at him. When he quickly turned his head around, there was no one behind. Uncertain, he looked ahead : in the direction of the grand hall, where the main entrance gate was. Just in time.

Towards the gate bravely walked a group of armed men, all in thick coats meant for travel - the same his companions had worn on the carriage, in fact. Though each of them were masked, each must have been wearing a dead serious expression, if their firm postures and stiff demeanors were anything to go by. There, right in the middle of the procession, there was a snow white coat with a black fur collar, and a dark, smoke-like veil flowing behind it, hanging from that hat and embroidered with words - symbols - he wasn’t privy to.

Beneath it all, there was short hair as dark as the night sky, and striking, star-like eyes.

The sprout didn’t know any better.

He ran.

He ran like he had never ran in his whole, short life. He heard voices, angry voices behind him. He heard their footsteps, soon picking up after him. He ran, faster than his legs had ever allowed him to before, as his vision blurred and his lungs ached. His empty stomach protested, refused to cooperate, but he ignored it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Only the divine figure so close - yet still so far away - did.

Somewhere in the blurriest edges of his vision, he could see the procession turning to face him, shock now painted on their partially concealed faces. In an instant, like a mechanism made of flesh and bone, they formed a wall to try and stop the filthy thing from approaching them. They didn’t matter either. They were stronger, but not faster, with all the heavy winter clothing and armor they were shelled in.

Like a wounded deer jumping between trees, he pushes himself past the pillars of leather and fur, for once refusing to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible - refusing to stay quiet as his throat let out a single, garbled shriek of a call :

“ GOD! ”

Then, and only then, did the figure bother with resting his gaze upon the pitiful, desperate sprout ; and it was a shocked one, deeply so. As if it was the very first time he had ever seen his one and only beloved follower. The very first time his divinity had been cried upon. Had it been any other time, any other place, the sprout would think how unfit that look had been - alas, with hands already grabbing at his hair and arms and trying to drag him away, it was the last thing on his mind.

He needed to look at him. Divine or not.

The procession yelled something in his ear, profanities, reminding him his place was in the dirt - their muffled words as painful as their strong hands threatening to break him in half right then and there, and-

“Hold off the apprehending, won’t you?” his god’s reprimanding voice rang out clear above all others, silencing them in an instant. “Let him go and step back. I can handle this myself.”

And so did the cruel, unforgiving pillars set him free, throwing him onto the floor before retreating. It hurt as his knees struck the cold, hard floor - sending a freezing wave of pain all the way up to his skull and back down. Tears he couldn’t stop began building up in his eyes, yet still, he tried to stop them. Out of habit. Weeping never helped. Then, a soft, never warm hand landed atop his head, caressing it gently.

“Come on, get up,” he heard from above. Scalding. Gentle. “I know you can do it.”

Through his already damp eyelashes, the homunculus looked up, and sure enough… the deity was smiling down on him. Bitterly so. He stood up, as quickly as his legs would let him, hands grasping onto where his God’s shoulders were beneath the leather and fur. Yet another transgression without a doubt, but God said not a word. Not even as hot, blinding tears began rolling off the sprout’s face and onto the floor.

“God, please, please don’t leave me here!” Through sobs, the sprout pleaded, his voice bordering on a whimper, his hold on the deity growing more and more shaky by the second. All inhibitions were out the window. "I-I’m scared, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you! I-I don’t want to die !”

His deity, immovable, wise, and eternally beautiful succumbed to no such unsightly scenes. Far, far from it. In spite of his lover’s horror practically pouring from him, his visage only softened. From beneath the coat, his other hand reached out to him, joining the other to cradle the sprout’s wet face. Like he always did.

“Stop crying. You’re going to be fine, I know it,” he spoke, his voice quiet, though not any less firm for it. “You’ve managed to live without me long before now, no?”

As kind as the deity was, the sprout was having none of it. It just confirmed the true nature of the procession he’d interrupted. Even more hiccuping sobs left him as he slowly but surely allowed his face to sink into God’s hands.

“B-But, but it wasn’t the same, now I-”

“Shush, calm down and just look at yourself.” God wasn’t having any of it either, having cut the sprout’s sniffling short with a hiss. “How do you think you appear, at this very moment?”

Desperate, the sprout tried to think of the proper answer - even though he struggled to even breathe, his uncontrollable sobs stealing air from each fast, shallow inhale he took. He was nearly drowning in his own tears, by the time he found the answer from within God’s very own teachings.

“… Weak… a-and pathetic, but-”

“Exactly, and that’s what Dottore and Pierro want you to believe - that you’re weak. But they forgot the most important thing.”

“W-Which is…? God, please, you’re not making any sense, just- please take me with you!”

In response to that, God’s hands tightened around his face, fingers harshly pinching where it hurt most, the sprout shutting himself up with his very own whimper of pain as colors flashed before his eyes.

“Which is, that you’re not a human,” the deity spoke in a harsh, reprimanding tone. “You’re not like them, and therefore, you can’t be broken in the same ways they can. Remember that, and you’ll make it through whatever they throw at you.”

Only after God spoke did the hold return to its usual gentleness. It dawned upon the sprout then that he would never be punished like this ever again : when he’d know that behind each slap across his face or kick in between the ribs, there was love greater than anything he could ever ask for. Somehow, that realization was more painful than the strikes themselves had ever been.

“But- What difference does it make if I’ll never see you again? What’s the point of living when you’re not here?” he asked God, and in turn, God furrowed his eyebrows - his gaze thoughtful as he momentarily looked to the side, his silence cutting into the already bleeding sprout like knives.

“… In that case, listen very closely and remember well. I’m not going to repeat myself, not even for you.” The homunculus nodded through sniffles. “This is your very first order, as my first and only follower. Someday, there’s going to be a moment when your future will finally be in your hands. Once it arrives, your duty is to make the best of it you can and leave Snezhnaya altogether. Then, you must never stop and you must never look back. Not even once, not until you make it to the Land of Wisdom in the far south.”

“… The one you showed me in the book?”

“The one and only,” smiled the deity. “It has no true god to speak of - and therefore, I shall be waiting there for you after taking her vacant throne. If you can do that, then you’ll never have to worry about anyone else coming between you and I. Got it?”

“U-Uh huh…” The sprout was going to tearfully agree again, thinking of asking him about the other god’s name, when something dawned on him, followed by horror grander than anything he’d felt before at the Priest’s hands. God saw it.

“Hm?”

“… What about my name? You promised me you’d give me a name! You promised !” shrieked the sprout, terrified. “Have you forgotten? Y-You told me you needed time to think of a good name, and-and now-”

Had his eyes been any more clouded with tears, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to see the look on God’s face once the question was thrown in the air, hanging between and above them while the deity was taken aback by it. Alas, he saw. Clear as day, there was doubt on his face, even if only for a moment.

“... Alright. Calm down. I’ve thought about it for a good while now,” God reassured him after a pause that was short for him, yet entirely too long for the horrified sprout. “And I thought of something even better, grander than any name I could think of.”

His hands left the sprout, retreating briefly beneath the coat and soon returning with, in his open palms, a golden plume, hanging off a faded red string. Confused, the sprout watched as God slowly but surely unrolled the red string - and gasped as suddenly, he felt a thin thread pressing against his neck, a small weight now hanging from it. God looked most pleased with the resulting image.

“This is proof of your identity as my first follower, and proof that when the whole world turned against you, I was the only one willing to keep you by my side. So long as you keep it, the only title you will ever need is that you’re mine and mine alone.”

What a wonderful, generous gift. The sprout would have thanked him on his knees, eternally grateful for being bestowed such a beautiful title that was his alone to hold.

He truly would have done that, had it been any other day, had there still been more time for him to receive a true name.

There wasn’t. The clock somewhere far-away stopped ticking, and God knew it.

And yet.

For months, the sprout had offered his beloved deity everything he had.

His mind, heart, body and future. Everything - but he had asked his God for one thing, one thing alone.

And yet,

this was it.

 

A feather on a string.

 

“... But-But that’s— That’s not fair, please! Why are you doing this to me?!” someone yelled at the deity, and much to the sprout’s horror, it soon dawned upon him that the shout had come from him. He should have, would have been grateful. And yet . “I- I love you , I trusted you! Why-Why would you do this?!”

God, in his endless wisdom, kindness and generosity, said nothing. Did nothing.

Instead, he let go of the sprout’s face as if he had never held it at all and reached for his trembling hands ; giving them a light squeeze as he pulled them away from his shoulders. Before the sprout could reach for him once more, he stepped away, leaving the sprout to once again fall to his knees.

Then, he turned around.

“… God?”

And kept walking, taking one step further, away from the sprout. Then a second. And another. And another.

“… N-No, God, please! No, no, no! Anything but this, PLEASE!”

And another. His head didn’t turn once as he kept moving, the veil soon concealing what little was visible of his face. The sprout couldn’t believe it was happening. He didn’t want to - but it was happening. It continued to happen, as he tried to get up again, only to fall on all fours, weak with hunger.

“PLEASE, NO! GOD! ”

He started to crawl. He had long since lost all dignity and had none left to lose. He started closing the distance between them, only for the procession’s many hands to grab him by the shoulders, arms and wrists. He heard them curse him out, calling him names. He couldn’t remember what was said, nor did he care to remember.

All he could remember was the Balladeer disappearing from his sight, not once turning back to see what he was leaving behind : the sprout, on his knees, apprehended and wailing his heart out, like an infant being torn in two would have. He cried, shrieked and howled - up until he physically couldn’t anymore, left hoarse and wheezing for his life, his vision growing dark and spotted.

All he could remember was the two voices, standing not that far away, just behind the procession.

“What an honor, for you to have personally come to bid little old us farewell, Pierro!”

“Why wouldn’t I, Dottore? This is an occasion worth celebrating, after all : five centuries’ worth of planning, research and waiting, finally forming a promise fulfilled. Had I had the time, I would visit you to see that artificial god of yours.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, I’ll take plenty of pictures - and I’ll be taking all the blueprints back to Snezhnaya with me once we get the Gnosis back, hehe haha hoho!”

“Truly, what a fruitful collaboration it was. A shame that it has to enter its second stage, now. … But, to make up for it, I shall now task you with finding a use for Her creation, make the best of his durability, mayhaps another expedition into the dark awaits us within this century.”

“Oh ho ho ho, Jester, you’re so generous, how could I ever refuse such an offer!”

There was more laughter between the two of them to be heard, but the sprout was not there to witness it as by then, he was on his way back to square one.

Notes:

So! For once, I don't even have the words. Not even bits of fun trivia. Unfortunate, I know.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this special episode of the Sprout Show, and I hope to see you on the next!

Chapter 15: The Carved Prince and the Carpenter

Summary:

The Prince was betrayed once more - this time by his deity beloved. What did his savior make of his pleas to not go, or to at the very least give the Prince a name he could call his own? Surrounded by his other worshippers and accompanied by the Priest, he made nothing, for his love had ran suddenly ran dry, as though he never held any to begin with.

