Chapter Text
I suppose these things are meant to start at a beginning.
A boy
A babe. Covered in blood. Nearly smothered by the still-warm bodies above. A fortunate leftover. From a raid, from a beastly onslaught- I know not the truth, waiting to perish at the threshold of the elements. Plucked before its embrace too early.
I was taken in and told I was different, when old enough to understand. Unnecessary. It was more than apparent- horns, tail, a devil, the other children mocked. The little cretins gained some triumph reminding me at every opportunity. Their parents- the ones who tended a farmstead and so graciously housed this devil, because more children equates to more labor, would lightly chide them for insults that went too far. And yet, displayed on weary faces, the word echoed behind their callous eyes as well.
My hands were put to work. It kept me busy, at first, brutish tasks- hauling, tilling, and the like. But I was much smaller than the others, unable to endure, and was confined to chores less dependent on stature. Endless hours in sweat and soil. Though amongst the disorder of the other children, I was sometimes afforded time alone, time I cherished, in the quiet, away from torment. Until I began to see things. Things that either I, mere mortal, was not meant to witness or, perhaps, were never really there at all. I would describe for the others- an olive toned creature which visited the stead often. It was short, bearing a hooked beak-like nose and a beady stare. It spoke with familiarity to me, whispering things I struggle to recall now. 'Nothing good can come of it,' I was told, 'Stay away from the fey,' most said, 'Follow it, see what happens,' the worst of them taunted. I heeded the former, turned my back to it, did not respond to its calls. And eventually, it stopped appearing to me. I thought that was the end.
But while toiling, the
A prominent memory just appeared in my mind. A decennary old, methinks. Before it is forgotten-
There had been another crusade upstream. We all saw the smoke, smelled the searing flesh, expected to be next on the block. Yet the panic passed us by. In its wake, we were later visited by selfless paladins making their rounds. It must have been after this- days later, on the bank of the freezing river by the pens, a glitter amongst mud caught betwixt stone and stick. I twisted it ‘round, it shone in the light, every color imaginable and then some, beautiful, perfect, cold against my already chilled skin, but a fire remained where it touched. A jingle to the ears, music I had never heard before. My first piece of gold- a single earring. I kept it hidden neath my pillow for some time, carefully gazing at its grace when I was sure everyone else had gone to sleep. Until one night I gained too much confidence and attempted to pierce myself, to hang it where it belonged. Little Borin caught me. He yanked it free of my lobe while smirking that smug fucking grin he always wore, then ran, giddy to see me punished, gleefully presenting my treasure to his father. This of course was not the first time I was beaten, though it was certainly a very memorable one. If they thought the lesson would stop me from hiding things, stop the desire from wanting more, they were mistaken. It is almost inducing laughter now, but their reprimands only bolstered my yearning to see the glorious glint of that precious metal again. I suppose when you lack something in your childhood you do spend a lot of time thinking about it.
Unfortunately, I earned myself a shorter leash after that display. Granted undesirable work, according to them- slaying, skinning, draining, sifting through innards, sitting in the stench. And the other children’s incessant harassment only worsened with age as I grew accustomed to the gory corner I had been assigned. It became natural to me, therapeutic even, seeing the inner workings of life laid bare, having dominance over its fate. The others said I was demented, for how could I not cry for their favorite cow, Blanc? Or some other goat or chicken they named something equally dull. I told them, 'These animals do not possess the intellect capable of understanding mortality. A natural death as opposed to a stolen one makes no difference.' Mayhap not put quite so eloquently, as at that age I hardly carried the diction available in my pocket now. Regardless, the children did not find the explanations altogether entertaining. They would be so cruel… and there are many, many deeds they performed that I would rather forget, thus I will not mention them here. It all made me better at concealing my deeper thoughts and emotions, anything they would use to their advantage, and better at stashing the meager little things I could get my hands on. Careful, was I, to ensure that they would not be snatched away from me again. I was content enough with the everyday scrapes, bruises, cuts, blisters, heartache- they were bearable, as long as I had something to myself. Something that was mine alone.
Soon, not only those shiny things, but the discovery of my voice. It started with humming, evolved into song, occupying the spare hours- at first, merely to pass the time, to distract, imitating the bright tinkling sound I was so fond of, something to keep me company when it was not around. And I noticed that people were kinder when they heard it. The only one who ever sang along was delicate Adeline. She had a nice voice too. Although, she never stood up for me against the oppression of the other children. That did not stop a foolishly budding hope that one day she would.
The turning point was when I saw the fey creature again. It did not approach this time, only smiled from a distance. A smile that made every hair along my body stand on end. I cannot forget it.