Thus, he departed, leaving behind only a false hope of a reunion, and with it a wish that wouldn't be fulfilled, so long as the Prince remained hostage within the Palace. Thus, left with no one who loved him, the Prince slowly began turning into wood : stiff and resilient, numb and nigh thoughtless. Within his hopelessness, the Priest and the lord of the Palace saw an opportunity to carve from the Prince a warrior for themselves.

Notes:

If anyone is reading this : Hello, it's been a while, hasn't it? Then again, it was only a matter of time before the AO3 Writer's Curse befell me as well. Though I didn't give birth nor was I drafted or hit by a bus, my academical and personal life have left me in shambles, and it eventually all accumulated into my unhappiness with this work.

Through 'Tales', I wanted to connect with people who had a more niche interpretation of Subject 2 and also wished for him to have an actual arc, and at the time I was met with radio silence. Though it certainly wasn't the first time it happened, back then it was incredibly disheartening, to the point where I didn't even want to look at Tales, let alone think about it. It felt like an embodiment and symbol of my continuous failure to connect with people, especially in real life, as though I was doomed to only ever understand other people without ever being heard or understood myself.

But that's behind me now, as I have even real-er problems now, like finding a job since not a single place I sent CVs to called back, studying and trying to stay sane because my sister moved on from being "terminally online teenage girl" kind of infuriating to actually giving me nightmares! Finally editing this on my own - as my beta reader got even more of a life - is one such attempt to steer away from commiting fratricide!

Hope you enjoy!!

...Warning for Dottore-typical violence, though.

He met Lambda the very next day, which naturally left no time for this new reality to fully settle around him. That version of the Priest had short, unruly hair - still the color of mint. Its eyes were uncovered too, and they were red, much like his own. Instead, the white-black mask instead covered most of his face, leaving only a half hole for his mouth. Much like the first iteration of the Priest, it wore a singular blue earring, but his clothes were vastly different - fashionable, almost as if intended for a banquet as opposed to a sterile workshop, with only a lab coat carelessly thrown atop the attire, the bright pink bow-tie easily the most jarring part of it all. As he soon learned, this iteration was equal in cruelty to the previous ones, as he was ecstatic to paint him the picture of his future the very moment he sat before his desk.

Just like the Jester told him, he’d come to understand Tsaritsa’s love : starting from its coldest and cruelest forms. To be loved by her was to change in her favor - fashioned into Her additional pair of hands to labor for her cause far and wide. Or rather, he’d be carved and sewn into such a pair of hands. To that the sprout remained largely apathetic, the Priest’s words appearing as if spoken out of time, barely reaching his ears. Eyes still in embers, he numbly observed as the man’s blurry silhouette circled around him, his mind hollow of all thought, save for disbelief - not even towards the Priest, of course.

God was gone. God left him and he was not coming back.

It felt like a cruel joke, at first - the punchline being that his deity would be back the next day, rightfully ridiculing him for putting so little faith in his beloved. All would return to ordinary, as always. Thus, after being dragged back into his cell, he waited. It became abundantly clear that he waited in vain, for the only visitors were people tasked with feeding him.

The day after, the Priest was elated to go on a tangent, going into detail about the new nature of these meetings ; a sacrificial lamb and its executor, finally offered to the one true deity of the snowy wasteland. It sounded as though he was relaying to him a summary of some story, or perhaps a particularly grim theater play, and the Priest’s animated gesturing did nothing to alleviate that impression. Still, he couldn’t believe it, despite being well aware that he didn’t have the luxury of doubting anyone’s words, the Priest’s especially. He couldn’t believe that most of his new life went down the drain ; devoting every second thought to the one constant kind soul present within, only for it to leave him : as one would leave a dog on the side of the road after it stopped being a puppy.

A part of him tried to find reason within that abandonment ; of course God’s affection was far lighter and of less consequence than he held in return. His short, few months long life was but a tiny fraction of the centuries that God has lived through and would live through - and that went without even addressing the sprout’s circumstances. One would as well try to form bonds with a worm, it’d be equally foolish, and his God was no fool.

Yet, that was only but a part of him.

Most of him still remembered God’s cold hands on his own, how small they were. He remembered the pale lilac mark indented into his nape, concealed carefully by layers upon layers of clothing - baring it only for his eyes to behold. Above all, he remembered his words :

Just as I’m finally about to become more than a God’s attempt at copying humanity, you showed up : just like how I was, all those years ago. Made and abandoned, betrayed and humiliated, naive and stupid, without a name or purpose.

It wasn’t a difference between a God and a worm, the sprout remembered thinking to himself while spacing out in the workshop. It was between a cat and a dog. He didn’t get to think about it more in depth, sadly - as he found himself being pulled out of his seat, the Priest’s voice momentarily turned clear.

“Now, if we’re going to be sending you places, we ought to check your resistance to the elements, no?”

 

---

 

As he sat in bed later that day, his chest felt cold. Such usually happens when someone is suddenly exposed to condensed cold, essentially blasted with it - assuming they’d live through the encounter, that is. He, unfortunately, survived. How? Neither he or the Priest were quite certain. He’d likely learn in a few days, and he didn’t have the fortitude to think of where his immunity to cold could possibly come from - more so, he wondered how it was that only his chest was cold, in one specific place.

Then, he remembered. Briefly invigorated, the sprout reached down the collar of his gown and from beneath he recovered the golden plume, perfectly concealed behind the dense fabric of his gown and its high collar, the red string blending into the markings on his neck. Dumbfounded, he looked down on it, briefly wondering how it wasn’t confiscated yet. Did he actually manage to hide it from the Priest? Or did he simply not care to rip it from him? Regardless of the answer, the result was the same : it was still with him, God’s very first and most prized possession, as brilliant as when he first saw it.

It hadn’t been long at all, and still the sprout made the mistake of believing that he simply had nothing to weep with anymore. On that account, he was of course wrong. It didn’t take all that much, really, for him to hold the plume tight to his face as hot, heavy tears began streaming down his cheeks, eyes and mind once again set ablaze.

Why? Why would he do that to him? Why would he tell him he’d wait for him, when he knew he’d never be able to leave that prison? Why would he be so cruel to order him something so impossible? Why? What was it all for? Was it amusing to him? Did he genuinely believe that the sprout would ever be able to get out? Why? Why? Why?

He couldn’t understand, and he didn’t know if he even wanted to understand. It was unfair, so unfair. Still, what else was there for him to do, beyond weeping - mourning his fate and the injustice that befell him once again? Nothing, quite plainly, and he knew that deep in his bones. Such was his first and only course of action, then ; to sob and weep until he could barely breathe, his vision going dark with spots and face turning cold. How familiar, that. Did he truly believe, at some point, that he’d never hurt this greatly ever again? Perhaps, and the thought made him feel even more stupid. Stupid, so stupid. Weeping still, he crawled back under his bedding - now holding the cold metal plume tight to his heart as it threatened to crawl out of his throat.

Thus, he returned to nothing.

 

---

 

Days went on. Three meals every day, every second or third day he’d be pulled out of his cell in restraints. He didn’t try to run regardless, but after the scene he caused, there was no going back to how it was before. The frail ‘trust’ between him and those tasked with escorting him was broken. Then, he’d be left within the workshop until the Priest got bored.

As he came to learn, this iteration of him had a wider array of procedures hidden up his sleeves and gloves - few of those medical in nature, yet not any less painful. First, the Priest continued testing the boundaries of his resistance to the elements, the results not particularly informative to either of them. The skin on his arm burned just as anyone else’s and he couldn’t breathe in water, nor conduct electricity without being harmed in the process. He couldn’t spontaneously produce crystalline shields, either, and being exposed to the condensed essence of the wind only left him with disheveled hair that he spent hours untangling afterwards. He didn’t even know why he still tried to uphold his appearance - with no divine eyes to look upon him, all vanity was meaningless.

Last stage of the experiment was the only one worth retelling, for it shed light on a truth that the sprout didn’t even realize existed :

It was after his third meal of the day that he was taken out and taken to the workshop, groggy and barely awake. When strapped into his usual seat, he could only watch as the Priest prepared another syringe full of condensed elemental power, the vial giving off a faint green glow and a gentle fragrance of flowers that he could smell from across the room. He winced only for one second when the needle sank into the bruised pit of his forearm - any more, and he might have ended up going numb there. As per usual, nothing happened immediately after injection. It always took time. The Priest, aware of that, simply sat to the side and scribbled something down on the dreaded clipboard - the scratching sound of the pen accompanied by another monologue.

“Shame you’re not much of a conversation partner, it gets really dull, sitting here and waiting for something to happen. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean,” he hummed under his nose (or apparent lack thereof), crossing out some line. “Though, is it really that you’re not a talker, or is it that you chose not to speak to me? You certainly were talkative with the doll, after all.”

To that, the sprout said nothing - as there was nothing to say, really. There was nothing he could do about it, and it wasn’t like the Priest was wrong.

“I wonder, what did you speak of? Did he complain to you about me? Did he try to preach about how terrible and awful mortals are? Or did he tell you about how he was robbed of his divinity?” he asked, flipping the clipboard to another page. “I’m sure it was either one of those, you must have been sucked in all the same.”

Indeed, he was. Why, was he not the first to be tricked like that? Did the Priest witness something similar already? His chest hurt the more he tried not to think about it and his eyes burned, dried out of tears to shed. Alas, the thought like a sand worm kept burrowing itself deep in his skull, leaving behind naught but empty and aching holes where it gnawed through. His head fell forward, heavy with exhaustion and slowly but surely he felt his eyes closing against his better judgment, all while the Priest continued to talk.

“That’s just the thing about the doll, always fancying himself the smartest person in the room. You’d think he’d learn by now that he can’t trick me, but oh no! I need to keep reminding him that between the two of us I almost graduated from the Sumeru Akademiya while he was busy napping away in a bunker!” he snarled, throwing his hands into the air, as if addressing his protests to the heavens themselves. The clipboard also went flying and bounced off his mask with a quiet clonk. “I mean, this is what? The fifth time he pulls off a stunt like this? Finding some mousey to play with behind my back, then every time - every single time - he acts like a victim caught off-guard when he slips up! Again, you’d think he’d learn!”

“Then again, who knows! Maybe his mother-creator designed him to be an arrogant little moron, incapable of learning anything. Or maybe he does this on purpose to get off to wasting my time, who in the void knows?! It’s not like he ever let me peek under his cranium in all those five centuries he had me doing maintenance on him for free! I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as ungrateful, really!”

“Tell you what, I should finally do right on my word and build that damn time machine, just so I can go back to 1501 and take a piss all over the woman’s blueprints! Not just the blueprints, but whatever parts and tools she made him with! Maybe piss on her too, while I’m at it!”

There was a pause in the rambling and the Priest sighed before getting up to pick up the clipboard from the other end of the room.

“...Though, what good is getting angry with him now, after all this time?” he chuckled, and suddenly, there was an odd fondness in his words. “It’s much too late for a refund, now that years of putting up with his nonsense are finally paying off.”

The silence resumed, as the Priest got back to writing on the clipboard - not noticing that the sprout long since drifted off and started to dream, if only briefly.

Of the blue sky beyond the gray walls of his grave, of trees green and amber alike, of paths leading to nowhere and everywhere. Of course, he dreamt of God as well ; of his two hands that refused to hold him, beautiful eyes that wouldn’t turn to him when he wept on his knees, his smile as he left him for dead - all vivid as if it was happening to him all over again. Nearly he had forgotten where he was in the present, right up until he felt his arm being yanked. Startled, naturally, he opened his eyes and looked down at the source of the disturbance. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

It was, quite plainly, a branch. 

Though attached to his skin, not that far away from where the needle had pierced, it was a bright white - at a first glance. It took a second one to realize that beneath the branch ran red veins, pulsating ever so slightly. Furthermore, at a third glance, it was still growing - slowly, visibly. At least visibly enough for it to fail evading the Priest’s gaze. Unceremoniously, he pinched the branch in his fingers and broke it off from the sprout’s forearm. Though the sprout didn’t feel pain, both he and the branch bled. For once, the Priest minded not the threat of contamination, consumed by his delight that was so clear on his face, contorted in a grimace of cruel glee.

“Why, never have I seen anything quite like this! …Though, considering what I already know about you and your physiology, I should have seen it coming.” he hummed - whistled almost - as he moved the small branch between his fingers, “Do you know what this is?”

The sprout, still groggy, shook his head then shrugged. It reminded him of the white tree, back on the mountain. What if that was the wrong answer, though? What if it wasn’t an answer at all? Therefore, he chose to remain silent - much to the Priest’s disappointment who once more had to do all the talking himself.

“Of course you wouldn’t know, might have as well asked the first stray dog I’d see on the street. Never mind that. What you see here, is a leyline branch,” he waved his other hand, tossing his disappointment aside for a while. “Should one reach for the comparison that the world is a body and the Irminsul its brain, then the leyline roots are its nervous system and the branches and blooms are the nerve endings, responsible for receiving and projecting information.”

“The latter usually doesn’t grow from walking, living people, now does it? Though the leylines are capable of preserving all living things, their unique biology doesn’t allow for individual growth outside of the original root system, let alone on living beings!” with each word spoken, the Priest’s grimace only widened, unease slowly rising within the sprout. “And here I thought you were just a crude attempt at mimicking humanity…”

With another chuckle, the Priest let go of the sprout’s aching arm and walked away. Where to? To the dreaded clipboard, of course, furiously noting something upon it after picking it off the floor - nearly tearing through it as he wrote. Not one word was said between any of them, the only sound in the workshop being that of the pen scratching away at the paper, occasionally accompanied by the Priest humming one tune in particular - it’s hopeful yet solemn melody grotesque when paired with the backdrop of the workshop and the dread that filled the sprout.

From experience he knew that the only thing worse than the Priest not receiving results of any kind was receiving results he couldn’t predict. From there, on top of routine check-ups more procedures would be performed - whenever he thought he couldn’t feel any less than an animal, the Priest’s creativity would swiftly prove him wrong. Now that the Priest’s entire perception of the sprout’s nature was suddenly turned around and inside out…

Just thinking about that, the sprout went numb with fear. Next thing he knew, he was back in his coffin, terror of what was to come keeping him awake late into the night until eventually exhaustion took him under.

 

---

 

Days continued to pass ; the procedures were getting stranger and God was still gone.

Each time the sprout went to sleep, he had foolishly convinced himself that the next day, God’s absence would stop aching like an old bruise that refused to heal ; and each time he’d wake up, the searing anguish was already waiting, looming over him, the image of God carved into the wall mocking him in tandem with the pendant string wrapped tightly around his neck - reminding him that he was no longer truly alive, now that his deity had abandoned him. What else was left for him then? Returning to the warm nothingness from which he first hatched by his own hands? That too, was no longer an option. Somewhere in between his stays in the workshop, the shards of glass sitting in the corner were all swiped up, with only the occasional grain sized piece of it piercing into the sprout’s soles, which he’d then have to painfully pick out one by one. He knew trying to drown himself in the shower wouldn’t work, the animal in him desperate to survive wouldn’t allow for that to happen. Asphyxiation wasn’t on the table either, even with the spare, withered piece of cloth he used as a belt, as he had nowhere to tie it to, even if it was long enough to be a viable tool for return.

What else was left for him, then? The same as usual. Eating, sleeping, occasionally cleaning himself and, of course, going to the workshop every second or third day to endure whatever the Priest had in mind for him.

One particular time, he had been served a particular substance, injected directly into the pit of his forearm. By then the sprout had almost but completely forgotten what it looked like, without the dark, purple bruise that never went away - not that it was his biggest problem, then. Shortly after being injected, the world around him began deforming - melting almost, like a candle left out in the sun. He blinked once, twice, but the scenery didn’t change in the slightest.

“Hallucinogenics, extracted from Crystal Marrow,” the Priest explained, his voice fuzzy as if spoken through a layer of cloth. “One of the most expensive materials in all of Teyvat, mind you, especially with the recent war. As the name would imply, it’s mined from the bones of a dead god. But as you can probably imagine, even dead Gods do not appreciate their carcasses being poked around in. Therefore, Crystal Marrow is extremely toxic to both environments and people processing it. In people, it causes sickness of both body and soul - and when it seeps into the ground, it causes a leyline disorder. You can see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

Not only did it not change, it began shifting in colors. It was hard to notice at first, as the workshop was mostly gray and white, but surely enough, the whites began to gain a purple-blue undertone to them that spread in splotches ; present even after the sprout closed his eyes for a moment. Alongside that, the Priest’s voice seemed to only grow louder and louder, even though not once had the man raised his voice or gotten closer.

“And wouldn’t you know, this particular batch was brought in by the doll and Rosalyne during their stay in Inazuma. It’s a small world!” the Priest shrugged as he - or at least appeared to - take a seat in front of him. In the sprout’s eyes, it was more as though his body stretched like dough across the workshop before pouring and reforming within the chair. “So, tell me, what do you see and how do you feel? I’m referring to your physical state, of course! I frankly don’t really care about how you feel anywhere else.”

By the end of it, he no longer even remembered what he saw, or what he confessed to the Priest while under the influence of the substance - frankly, he didn’t even remember being taken back to his cell, only that he saw swirling stars and the entire night sky within the vomit-filled toilet bowl.

 

---

 

For once, he was thrown someplace other than his cell or the workshop ; an oval room with retractable staircases on both ends, the floor instead of concrete, a brownish, tightly packed sand. Momentarily he relished in feeling its warmth as it shifted under his feet - yet only momentarily, as down the opposing staircase there was shoved someone, something else. Upon squinting, the sprout saw it was one of the goblin creatures he saw on the mountain ; hillichurls, everyone else called them. This one looked particularly beat up, with matted fur and torn up ears laying flat on its head, mask cracked and filthy. Had the sprout been in any better condition himself, he might’ve felt pity towards the poor creature, however as things were…

 

“One two, one two, one two, is this working?” from above and everywhere else, the Priest’s voice rang out, though he himself was nowhere found within the room. The hillichurl cowered and further tugged at its ears. “Great! Now, I imagine you must be wondering why you’re here instead of in my workshop, and I’m more than happy to enlighten you! You see, this morning while I was eating breakfast and drinking my cup of oil, I thought to myself : ‘ You are running out rather quickly out of ideas, you know? ’ And I do, actually! I can’t remember the last time that happened, especially so quickly! You’ve practically drained my creative wells dry!”

“So I thought to myself…In the event that we will be sending you on a trip to the Abyss, you’ll probably have to fight for your life to not get eaten by whatever critters live down there - and then it dawned upon me! Why not see how capable you are of defending yourself in a fight, if at all?”

 

The sprout’s blood ran cold as he locked eyes with the hillichurl through its mask, having realized what the Priest meant.

 

“Your only job is to get out of this with the least amount of injuries possible. That’s it, good luck!”

 

Just as the Priest’s voice cut off, another sound rang out - something between a flute and a bell- to which the hillichurl reacted first with a pitiful snarl, followed shortly by it lurching at the sprout - who in turn pounced in the direction of where the retractable stairs were, only to be met with the cold, unmoving wall and floor. He turned back around, just in time to see the hillichurl’s claws reaching for his throat.

Not even two minutes later, he saw himself rolling around in the sand, struggling to simultaneously push the screeching creature off of him and keep its filthy claws away from his face. The smell of damp and rot from beneath the mask filled his nostrils, his vision swirling and fading as he tried to breathe without inhaling too much of the foul scent coming from the creature’s covered up maw. How did that even happen? He didn’t know. In one minute, the goblin was just as afraid as him and in the next, it pounced straight for his throat without as much as a warning. He didn’t have time to figure it out either - with each second that he couldn’t fend the horrid thing off, he lost more of his already scarce energy and moved further away from what little chances he had at getting out of the chamber unscathed. What could he do to make that happen? Could he actually do it?

Without thinking too much about it, just as the creature was about to claw at his throat, the sprout’s hand shot out towards the filthy mask and ripped it off, as one would rip off a dried scab from an old wound. It made a similar, ripping sound as well as he pulled it away from the creature’s face - as if the putrid scent hitting him at full force wasn’t enough, the image beyond the mask was horrid enough to force a short shriek of terror out of the sprout, and horrid enough to be left undescribed, save for it looking like a crude and largely rotton amalgamation of a human and bovine features. Fortunately for him, the creature echoed him in that horror, promptly rolling to the side, clutching the malformed, hole-ridden mass that might’ve once resembled a face. The sprout, too, rolled away - inhaling in as much air as he could before he’d end up leaving his breakfast in the sand, while the thing was still on the ground, despairing. If it was capable of despairing, that is. At the time, empathy was the last thing on the sprout’s survival fixated mind.

Still, even though he couldn’t see the Priest, the sprout knew very well that he was watching ; and that there was only one way for him to leave the chamber - a way he had already walked once, twice, if not more.

Just like on the mountain, it wasn’t about what someone wanted ; it was about what someone could do, and whether or not they would. Simple as that.

Before the creature could try to reach for the discarded mask, the sprout ran to it, swiftly picking it up before jumping away, much to the creature’s rage and misery alike, if the screech it let out was anything to go by. It fell silent upon the sprout’s deaf ears as he dropped the mask right at his feet - unceremoniously breaking it with one stomp into several shards. Pain shot through him as he felt the shards cutting into his soles, barely resisting the urge to fall down and hold onto his aching, bleeding foot. Instead, he picked the sharpest one and walked over to the creature, clutching it tight between his fingers, sharp edge aimed downwards.

It didn’t take very long, nor was it difficult. One deep, rough slice across the throat and then a single puncture between the ribs. In no time, he watched as the creature’s miserable life writhed out from its wounds and onto the sand beneath them both, though until the very last minute it kept flailing and whimpering. He didn’t need to watch to know exactly how the scene looked. Instead, he chose to look at his hands and clothes, stained all over with black, mud-like blood.