Adeline had a rabbit. It was fat and cute and ill-mannered. The only time I was allowed to pet it I received a nasty bite in exchange, which I did not blame it for, it was only a critter doing what it knew best with its feeble tiny brain. I liked the thing, I did. I stood beside Adeline as she smiled down at her rabbit and I pretended that the smile she held was directed at me instead. I closed my eyes, just to blink for a second- everything went black before I saw the warm insides of my eyelids, and when I opened them again- it was like waking from a pleasant dream.
A pleasant dream it was not. The muddled, quickly-fading version of the actual nightmare which had occurred was escaping my head rapidly. The present, beating it back into submission. Red. On my hands, under my nails, staining the clothes I wore, smeared across my face. Not dissimilar to everyday work. But then, a taste on my tongue, mixed with a few long hairs. Adeline shrieked. My ears rung with her bellows as she bolted out of the pen that was occupied by her beloved animal no more. Just a stained carcass ripped apart in the same way I would begin dressing normal livestock.
I cried, I heaved, I did not know why I did what I did. I still don’t. But I knew what was coming. Nothing could be wiped away. There was no hiding. I was the lone bloody remnant once more.
They locked me in the pen until the pool at my feet was nearly dry, until a man smelling of sweat and sour fruit, I now recognize as wine, arrived. He had a name like Joss or Shoss or something or other close to that. The up-and-down look he gave, as his eyes passed over my entirety was as if I was a freshly cooked steak, while speaking quickly, curtly, haggling with them. Over my value. My young fears would not abide. I stood there shaking, still barely sticky, dreading how much worse things could be. When they at last came to an agreeance, he took me away from the family that never was one. And the hungry smile he showed made it clear he felt like he got a deal. Thus, I felt like I was never more worthless.
He asked me of what I knew- 'Skills, expertise, anythin,' he said in this thick unplaceable accent. I was too frightened to even speak. 'Surely, there must be somethin,' he huffed. 'Somethin ta ensure ya a brighter future than the one yer worryin bout,' he said. Something to put significantly more coin into his pocket, I thought. 'Think harder,' he repeated darkly, 'Yer life does depend on it after all.' I surely believed him. He brought me to a bathhouse where I was cleaned up of the caked-on grime. It was there that I met the first other tiefling I had ever seen. There, that I learned I was not the only devil. She spoke sweetly, too sweetly, told me I was cute, adorable, words that I couldn't agree were meant for the likes of me. But like a gullible animal, an instinctive unknown comfort pulsed within at her ever gentle touch. While I remember it being difficult to push down the anticipated terror on the horizon, she made me smile nonetheless, and we talked, laughed, and sang together, as I was dressed in a material softer than anything my fingers had touched before. She plaited my hair, brushed paint and powder over blemishes, and when I was deemed presentable she said it was time to depart. I asked if I would ever see her again, optimistic, ignorant, and she responded with a sad smile, 'No,' or, 'Not likely.'
Joss-Shoss-something was waiting with another wide grin when he greeted me again, for he intended to offload the goods that I was unto someone else before my stomach grew too hungry and he had to resort to wasting any more investment. 'Now that ya look the part, all ya haveta do is sing like ya did with her,' he said. I realized later that woman's job was likely to test, to gauge my worth for him. It taints the memory of her now.
The carriage whisked us off to some auction house in a part of the city I did not recognize, full of well-to-do looking attendees, watching eyes. I was pushed on stage, in plain view of scrutiny. My heart pounded, incessant beat, reaching my ears. 'Sing,' the crooked man behind me hissed, clenching my shoulder. I obeyed. While attempting to move with grace, the most beautiful song known to me left my lips, reaching for the power that built inside when I desperately longed for something. My voice stretched itself to its limits. The tides did not tenderly ebb, they crashed, again and again, commanding any who heard, to listen. Only to me.
My head felt light, vision pulsed, yells, bids, rang out. I did not stop singing. The face of the man who dragged me there was alight. The number he expected, increasing with every second- more. Much more.
A wealthy house won this body. The House of Corvus.
Chapter Text
The true beginning- The House became aware of the fact that I did not foster skills of pen and prose, just one of the many things taught to me relentlessly quickly.
And it took some time, some confidence, some reminder of indignity, to start this journey.
The name Corvus is akin to a raven. I gathered that this was one of the reasons the family acted so excitable when acquiring me, murmuring endearments like, 'Our new gorgeous black bird,' or, 'Tiny Songbird,' or some other variation of the phrases. Trialing- what would suit their newest trinket. That is, until they gifted me a new name.