Shortly after, once more the Priest’s voice rang out from the ceiling.

“Well, that was quicker than I expected! Honestly, I thought we’d have to shoot the thing before it mauled you, but wouldn’t you know, you had exactly what it takes! The precision, the quick thinking, the agility!” he exclaimed, his voice bursting with excitement. “Surprise after surprise with you, I like that! Well, you can go now, unless you feel like brawling another one of our rejects! Do a little dance if you’d like that!”

 

Safe to say, the sprout did not perform a dance of any kind.

 

After the Priest personally (and much to the homunculi’s discomfort, tenderly ) cleaned his face and hands from the rotten tar, the sprout was returned to his cell - where he sat down on the bed, staring at the wall and the many lines counting his days. Forty nine meals had gone by since God left him and he was slowly running out of room to continue counting. Why was he even counting anymore? There was nothing to look forward to anymore. God left and he was not coming back. Desolate, he fell back on the bed, then looking up at the ceiling - untouched by his wandering hands as it stood firm far beyond his reach.

It was only a matter of time before they fashioned him into a tool worthy of their Goddess ; to believe that he was capable of standing his ground forever was wishful thinking, at best. Desperate to keep himself somewhat occupied, the sprout wondered : about the kind of person the Doctor would inevitably carve him into. Would he be strong? Would he be cold, cruel and unfeeling? Or would he end up bitter and hateful like his God? What kind of name will they eventually pick for him, that he’ll have no choice but to respond to? Maybe they’d give him a moniker, similar to the Priest’s title as Doctor. Briefly, he recalled his God telling him the origin of the titles of his coworkers.

“Very old comedy theater from the Fontaine-Snezhnaya border, though it had gone into obscurity after the Cataclysm,” he explained. “Every play, regardless of who writes it, uses the same exact characters with the same names and personality. That’s how Pants- even though he’s from Liyue- goes by Pantalone. It’s just the name of the banker character from the theater.”

He still found it rather confusing why he couldn’t use his actual name along with the title, but at that time he said nothing, focused on listening to God’s teachings.

“…And what about you?” he asked.

“The shrewd bard, traveling the world with a lute, stirring up conflict yet rarely participating in it himself. It felt like a cruel joke at first, but now, I suppose it somewhat fits. Still, I do not consider it a true name of my own.”

“…And if I was a part of your club, what title would you give me?”

“Pah, you? Don’t make me laugh, they wouldn’t make you a Harbinger even if another 500 years passed and all of the seats were empty. Get a grip,” God snorted, the sprout’s face burning red with shame in turn. “But…I think I’d go with Scapino - a schemer whose first priority is self preservation and always runs from one place to another.”

“…Do you think I’m a schemer?”

“No, you’re too stupid for that.”

 

Back then, he found the words to be an objective truth, one that he couldn’t get offended by. In the present however, they hurt, deeply so. Though he knew that despite his sympathies God didn’t think too highly of him, only now was the memory of it painful. Worst of all, God was still right. He really was stupid.

Sniffling under his nose quietly, he moved the covers to crawl under them, awaiting his next meal, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next and the next next next next next next next next next next next next

Notes:

Webtoon Dottore makes an entrance, yay!

Ever since I first started writing this, I wanted to include him somehow. In my humble opinion he's the superior Segment to Lazzotorre and In-Gamettore, being more animated and not bothering with concealing his unhingement with layers upon layers of pleasantries. There's something charming about that Stereotypical Mad Scientist/Clown attitude that the new Dottore just doesn't have.

And you can probably tell, but writing and editing Dottore's rant was the best part for me. Not only was it a great opportunity for me to take inspiration from Butterscotch Horseman's and SnapCube Eggman's monologues, I got to elaborate on Dottore's and Scaramouche's relationship some more, particularly the Sunk Cost Marriage dynamic. Divorce/ Should-Be-Divorced shipping is so much fun, I cannot recommend it enough.

But! Back to the sprout and his general circumstances!

There is no 'Paralogism' in my Subject 2 plotline.

Chapter 16: The Kindling

Summary:

Before the deity's tracks could even begin to be buried under snow, work began on the Prince's new form. Day and night, he was carved, struck, filed down, hollowed, gnawed on by wild beasts, cut open and to the Priest's and Jester's delight both, the image of an obedient warrior began to emerge. Happy with their work, the two chose to celebrate by the fireplace, sharing laughs and drinks alike.

Yet, in their merriment, they failed to notice that a single spark wandered astray from the fireplace and landed on the wooden Prince's exposed insides. One lone spark, and yet, it was enough to turn the Priest's hard work into kindling.

Notes:

Hello again! My beta-reader is still busy having a life and I'm also still trying to not go insane with both my online and real life being both disappointing and increasingly overwhelming, so here we are! Though, for the next chapter or so, I'll definitely ask for her help again, because it's the one you've all been looking forward to! That's about all I can say for now, so stay tuned!

For now though, I'll warn you that in this chapter there's a depiction of surgery without proper anaesthesia. I mean, if you made it this far into the story, you're probably used to the Dottore-isms by now, but it never hurts to be extra cautious. Not everyone likes to read about their favourites' insides being rearranged in the literal sense.

In an agonizingly slow pace, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. God had yet to return, and thus the image of him - the only thing left aside from the golden feather - began fading from his memory. The first to vanish was the sound of his voice : though the harshness of his words left a lasting ache, no longer could he recall if his voice was deep or light, airy or heavy. The more he tried to hold onto it by forcing himself to remember each time they met, the more the memory slipped between his fingers like water. To his already ocean-deep dread, intricate details of his appearance followed shortly after ; such as the length of his lashes or the color of his fingernails. Insignificant at a first glance, and yet without them the image of his deity was incomplete, hollow. Portraits beforehand carved into the wall weren’t of much help either, given their simplicity born of the sprout’s lack of experience in arts of any kind - which he found to be yet another source of misery, another wound scratched open. Why couldn’t he be an artist as skilled as the other him? How come he had the ability to replicate the appearance of any living being onto paper, when he’d never have to worry about never seeing the faces of his friends or family ever again?

Had that unfairness not been enough, the Priest’s cruelty began reaching its peak.

 

---

 

One day, he was not fed at all - per the Priest’s orders. Hungry and thirsty he was brought into the workshop, faced with the usually covered up metal table being fully exposed, pristine as if it had been purchased the other day. A bright light shone directly above it. The Priest said nothing about the nature of the procedure. He merely told him to take off his gown and lie down on the table before going on about his tasks.

That the sprout, usually passive and obedient in fear of punishment, couldn’t do. The moment those instructions left the Priest’s mouth, he froze, staring ahead wide eyed - much to the Priest’s disdain who turned to him with a scowl carved into his face.

“What, did you suddenly go deaf?” he asked, frustrated. “I told you to take off your gown and lie down. What part of that did you not understand?”

The sprout only shook his head, though not for a lack of understanding. Far from it.

“...Please. Please no .” he muttered, his pleas quiet and barely audible even to his own ears. “Anything, anything but that. Please.”

For the already impatient Priest, it was a line crossed far enough.

Cursing and hissing, he dropped everything to rush towards the cowering sprout, who despite his attempts at shielding himself, trashing and kicking was still dragged to the table by his arm. All attempts at fighting back were soon rendered void as his limbs were buckled down tight onto the table in a few well practiced movements, his arm injected with a substance that the Priest already had on hand. There, just like that, he couldn’t move or scream anymore. Everything felt more or less numb and so all he could do was observe the Priest as he moved around the workshop.

Before long, he was back with a tray of tools, as well as covered in sterile gear from head to toe.

From the tray a small blade was lifted, and it was only then that the sprout came to realize it wouldn't merely be a repeat of that awful night.

It would be the new worst thing that ever happened to him.

 

---

 

“…Ribcage…Partially reconstructed with leyline wood… Muscle tissue appears to have a wood-like quality as well, firm but not rigid…”

 

He could barely see, yet the light above him was blinding. He couldn’t move, yet he could still distantly feel as the Priest pried him open, layer by layer.

 

“…Fractures…Filled in with a resin-like substance…”

 

Gloved, cold fingers tracing at his bones, poking at his insides. Skin cut and pulled open.

 

“Lungs…Not much different from average human lungs…Strained from past minor illness…”

 

From afar, he heard buzzing. Not long after he felt it, in the middle of his chest, reverberating through his torso. Something was pulled apart.

 

“Hm, the heart…Not much to say, aside from the-” the sprout writhed. “Hey, don’t do that.”

 

There was a sharp pain as something inside his chest was poked at. Delirious, his body tried to protest, but no sound left him - aside from a single, quiet wheeze.

He heard the Priest speak, praising the composition of his innards, confessing under his breath that they were a work of art in their own right. The sprout did not know what he meant by that. He couldn’t ask. He couldn’t see for himself. He couldn't do anything. The Priest pulled at something, and briefly, the sprout felt ill - but he had nothing to regurgitate with. Even if he had, he couldn’t. His throat was sealed shut.

 

“…Once again, not much different from the average intestine…”

He pulled and pulled, rummaged around, hand wrist deep inside him. The sprout heard squelching - lasting forever and longer with each moment passing. He felt lighter, hollow. His stomach was cold. All his insides felt cold, now that they were outsides. Yet the Priest only continued rummaging. There was nothing he could do.

Nothing but to silently weep and hyperventilate when he inevitably woke up in his bed again, feeling a searing, tugging pain running from his chest and down to his stomach. He couldn’t move, either ; only trace the rough rows of thread sticking out of his skin with cold, shaking hands. His mouth and throat felt dry as if he had been fed naught but sand. Never before had he felt this weak, nor thought that it was possible.

Fortunately however, the universe took pity on him and allowed him to drift into unconsciousness, briefly free of pain.

 

---

 

“I opened him up, but I wouldn’t say there was anything of note that you’d like to hear about,” the Priest said over a small glass of dark liquid that smelled like the inside of a furnace. “His anatomy is a work of art, though, I’ll give it that. Never have I thought that leylines could be used to reconstruct a whole being from practically nothing, and so well, too! Why, even if the lad himself is of little to no help, his biology might lead to a breakthrough in making grafts and prostheses for our troops, should we find a way to replicate the reconstruction process!”

To that the Jester nodded, opting to drink tea instead, its sweet fragrance strong in the air, “I assumed that would be of no surprise to you, considering Lesser Lord Kusanali’s nature. As the avatar of the Irminsul, does she not possess similar qualities?”

“Well, I can’t say that for certain, as I did not have the opportunity to get a better look at her so far, given the Sages’ approach to her and our predicament- but I can confidently tell you that even if they did, there’s still a difference between a being born from the Irminsul and someone who was once human having full-body grafts made from Leylines, as-”

Despite being sat on the far end of the workshop for the sake of another procedure, the sprout could very well hear the conversation between the Priest and the Jester, who sat in a room attached to the workshop, discussing his progress - or lack thereof. He listened to it regardless, desperate for any sort of distraction from the ache produced by the stitches across his torso. As if that wasn’t enough, it itched, yet scratching would hurt even more and by then he knew better than to expect any relief for his pain.

“Do you think we’ll be able to put him to good use anytime soon?” the Jester asked, the teacup clinking briefly. “Is there any room for…Improvements?”

“If there was, you would have known by now. It’s hard to make improvements to a body mostly made of wood, when all my existence I’ve only worked with bodies made of either steel or meat, you know? And I’m absolutely not going to give him cybernetic enhancements, they’re unpredictable enough on humans already. We can forget about a Delusion as well, because apparently he can have leyline disorders as well, on top of things like the flu!”

 

The other day, his arm started growing branches at an absurd speed, eventually almost tipping the balance of his body before the Priest was forced to saw them off. Somehow, his food was contaminated with Dendro energy as the guard responsible for feeding managed to steal a Delusion. Not exactly a pleasant experience, but at this point, he could barely remember the last time his existence in itself was pleasant in any way.

“That is rather inconvenient, but that was to be expected : the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, even if the tree does not recognize it as its fruit. However, considering your boundless intellect, I’m sure you’ll inevitably figure out a way to work with his biology,” the Jester sighed, pausing to sip at his tea. “And what of matters beyond the physical?”

Considering the Priest’s words from a previous visit, he expected him to come up empty and swiftly change subjects, likely to talk about his biology. Maybe about his bones again. Anything was more interesting than what was going on inside his head, apparently. To further confirm the sprout’s suspicion, the Priest let out one of his typical laughs, before downing the glass of…Whatever it was that he poured himself before retreating to the side-room. 

“Any day now, Pierro. Though stubborn, he’s incredibly weak of mind. I give it less than two months before he’s willing to cooperate. No human can live in conditions like that without breaking.”

 

After that point in the conversation, the sprout could not recall what else was being said between the two men, their words suddenly incomprehensible to his hearing. He hadn’t gone deaf, no, but he might have as well. Only one sentence reverberated across his thoughts, clear and bright.

No human can live in conditions like that without breaking.

 

Had the Priest’s choice of words been any different, he wouldn’t spend another second thinking about them, let alone so intensely.

 

That’s what Dottore and Pierro want you to believe, that you’re weak : but they forgot the most important thing. You’re not a human. You’re not like them, and therefore, you can’t be broken in the same ways they can. Remember that, and you’ll make it through whatever they throw at you.

 

For the last month and a half - possibly even more - the sprout considered his deity’s words to be ones of hollow comfort, meant only to feed him a lie that would keep him from resisting, complaining, demanding more. Believing so hurt far less than trying to convince himself of God’s non-existent love than accepting the simple truth that there was no true love to begin with; and yet, here it was, His prophecy coming true just around the corner. The sprout didn’t know what to think, everything around him suddenly felt cold. What if it was just a coincidence? It had to be. Surely, God didn’t actually mean it. More than anything at that moment, the sprout wanted to let go of that thought, knowing it to be meaningless and only painful in the long run.

Alas, the carving of a lover left inside him had been louder than any logical thought that crossed the sprout’s mind. After all, God had known both the Priest and the Jester for most of his life, no? With that much time, even the dumbest person to ever live would learn the modus operandi of another person, regardless if they’re a sage or a genius. God was the furthest thing from a fool, too. Therefore, he must have been telling the truth when he bid the sprout farewell, that the two men would try to destroy him into shape- did that also mean he was honest when telling him there would be a chance for him to act? Surely, certainly, that had to be it - so the lover convinced himself, in spite of knowing better than to harbor a hope as vain.

Though aching, confined to an uncomfortable chair and with a needle attached to him and pumping substances unnamed into his forearm - the sprout felt joy. Fleeting and brief in face of everything else - but joy nonetheless, and it was all that took to dismantle the wall of logic and reason he put up over the course of the last few weeks, day after day. After all, he was no God - no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t simply reject happiness as a whole and thus - partially unwillingly - he clamped his jaws around it and wouldn’t, couldn’t let go. Even when the side room opened and both the Priest and the Jester emerged from within, the brief spark refused to go out.

 

“Thank you for coming by, Pierro. Honestly, it’s ridiculous how rarely we get to chat in person, don’t you think?” The Priest closed the door behind him with one hand, wiping his mouth from the black liquid with the other. “There’s always one of me around, after all, and it’s not like you spend all day signing documents and executing orders from the Tsaritsa, either!”

“I unfortunately do, now.” The Jester sighed as he adjusted his coat, likely having taken it off to avoid risking tea spillage upon the white fabric. “I might have left a window or door open in my personal training room, and now it is infested with Rifthounds. Until they’re all gone and for good, the time I’d usually spend on improving my physique has been absorbed into my usual work schedule.”

“He he haha! Tell you what, if you miss exercising that much, I can give you some of my contraptions to bench-press! If you say the word, I can whip you up a tailored sparring partner, if you prefer something more active!”

“As much as I appreciate this offer, I’d rather you focus on the tasks at hand. I see that in the future, we’ll be many, many hands short.”

“Hmm, and what if the contraption was made in Her image? Would you accept it then?”

“Very funny, Zandik . Should I ask the Tsaritsa to exchange our titles and make you the Jester?”

“Only if I get the same prestige and paygrade, hoho!”

Of course, the sprout had no idea what in oblivion they were going on about - aside from the brief mention of his mother - far too preoccupied with the new tale he had begun weaving for himself.

That tale, for once, had been a tale of hope.

---

 

Days went on and the clock’s arms moved relentlessly. Something changed, however. Drastically so.

When the sprout would rise from bed for his first meal, no longer would he force the bland food down his throat immediately, or to try imagining how else the meal could taste. Instead, he found himself thinking : when he gets out, what will he eat? An idea as foreign to him as most written languages - it startled him like an animal that pounced on him from nowhere. Still, he saw that the animal-thought had no bared teeth, its gaze curious and eyes fascinating to peer into. So, he found himself stepping closer, examining it in earnest.

Braised Whopperflower. 

That would be the first thing he’d eat, once he’d get out. He’d set up a trap, like he had before. He’d cook it over a flat stone with fruit and some captured fowl. Maybe a squirrel, they weren’t that fast and their meat was tender. Easy to skin. It wouldn’t be exactly the same meal he had eaten months prior, lacking many seasonings and ingredients, but it’d be something - something that he spent his whole life waiting for.

What then? He’d eat bread. Warm, fresh. Crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside. Golden skin. Maybe if he’d get lucky, he’d manage to steal some butter to eat with it. Warming it over the fire sounded great. Just the thought made his mouth water.

After that? Tea, his deity’s favorite. It tasted and looked like grass, sure, but he missed it all the same. He missed God’s faint smile upon drinking it, cup after cup - even though it didn’t taste good at all in the sprout’s opinion.

Following one thought after another, he didn’t realize that he finished his meal entirely, as he was suddenly faced with an empty plate and a warm fullness in his stomach, It was the first time in months that he felt happy after eating.

 

---

 

How would he leave?

That particular thought plagued him another day, when he was watching the Priest draw on the dreadful clipboard. What was he drawing? The few times the clipboard was put down, he saw incredibly detailed drawings of things he couldn’t begin to reasonably name or make sense of. Some looked like the insides of his God, some depicted a tree. Another depicted an ugly caricature of a mushroom with legs and arms. None of that mattered, yet it still lingered in his memory for a while.

Again, how would he leave? Maybe the Palace had some tunnels leading to the outside. The mountain had small passages all over. Even his hideout had one, narrow and impossible to pass through for the average person. There was no way for the Palace to have been made with only giants in mind. Where would he find one such passage, however? That was one conundrum that almost began wearing down his spirit, as he saw no such passages between his cell or the workshop, and he likely wouldn’t be returning to the Jester’s office any time soon. Even if he did return and somehow managed to jump out the window, he’d have only ten to fifteen seconds of freedom before his head hit the ground - or worse, before he broke both of his legs off.

The mental image alone sent a shiver up his spine, successfully discouraging him from pursuing that particular path of thought any further. Unfortunately, no other idea had made itself known before him before the Priest sighed and put his clipboard away, remembering there was one more thing he wanted from the sprout before sending him off.

When he was cleaning himself in the small shower corner, he asked himself : what clothes would he wear after leaving? Setting the stained, rancid gown ablaze in a bonfire was one thing, but what came after would be another. Pants would be nice, and so would be a shirt as they would provide warmth and protection that the gown just wasn’t capable of giving. What kind of shirts and pants? Granted, he wouldn’t be picky, but in his minds’ eyes he saw himself in long, high waisted pants and a large, white shirt. Perhaps embroidered? No, that was too much to ask for, wasn’t it? 

Only as he lay in his bed, having eaten his third meal of the day, did the well of ideas come up empty and dry. Yet, he mourned that misfortune not, for as he drifted into sleep he thought to himself :

If not today, then surely tomorrow, or the day after that, or even the next he’d get either the opportunity or idea. His eyes closed, and before long, a vague and subtly absurd vision of a blissful future began forming under his aching eyelids - believing it to the fullest.

If God said that one day he’d have his life in his own hands for once, then surely, it must have been true ; and so…

He waited.

Notes:

So. I know I said hello in the first notes, but in reality? It doesn’t seem as though anyone is interested in reading this story anymore, therefore I might as well repurpose this space and use it for some personal notes. Looking back at some of my past works, I have trouble remembering exactly the kind of person I was at the time, besides a vague outline. Since this is somewhat of my magnum opus, might as well document my """"journey"""" here.

So : as of when I’m writing this, my family and I live with my grandmother on account of our lease ending in June. As grateful as I am to my grandmother, somehow living in this fairly large family home has been more desegregating than a rented flat in an apartment block. There’s really no place to exist by myself - even in my designated room, I know what everyone else is doing at just about any given moment. I might very well be sitting next to them. Not exactly optimal, but you make do with what you have, I suppose. Internalizing that what I want, think or feel doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things made it a little easier, though not by much. Especially since I feel like that all my hard work that went into nurturing a healthier, more assertive and independent version of myself will soon land in the trash.

Much like how sprout is unable to recall what Scaramouche looked like, I am gradually becoming more and more unable to imagine a future for myself where I'm not my mother's second wallet and body, always conveniently at arm's reach, ready to drop everything to run to help her, because otherwise she'll threaten to kill herself. Again. At some point I've actually considered throwing away all my art supplies, because the version of me that my mother would benefit from the most doesn't need to make art. And that's without mentioning that my sister, my mother and my grandmother are all birds of a feather - so safe to say, I wasn't surprised to find that ever since my living situation changed into this, my hair is falling out more and more with each wash day. At this rate I might need to start picking the "I'm bald" option in Tumblr polls.