Caelum.
The lady of the House illustrated in her far more fetching language, 'It means the sky is yours.' I might as well forget the other name, the one that harbors filth, I shan’t even jot it. Better to bear the title given by a family that actually chooses to hold me close, one that showers me with admiration. Although… all of their compliments are more foreign than they realize. I show them appreciation but at the same time my insides tighten at each praise. Who am I supposed to believe? Them, or the years of spit and disgust?
And yet…
I cannot help but crave the admirations still. Please, do continue to tell me how I am beautiful and wanted. Perhaps if I hear the acclaims enough, it will someday smother that awful twang in my chest, the hidden voice saying, 'You are wrong.' Yes, yes, shallow am I, like any other. Gorgeous? Absurd. Even with all of the resplendent things to be dressed in, it is but a skin waiting to be peeled off, as I remain the devil I was born as. The demon who could so easily end a life with his bare hands and not feel remorse, no, no, I cannot feel sorry for what I did- the catalyst that brought me here. How could I harbor anything but twisted elation? Be anything but grateful for the act committed? But fear of it knocks… I still know not what drove me to madness… and I do not intend to tell anyone about it. Thankfully, they have not asked.
For now, I beg that distance from that place be the end of the phantom fey creature’s assault or my manifestation of it which surely only promises ruin.
I was immediately granted my own quarters once readied within their esteemed estate. Soft sheets, silk clothes, polished shoes, shiny toys, lavish meals- anything I could ever ask for and more. And when I was finally alone and sure no one would hear, I cried as if I was being torn apart from the inside. Everything luxurious, in abundance. So many, to them- commodities, to I- concepts, I never knew, never experienced. Even this gift of a no-longer blank journal- opulent beyond description. The leather- eel, I presume, supple and strong with that unique stripe. I am living some kind of fairytale, is what I thought on those first few days while I lied awake as long as I could, pushing back the sleep, for fear that when I woke it would all vanish and I would be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere not so kind and accommodating.
When the lady of the house finally saw the physical scars left of my past, she asked, only once, 'How did they come to be?' And in noticing my uncomfortable quietness in response to her question, I was not pressed. She retreated, out of the room, returning quickly with a cluster of brightly colored vials clinking together in her hands. I was urged to take a small dose of each, in front of her, 'To ensure it worked,' she said. Nervously, I did as instructed. I drank, feeling nothing, but just as the last bottle’s cork settled back in place she held my wrist, thumb brushing over old raised ridges. She was unreadable, focused, miles away, as my arm tickled at the touch of her creped hand speckled with age spots. She is quite attractive. Not that I am attracted to her, not in that sense. She simply has an appeal about her- commanding, self-assured, yes, but not in intimidation, unless she willed it, not aggressive, more- you would be happy to give yourself to her entirely, of your own free will. She is smooth, she drawls, everything is intentional and she gets whatsoever she desires. What a nice position to be in, and to share, with lucky me. I should have been more open with her, though admitting the pain, giving it more presence in this world than it already has, feels like taking a step back in the direction of a life I wish to bury. Let us not talk of it, let us pretend that I am yours by birth and that these wounds are nothing more than childhood accidents.
After about a minute of stroking my arm, she and I noticed a shift- the scars had lightened, only slightly, but I saw. I knew my own skin well following years of applying salves and bandages. Her face changed to that of satisfaction. I could no longer pretend. Tears brimmed as I struggled to dam them back and her grip on me tightened, 'Why does this make you sad?' She asked, voice steady, 'There is nothing to cry about. Soon it will all be better.'
I believe someone might say this to a child to be comforting. It had the opposite effect. For her face was that of genuine confusion, not empathy. Settings were different when I was the only one wishing to completely overwrite bygone days. Now, it was to benefit some vision the House held for me. Maybe someday a tincture will be found to erase the things carved deeper than skin, a cordial stronger than the temporary effects of boozes and ales adults so enjoy ingesting, and then it truly will all be better.
I made sure to thank her for her generosity, but before she let me depart she insisted I call her, 'Mother,' from now on. An unfamiliar word I struggled to produce.
This estate’s peculiar arrangements with its aspiring protégés still eludes me. Is this a common practice in the city of Baldur’s Gate? Acquiring slaves for the intent of- well… not slaving? Again, I wonder what their aim is, as just one among many they have decided to rear, some adopted, others biological, which of them are their real children I was told not. All part of the charade they are trying to build, I suppose- a family, full of learned talented individuals.