Speaking of being bald, don't listen to the voice in your head telling you to dye your hair at 3 AM in hopes of feeling better. I felt good with the way I looked for exactly two weeks and now I'm stuck with snot colored hair, tempted to just shave my head altogether.

Overall, not a fun time, but I hope that'll change by the time I post the next chapter, as it is a big turning point in this story.

Chapter 17: The Conflagration

Summary:

The kindling, in turn spread far and deep within the once more living Prince. Elated and hopeful, he hid the flame from those who would aim to put it out, tending to it with newfound love for his future, as uncertain as it was. Concealed from prying eyes of the Rime Lady's servants, its roots took deep into the soil - eagerly awaiting the first rays of sun and the thaw that would come with it. Then, and only then, would the flame bloom into a beautiful, uncontainable garden.

Notes:

This is it guys!! The moment we've all been waiting for, the first grand turning point of many! This chapter has been sitting in my drafts waiting to be proofread for...actual years, I think. I'm practically jumping in my seat, I'm so excited!! Sixteen chapters worth of misery will finally pay off!

To properly celebrate, here's an illustration from yours truly!

Thus the sprout waited and waited, for hours, for days, for weeks, for months. Seasons began to pass, flowers grew and wilted, life came into being and returned to the void ; all in a span of what was seemingly no time to the average person, mortal and immortal alike. Nothing even remotely similar could be spoken of the sprout. By then, he had spent more of his life confined within the palace than on the outside, having long since forgotten what the sky looked like. Should one be so meticulous as to translate the sprout’s life and age to that of a normal human being, it would have been similar to a little babe being allowed to experience the outside world for less than two years before locking it in the basement for the next five, ten years without ever intending on letting it leave. Just like the Jester said, anyone would have found themselves either growing up warped or breaking later down the line.

Such applied not to the sprout. His resolve and hope remained undying, guided by his deity’s words that painted a future most would have stopped believing in after the first month of it being unfulfilled. Relentless, he trudged down the path laid out before him, with not one guarantee of that path actually leading to anywhere but his grave.

Each day, he’d wake and eat the food thrown his way and endure the Priest’s rites, shouldering the suffocating loneliness, not once lamenting his fate as his thoughts had been focused on one thing only : planning.

When within the workshop, given that the Priest wasn’t subjecting him to one of his more painful procedures, he began paying mind to the layout of the room itself as well as key features of it. One such feature was the room being sectioned into three : the office, the room with the metal table, and of course, the workshop in which the Priest performed most of his procedures on him, along with working on projects unrelated to the sprout.

Yet, despite the three areas belonging to one room, he noticed that unlike the workshop, the room with the table didn’t have a door connecting it to the hallway, likely to prevent intruder related incidents. The office, meanwhile, had two doors : one through which the Priest would usually accept guests such as the Jester, directly behind his desk and the other that connected to the main workshop. The former required three things to open them : a specific key, a command from the Priest and a code that he’d enter somewhere on the door ; the latter meanwhile seemed to open on its own to anyone with the right clearance. The same applied to the main workshop doors. He never saw the guards pulling out a key or entering a code, so he guessed that whatever triggered the doors to open was somewhere within their uniforms, perhaps hidden in their badges.

Then, the equipment of the rooms themselves. One would think that after spending most of his life sitting in the workshop, he would have begun to make sense of the system in which the Priest organized his things, but that couldn’t be the furthest thing from the truth. The more he tried to understand the rules by which the Priest kept his wide assortment of garbage organized, the more he started to think there were no rules to begin with and that the Priest simply got used to navigating the chaos. Still, he managed to notice a couple consistencies, such as the chemicals he was regularly injected with, which were kept in a tightly locked cabinet. This similarly applied to the needles and the likes, locked away across various drawers, far away from where the sprout was usually restrained. Those in particular were locked with codes, each drawer had a different combination - and even when he tried to look at the Priest’s hands, he could see only two numbers out of a six digit code for one lock, which he wasn’t certain about either. Not much to work with.

The office was entirely out of question, with the only available tools of self defense being a collection of pens meticulously strewn around the main desk that the sprout could try and stab the Priest’s eyes out with at best and do the same to himself at worst. There was also the machine in which he prepared and heated the black, intense smelling slurry the man would either drink or pour into another orifice entirely - but the sprout would need at least ten minutes to figure out how it worked before he could make the concoction with proportions readjusted, so that he could dissolve one of the locks. Or, more realistically, he could just make the regular version of the tar and poison himself with it.

What of the furniture then? Even if he were to get out of his confines, the metal table was too small to hide under and the Priest would be able to drag him out by his hair without as much as leaning down. Or worse, which the sprout didn’t even want to think about, he could buckle him down onto the table by the arms and legs. Almost the same could be said of the table in the main workshop. If he felt like it, the man could throw the entire table over. There was no point in considering chairs : either they were too heavy for the sprout to lift or too light to be any good.

One would ask, what use was knowing the finer details of his helplessness? What good did it do him to know all the ways in which he could fail? The sprout didn’t quite know either, believing himself still a stupid thing incapable of scheming, yet he continued remembering for later. What later, if there was no true promise in an opportunity ever arriving, one might ask again, to which the sprout would simply shrug and say it wasn’t as though there was anything else for him to do, besides curling up in the corner and weeping.

Thus, for weeks he did what he did best : observing and waiting, until the time was right.

Eventually, finally, the day foretold by his deity arrived.

 

---

 

It was a day just like any other. He was given his first meal of the day and not long after, they came to deliver him to the workshop. Once again, he had been confined to his chair, its wood by then worn down to match the sprout’s form. Of course, the Priest himself was already there, preparing what appeared to be a syringe - to a lack of the sprout’s surprise. On the previous visit, the Priest mentioned his interest in how his body and mind would react to stimulants, so of course he’d have them injected only three days later.

“Caffeine and the likes tend to reduce protein production in plants, but increase the alertness and energy of humans. Now, two guesses, which reaction do you think will be more prominent?” he asked, lightly pressing the syringe so as to release a bit of liquid. “I’m willing to bet on the latter. For your sake, you should hope you are not the type to bounce off walls after a bit of coffee.”

Thus, the needle went in and then out, leaving the substance inside him. Nothing new, the sprout wasn’t even wincing by that point. Whilst it took effect, the Priest retreated to his desk, sipping a thick, black sludge from his own teacup, its delicate design so grotesque and unfitting for its contents and surroundings alike. Now, had he actually ingested the substance, it would have taken a while for it to begin affecting him, but with the way things were the change was abrupt, almost headache inducing. His heart started pounding against his rib cage, lungs feeling tight. In that same moment, the grogginess of being roused from sleep not even ten minutes ago had faded away into nothingness, leaving him sharply aware of his surroundings more than ever before. Footsteps beyond the walls of the workshop seemed louder, along which he could hear the faintest sound of people talking to one another ; and if that wasn’t enough, when he turned his attention to the Priest, he could hear him better too, all of him.

It went unnoticed before then, but even the Priest made noises. Not just clicking his tongue, sighing or the occasional compulsive swallowing, which were all typical for the average person. There was a quiet clicking whenever he moved his arms and legs, similar to the faint clicking his God’s limbs and fingers would make, albeit more metallic. Then, the faintest sound of cogs turning, like the insides of a clock. There were pumps too, hissing and exhaling quietly within the Priest’s hollow chest in tandem with melodious vibrating and rhythmical beeping, the latter almost bringing to mind a heartbeat.

Bitterly, the sprout wondered for a moment if his God ever made the same connection, if he ever pressed his head to his Priest’s chest to listen to those sounds to compensate for the lack of his own heart - just as he’d rest his head atop the sprout’s chest once he was done taking love from his flesh.

Upon listening further, he heard that much like his own heartbeat, the beeping increased in volume and pace as the Priest continued sipping on the black sludge. Could half-machines react to chemicals, the sprout asked himself? He soon got his answer as suddenly, the man shot up from his seat, throwing the cup on the wall and nearly flipping over his desk. From his reaction, the sprout concluded that it wasn’t a matter of if they could react, but if they should - and judging by the look on the man’s face, they should not.

For the first and last time, the sprout saw truest, purest horror painted across the Priest’s face.

“…Hold on, hold on, HOLD ON! No- You can’t be serious, what are you doing?! Stop! Stop! Don’t you dare!” he screeched into the empty space before him as he backed away, his chair falling over in the process. “I- No, no, no, no! I REFUSE!”

Startled, the homunculus curled on himself as he watched the scene transpire, equal parts horrified and fascinated : the ever collected and powerful Priest begging a force unseen to stop, just as the sprout begged him many times for no more. That wasn’t all : like a wounded, rabid animal he ran around his domain in circles ; pulling drawers out of their places, ripping doors off cupboards and throwing things off the shelves, frantically searching for something.

“I repeat, you can’t do this! Who gave you the right?! You’re just one voice in our collective! You’re nothing! NOTHING!”

Inevitably, the panicking lead the Priest closer and closer to the sprout, yet not once did the man look his way as his rummaging reached even more containers, their contents carelessly thrown onto the nearest flat surfaces, where he’d hysterically pick through them before running off to another side of the workshop, nearly crashing into another piece of furniture.“I-I need to turn off the connection, fuck! Where the fuck is a screwdriver when I need one?!” he screamed at no one in particular, or more accurately, at his own organization system - or lack thereof. By then, the beeping was nearly equal in volume to his yelling. “Shit, shit, SHIT!”

There were nearly no more cupboards and shelves left to empty, and time was running out for the Priest. Afraid and desperate, he instead ran to one of the tables closer to the sprout, where next to a broken project lay an old hammer. With a firm hold, he picked it up, immediately wedging the sharper, thinner part of the hammer between the mask and his face. Dark, oil-like blood began trickling down his face onto the floor - yet still, the Priest kept pulling at the hammer, his eyes ablaze with rage.

With almost no effort, the mask eventually popped off his head and fell onto the dark puddle at his feet. A manic grin spread across the man’s face, in spite of the insides of his head being bare to the world : wires upon wires, wrapped around and connected to a metal frame that somewhat resembled a skull, in the middle of it one naked eyeball with a rapidly dilating and shrinking pupil. Even more oil-like blood gushed from where the hammer had broken a tube or two. For none of those things could the Priest care any less. Instead, he stuck his fingers directly into the cluster of wires, laughing hysterically. The beeping grew faster and faster. 

“Not today, and not like this, you egoistical prick!” the Priest cackled, pulling and pushing at the wires. “Oh, hoho ho! You’re going to pay, alright! I’ll make you pay for ruining our lives’ work, he he ha ha hoho- Ack!” He pulled too hard, and in result, fell forward as his knees suddenly made a strange, hissing noise. To that the sprout let out a single squeak, subconsciously convinced the Priest suddenly decided to lunge at him. How did the man react to that? Simply, like always. With more laughter as he realized the reasoning behind the sprout’s response.

“Oh, don’t worry, as soon as I get this under control, our little examination is back on!” he reassured the homunculus. “I- Just… Need to find… The switch! Ack! Agh!”

In the end, the frantic rummaging only made it worse. More tubes broke and cracked in the process, never designed for such abrupt movements or prying. He continued to tug at the wrong wires, his limbs flailed and momentarily went limp, his face contorted into grimaces otherwise impossible, his eyes rolled around, uncoordinated, jaws hung open, the laughter by then turned into one continuous gargle-like sound. Still, it wasn’t enough to silence the beeping.

It wasn’t enough to save him.

Eventually, the beeping got too loud even for the sprout, as he too started fearing what would happen next. The Priest already likely knew, as he stopped pulling at the insides of his head, instead grabbing at the sides of it, nearly ripping all of his hair from his scalp. His screaming, previously of anger and desperation, was now one of fear and realization alike. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but curse.

“Curse you, Lesser Lord! Curse you Omega! You will all regret this- Argh!!” He stumbled forward once more, his knees trembling. “C-Curse you, you little puppe— A-Agh!!”

With one final shriek, the Priest fell to his knees. The beeping stopped and the sprout hid behind his arm, expecting something horrible to happen.

What followed was a small explosion, right behind the Priest’s eyes. It wasn’t enough to shoot them out of his sockets, no, but the sprout could very clearly hear the sparks and smell the scent of something burning. Above all, he could see the smoke and oil-blood coming out from behind his eyeballs. Only for a moment, as he fell face first onto the floor, never to get up again.

Right in front of the still confined sprout, who remained stiff and silent.

Wide eyed, he stared at the unmoving body laid before him, at the puddle steadily blooming beneath it, both petrified and fascinated by the sight. His body no longer made any sounds of any kind, each cog, pump and engine had come to a halt. Nothing but complete silence, unbefitting of a man as erratic as the Priest, and yet there he was, stiff and motionless like a fallen tree. Somehow, deep down, the sprout knew they wouldn’t come to life again, and yet, the terror stopped him from doing anything. So, he sat there for a while, the sharp scent of the Priest’s artificial blood filling his nostrils as he observed the man in disbelief. It was far from being his first time seeing a corpse up close, so what was the true source of that disbelief? Some form of morbid attachment, formed from constantly being around the Priest and witnessing him at his best and worst moments all the same? Or had it simply never occurred to him that the Priest was not exempt from the Principle of Death, in spite of his existence fundamentally defying life on every level?

Whichever it was, it no longer mattered.

“…Doctor, are you dead?” the sprout eventually croaked out, uncertain. “…Hello? Doctor?…I’m about to pee myself..?”

He wasn’t, actually. By then he knew the Priest would rather drop everything he’s doing than have his own workshop contaminated like that. If he pretended to be dead, he would have definitely gotten up, considering his proximity to the sprout’s chair.

Nothing happened. He didn’t move a single finger.

That was all the sprout needed to know the already clear for certain - the brief moment of confirmation switching something in the sprout, his mind in an instant jumping from fearful stagnation to the same frantic desperation the Priest felt moments ago.

The moment finally arrived. His fate was at last in his hands.

Mind devoid of needless thoughts, he proceeded to drag himself and the chair closer to the man, even going as far as jumping in it. Gods knew how much time he had before someone came rushing in, having heard the screaming. He needed to act right then and there, or else waiting his entire life for this moment would have been for naught, no? Once he was close enough, he leaned down as much as he could, putting his one free hand into the Priest’s pockets. He saw him putting the key to the shackle in one of them, and he certainly didn’t pull it out while searching for a tool to lift his mask with. So, surely enough, after pushing past countless other clutter, he eventually found the small ring of keys. By then he remembered exactly which one was for the chair, and thus with only a bit of a struggle, the shackle popped open.

He didn’t think twice before jumping out of the chair, but just as he was about to run for the door with the keys, his eyes stopped on the corpse at his feet and just for a moment the world seemed to come to a standstill, but as loud as the reasonable part of his brain screamed at him, he couldn’t bring himself to look away, let alone move.

Then, like a cyst - the months of being hurt in every way imaginable - burst in a hot white stream of blind, numbing rage.

He heard an animal-like shriek and he felt his leg flying forward.

“Eat shit! Eat shit!” To his inner horror, by the time he realized the shriek came from him, his foot landed at the back of the Priest’s head. “I hate you, I hate you! Stay dead, you–!”

There was more screaming, yet the rest of it wasn’t even close to being remotely coherent. By the time it came to an end, his throat was hoarse and he was out of breath but most importantly, his mind was clear like it hadn’t been… his whole life, basically.

With that clarity it dawned upon him that he was running out of time. Before he next blinked, he stood at the doors with the keys in hand, hoping one of them would fit the inside lock. Yet, just as he was about to insert the first key into the hole, his mind screamed at him to stop. Since there was no way no one heard the screaming, someone would come check on the workshop. If he ran out now, he’d likely bump into the masked people in coats - and they’d kill him on sight.

Before he could even begin to ask himself what else he could do in that case, an idea entered his thoughts, bright and clear as the sun.

Thus, instead of running out into the hall, he approached a drawer - namely, the drawer to which he knew parts of the code for. Two digits out of six, the second and the sixth. To his dread, he saw that none of the numbers aligned - the Priest must have covered his tracks after each time he opened and closed the drawers, which left him with only one option. Cold dread washed over him in an instant.

Guards would come in at any second, and he had to guess the other four numbers before they came. His hands shook and his knees felt weak - but it was much too late to go cower in a corner. Holding his breath, he began sliding the numbers he knew into place, before quickly trying the rest.

030002 didn’t work. Neither did 230002, nor did 130002 when he remembered to try that as well. He could have used a notebook and a pen to start writing down the combinations that didn’t work, as well as time to get one, but he had none of those things. Increasingly more frustrated, he continued trying.

Would the Priest use a random combination? No. Remembering a random number per each drawer would be too much trouble for him, the sprout could say that much. It had to have meaning of some kind. Something that he wouldn’t be able to forget.

He rotated the numbers a few more times, still to no avail. By then his fingers were becoming damp with sweat, so was his forehead. He was struggling to breathe. Even worse, he was struggling to think of things that were important to the Priest and how they could be translated to numbers.

The sprout knew he admired his Mother’s work, but what number could have been possibly associated with her? Another combination failed and his heart skipped a beat. On numerous occasions, the Priest mentioned being a student of the Akademiya and the story of how he got kicked out from there - but how could that be ciphered in only six numbers? His number in the student list? The amount of hours he spent ripping his hair out over written work? The funding he received for his rejected projects? The year of his expulsion?

Revelation suddenly struck him like lightning : it could have been a date. The first two digits could have been the month while the other four were the year. That would have made sense and aligned with the Priest’s line of thinking - but what year?

Could it have truly been the year of expulsion? The year of his own birth? The year he was found by the Jester, wandering in the desert? The year his original body died? He was around for five hundred years, for God’s sake! He didn’t have time to check 6000 possible dates! He was seconds away from giving up on the lock entirely and thinking of another plan at the last minute, or better yet, flipping the cabinet over altogether and hoping there wasn’t anything explosive or corrosive inside. Frustrated, he groaned and hit his head on the lock. What else was important to him and only him? Something he’d remember at the tip of his tongue?

Hm. Tongue.

If there was one thing that was consistent in the Priest’s derangement, it had to be his love of running his tongue. Constantly going on tangents, almost as if trying to get the sprout into a conversation, even if he was in the middle of draining his blood. Not only that, but there was complaining. Rants. The loudest of them all were about God.

God.

Of course. The Priest was obsessed with him. Loved him, as one loves a work of art, a passion project they put too much work into to back out - even if it no longer brought the sense of joy. It was so obvious the sprout almost hit his head on the lock once again, but he was too close to lose anymore time. He needed to think. Assuming the code even was a specific date, which date relating to God would the Priest pick?

He stopped fiddling with the lock as suddenly, he remembered.

“Tell you what, I should finally do right on my word and build that damn time machine, just so I can go back to 1501 and take a piss all over the woman’s blueprints! Not just the blueprints, but whatever parts and tools she made him with! Maybe piss on her too, while I’m at it!”

Then he grimaced, because he actually didn’t mind forgetting about that last part - but it was the only clue he had. If God’s mother had not yet created him in the year 1501, then the year 1502 would have been the year of God’s birth. That wasn’t all.

Once, long ago, God told him he was born on the third day of the year.

With his breath still and fingers cold with dread, he tried one more number.

 

031502.

There was a soft click and the drawer came loose.

“YES!” the sprout shouted and something pulled him upwards as he jumped up and down in place, before realizing that something was victory. He had forgotten how it felt. “KISS MY ASS! I GOT IT!”

With that crude remark, he pulled the drawer open and from within took one of the tools, promptly slamming it closed. With that done, he ran back and hid behind the Priest’s desk, watching the door with his breath held as tightly as the tool in his hand.

For the last time, waiting would be the only thing he could do.

 

---

 

Just as expected, not long after the door opened and two people out of breath came rushing in - both gasping in shock as soon as their eyes laid on the Priest, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. Without even bothering to check their surroundings, they went in forward, looking over the corpse.

“Lord Harbinger, can you hear us?” one of them asked, tentatively tugging at his limp shoulder. “If you can, please give us a sign!”

No reply. No sign either.

“…Shit, it really is happening to all the Segments everywhere! This is bad! What’s even going on in Sumeru? Any reports or news?!”

“Last report we got was twelve hours ago, and it said that since they successfully plugged Lord Scaramouche into the E.L.A.W. they were about to start uploading the Divine Knowledge capsules into his brain,” the other person answered, taking a step back as they crossed their arms. “Radio silence since then. Something bad must have happened.”

“…Two, if not three Harbingers down in one year or so, huh. I’m starting to think the Tsaritsa’s plan isn’t as meticulous as we were told.”

“Shut it! This isn’t the time!” the second voice hissed back as they still crouched over the Priest’s corpse, before their gaze laid on the empty chair to the side of his body. “…Hang on a second-”

It was much too late then. Just as one of them took a step back, the sprout silently got up from behind the desk and walked over to them, not once making a sound. His breath was steady, and so were his footsteps. There wasn’t an ounce of indecision in his grasp over the tool as he brandished it right behind one of the guards. Unlike Whopperflowers, they couldn’t sense him from movement alone ; unlike the goblins, they couldn’t hear him coming from far away, too focused on their own conversation, nor could they hear him crouching as in one, swift movement buried the scalpel in the back of the guard’s knee. An almost deafening howl of pain rang out as the man suddenly fell to his knees, only cutting in deeper, resulting in another pained scream. Quickly, the sprout pulled the scalpel back out, blood immediately spraying onto his gown and his face. Any other day, the feeling of something warm pouring down his face would have disgusted him. Not today.

Just as the man fell down, yet before his companion could do anything about it, the sprout grabbed his jaw with as much strength as he could muster before sinking the blade into the man and sliding it across his throat. More blood sprayed onto his hands and thus did the man fall, clutching at his throat as his life spilled between his fingers and onto the floor. To that the other guard, a young woman, didn’t remain unresponsive. As quickly as she could, she began getting on her feet whilst also drawing her weapon from her scabbard. The sprout, otherwise not weighed down by a uniform or weapon, was quicker to deliver his own blow. Usually, the soldiers of the snowy land would cover their eyes, be it with solid masks or bandages. This one, unfortunately for her, had a mask which precisely lined out the location of her eyes.

When it pierced through, the woman shrieked, briefly stunned from the sudden sting that shot through her head - and again, as the sprout pushed it deeper with his other hand, before she finally let out one miserable gargle as the blade made it too deep for it to be retrieved. With a thud, her body fell to the side, still twitching for a while as blood slowly trickled from where her eye had been just a while ago.

From beyond himself the sprout watched the scene that unfolded before him. Three bodies spread in bloody disarray, at the center of it a frail, bloodied little thing. It looked at its own hands and the redness clinging to them, pooling at its feet. Momentarily, the sprout was inclined to believe it a part of a dream he fell into whilst sedated - only shook out of it when the warm, sticky blood finally made it to his feet, crawling under them. He took a step back, taking in a deep breath of shock as reality began to dawn on him.

If he wasn’t going to be shot on sight before, he was going to be now for certain. How was he to get out now, with the evidence of his transgression splattered all over him? Even more people would come running soon enough, and he wouldn’t be able to hide as easily then. It was entirely out of the question. What now, what now?

The answer was revealed to him not too long after by his very own hands ; his body suddenly hunched over the now dead woman, ripping and pulling her uniform off her body and throwing them onto the floor where the blood still didn’t reach until she was left only in the thinnest of garments.

 

Of course. He’d get out of here the same way he got there - by pretending to be someone else. 

 

It was so ironic it almost made him want to chuckle under his nose. Almost. Instead in solemn silence he pulled the woman’s clothes on top of his gown, successfully concealing the bloodstains and soon after put on her shoes so as to not leave bloody footprints on his way out. To further secure the illusion, he wrapped her coat tightly around himself, before finally pulling the mask off from her face as well. As he did, he made sure not to look at it too much as he wiped it clean from blood, before putting it on himself.

For there was no mirror in the workshop, he had no choice but to leave the room as he was, before it was too late.

With shaking hands, he approached the door and just as he suspected, the door opened on its own, responding to the proximity of the badge - hesitating still as he walked through the doorway, for once not in shackles and accompanied by guards. He looked around, his gaze landing on the hallway which led back to the cells and by habit, his legs nearly carried him there, back to his coffin. He realized that if he were to walk the other way, he’d never see his bed again, nor the carvings he worked so hard on. He’d never again wake to the crude albeit kind smile of his God’s portrait. It hurt to think about ; that thousand times cursed place was the closest thing he ever had to a home, and maybe the closest thing he would ever have to one.

His fear of being caught was stronger than his grief, of course, thus he had turned around and went the other way, from where he had first come many months ago, not once looking back.

His path outside had been an easy one to follow. Crowds of other soldiers frantically passing him by didn’t spare him a single glance, far too occupied with the disaster at hand. Some were running back and forth delivering messages and orders, the other trying to fix the messes they were assigned to. Every few seconds, he’d see the soldiers carrying an iteration of the Priest on stretchers in varying degrees of destruction. All without fail bleeding from holes in their faces, which were frozen in everything between horror, desperation and rage. The sprout couldn’t help but look at each one as they passed him by, thinking :

Did his God foresee this? No, no. The better question would be of whether or not he orchestrated it - because how else could one explain all of them breaking at once? At such a convenient time, no less. Could it be that with finally achieving true divinity, he simply no longer needed the Priest and thus cast him aside? To make room for him, his one true believer? His fickle heart raced with hope, but as he was not in the position to dwell further on that idea, he simply marched forward and between the otherwise unsuspecting crowds.

With enough trial and error his feet eventually carried him to a familiar place, one that he hadn’t seen in a very, very long time. A small room with only a desk and some drawers in it, by which sat the senior lieutenant, writing vigorously in documents spread over the desk, muttering under his nose. Though the sprout had changed almost beyond recognition, the man looked the same as on the day when he was first delivered to the palace, albeit more stressed. He steered his gaze away from the man, instead continuing his walk to where the exit was - where it should have been.

“Hold it.”

With those words alone, the sprout’s body had frozen, down to his veins and the blood that flowed within. Panic slowly began to trickle in, the man’s gaze weighing heavy on his back. Surely, he couldn’t recognize him just like that. It had been months, and he was covered from head to toe. Not even his hair was visible. Nothing should have given away his identity, so how?

“Where do you think you’re going?” the senior lieutenant asked, further raising his eyes up from the documents. “Any good reason?”

At that moment the sprout couldn’t decide whether he was more relieved or panicked. What was he supposed to say? No longer did it appear that the man recognized him, sure, but what if he accidentally blew his own cover? He needed to think : what would one of the real soldiers actually say in that situation? How did that woman who first brought him here speak?

“…I have to deliver a message, as well as a request for supplies,” he answered, deepening his voice. “I wasn’t let in on the details, but it’s very urgent.”

His answer hung in the air for a while as the senior lieutenant seemed to rotate it around in his head, checking it for inconsistencies that could be proof of impersonation. Or was he merely overwhelmed by the sudden influx of people coming in and out resulting from one of their leaders dropping dead, unable to reply just yet? Tense, the sprout didn’t even turn around to face him, lest it would dig his grave further down. He heard a faint hum, followed by scratching of pen against paper.

“Get out of my face,” the man grumbled, leaning his chin onto one of his palms, so as to prevent his head from collapsing face first into an inkwell. “Don’t even pull your identification out. Just go deliver that message and get back when I have either the time or additional two arms to fill out the entry log on top of everything else. Just go.”

The lieutenant received nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment before the sprout stormed off, barely believing that he had gotten away. Soon enough, even the lieutenant’s desk became nothing but a distant, blurry speck that he didn’t look back upon as he found himself surrounded. Giants, akin more to bear than human, clad in heavy cloaks, covered head to toe, all walking in the direction of the exit. Briefly he heard some ask him about his lack of clothing appropriate for the weather. In similar fashion, they all received the same answer that he’ll figure it out. That was about as much as he could utter, his heart clogging up his throat, expecting one of them to rip the mask off his face, exposing his charades to everyone else who stood waiting for the gates to open.

He waited for naught, he soon learned. After a while of waiting, squished between the giants, the gate opened.

Just like that, they let him and everyone else out. Beyond the heavy doors, he saw snow. Brown and patted down under the weight of hundreds of people who came in and out. Fear tightened its grasp over him. Something deep within refused to take those few steps further, begging him to turn back around and return to his previous confines. Why? They were familiar, simple as.

Against it all, he took a deep breath and marched forward. A wave of crispy, freezing air struck him in the face, forcing him to lower his head. The cold air prickled his eyes like needles (he’d know), yet the feeling was nothing short of… exhilarating. When was the last time he felt wind on his face? When was the last time that cold chewed away at his fingertips and feet? When was the last time he could see his own breath as a cloud of steam? Doubt made way for excitement, making itself known furthermore by having the sprout walk faster, faster and faster - until he was running - not stopping until the outermost walls of the Palace were far, far behind him, not until he was out of breath, until the cold was stabbing at him from the inside of his lungs.

Then, only then, did he wipe at his eyes to look upon the sky above, where his eyes were met with a dark, endless and impenetrable nothingness.

With each second that he spent on gazing into the abyss, the more he felt as if at any given moment his feet would choose to no longer stay firm on the ground, sending him falling upwards into the void for all eternity. Entertaining the thought seemed anything but appealing to the more reasonable and still somewhat sane side of his brain, but of course it wouldn’t be as easy as that, for he found himself unable to pull his eyes away from the sky.

Raw and explosive, euphoria filled his chest with a warmth overwhelming to the point of his very eyes and throat burning with words that ached to be spoken ; thus he obeyed. At once a roar of hearty, genuine laughter left him and it continued, the empty wastes around him filled with naught but the sound of the wind and his hysterical howling that left him breathless and teary eyed. Even when that came to a halt and he opened his eyes, he had yet to find himself back within his cell. No walls were to be found, trapping him in ; only those belonging to the Palace, and even those lingered far in the distance when he looked back, wiping at his eyes.

He’d made it. He’d really made it.

Just like how God said it would be - shame, hot and piercing, began prickling away at his insides. How could he? How could he ever doubt his love and wisdom so, and then still have the audacity to call himself his lover and follower? Indeed, just like he and the Priest both said, he was a fool - and he’d pay the price for this insolence, surely. Gladly, he’d accept that punishment on the day of its arrival ; for now, however, he needed to abide by his deity’s command.

The sprout had to head south - albeit he didn’t know where south could even be. All he knew was that forward there was freedom and backward there was nothing. Once he’d have the opportunity to make a stop, he’d think what to do next. No time for that now.

Thus, he turned back around and started walking.

Notes:

So, first things first, story related notes!
- I wrote that "Damn, 3 Harbingers are out of commission, maybe the Tsaritsa's plan isn't that good after all" line long, long before Natlan, and it's honestly delightful to see it aged like wine.
- The drawer code lock was actually a pretty late addition. In the first draft, sprout just grabbed a scalpel from somewhere and waited for the goons to show up. However, I felt like after so long, a simple escape wouldn't be nearly as satisfying, so I went back and threw Dottore mentioning the year of Scaramouche's birth into his monologue about their failing marriage. Coincidentally enough, it also ended up being one last piece of Dottore characterisation that both me and my proof reader really enjoyed.
- So, the senior lieutenant from...Chapter 3, I think! I intentionally left it ambiguous whether or not he actually recognized the sprout and consciously let him go. Either way, it doesn't matter anymore.

Now, for the life update!
Still not a fun time. My hair isn't falling out as much anymore, so that's a plus - my family and I still live in my self-centered control freak grandma's attic though. Would not recommend it to anyone. But at the very least, my relationship with my mother isn't as strained as it was back in early August and honestly, now I can't blame her for threatening to kill herself. If I had to move in back with my self victimizing, self obsessed mother who treats me like a misbehaving ten year old when I'm in my late 50s with three adult children, I'd definitely be suicidal as well. It doesn't help that her family isn't particularly helpful either, constantly excusing my grandmother's egoism and emotional abuse because it's more convenient to just say "Well, she slept in a cardboard box when she was a toddler, so who are you to criticize her?" instead of confronting her about it, especially with my mother as the black sheep of the family.

That aside, I retract my earlier advice to not listen to scissors calling you at 3 AM. You should absolutely listen to the scissors. Worst case scenario you'll end up with an alternative bob or pixie cut. It'll grow back anyway. ... Probably.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading until the end. I promise you there is plenty more to come - all in due time.

Until then, if you have any thoughts, I'd be delighted to hear them all regardless of what they are, as long as they're not downright malicious.

For more updates and chit chat, my tumblr is @rhineposting!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Exile of the Kohlenprinz