I asked one of the elder siblings, feigning innocence, 'All this education, surely not just for the amusement of ourselves?' No, 'Eventually, for the amusement of the house’s guests,' was relayed to me. The frequent gatherings they hold, garnering attention of Baldur’s Gate’s finest, must be immaculately hosted.
Another cycle of having to prove your worth to someone else.
Science, mathematics, history, geography, ethics, rhetoric- why must I be taught these things if I was only acquired to entertain? Do they really expect a discussion of philosophy? To provide a lecture on agricultural output in distant provinces? Argh, why am I complaining so- this is but the smallest of prices to pay.
They were also surprised to hear that I have no knowledge of the infernal language, apparently used by tieflings. Yes, I might have rolled my eyes, it is preposterous that I, a tiefling, with no prior interaction save for one, do not know the tongue of my own people. Yet another thing I’ll be expected to gain an understanding of, because, 'What if a tiefling guest spoke and you are unable to respond?' The lady of the House exclaimed, 'How would that be perceived?'
Expectation after expectation. To be honest, I already intended to meet them. No, I will do better than that. I will take everything they have to offer. I’ll impress them. I’ll make them love me. So deeply, they couldn't possibly think of being rid of me.
Chapter Text
Music lessons have begun.
After theory, they put every manner of instrument in front of our fingertips. Stringed, percussive, wood, brass. I was quite partial to the fiddle- the smallest and highest pitched of its kind, but I ruined the first bow held in my hands. It flirted with me, with its delicate stressed line, screaming for sweet release from the tension, neck rested beneath jaw, cradled as if it was something else precious and perishable. I know I could grow fond of that feeling.
Although, it was the flute that called to me with sudden distinct clarity. The call of metal, so cold, sound, so smooth, relaxed, unassuming, floating, rising, punctual, relinquishing every breath that flowed through it. It played to be emptied. It made me dizzy, kissed me back, slipped the joys, lamentations, angers I had hidden away, out from the mouth. It was the voice I imagined for myself, the one I always hoped I could sound like.
No contest.
The other siblings have all approached to more casually introduce themselves in their own time. None tieflings though, I am the only one it seems, a rarity again. I have also been told by them that there are certain unspoken freedoms when you are a prized fledgling. As long as they are satisfied with your progress you may do as you please. Wake on your own time, request specific meals, visit the streets, meet the locale…
Tempting as it is to explore these liberties in the same way that they allow themselves, I am not granting any opportunities for mishap and thus busy myself with study and practice, avoiding indulgence, temptation, chaos.
Yes, things have been quiet, uneventful. I should be happy. I should want for nothing.
Then why am I still hollow?
What is this mysterious trepidation gnawing at my insides?
Today I wandered into the kitchen and watched the chefs at work as they prepared luncheon with precision of their own instruments. One not unfamiliar to me. My eyes followed the repetitive beat of blade grinding through cartilage to butcher block, silver gleam, red drip, chop, chop, chop, juices trickling from slabs of excess to trays below, rich aroma of fat reducing in spices, and a snack of tartare while I wait. Surely, this cannot possibly be what I was missing. I needn’t touch the bare flesh of an animal or plunge my hands wrist deep into its cavity any longer, yet still I asked the help if they required assistance, anticipation perhaps too apparent. They laughed in unison, a chorus hollering, 'But these are our jobs, Hon Caelum! Do not try to take them away from us! We could never let you sully your gifted hands!'
I laughed along with them but made to slip away in a hurry, lest they notice my rising disappointment.
‘Drenched pocket, pocket, klein,
twisted after, after, fine,
fringed ruby, ruby, brine,
hitched between, between, twine.’
In idle hours, I have taken to observing the most exceptional among the other protégés- studying them, mimicking them, in the quiet solitude of night when no eyes are upon me. Maybe I may learn something not written in books or spoken by tutors.
Their eldest, Thimril, casts magnificent cantrips, making it appear as easy as drinking water. Then there is Cirince, aspiring corporeal artist, painter, sculptor, that brings people to tears through her works. And Filegnir, who dances, often with weapons and threatening objects, like they are an extension of himself. I have found him most of all entrancing, his thrill, the danger, the little voice that whispers, 'Fail, give me a real show.' Yes, I delight greatly in witnessing those moments when he missteps- the sloppy movements where he receives a punishing nick for it, the surging adrenaline afterwards. His skill delivers more penalties than the others’ and that increases the allure of success. He must also feel this way, otherwise what would drive him towards such a dangerous craft?
Anyways, those are the notable few. I mimic their movements and cadence to replicate the natural aura which exudes from them. It is out of my reach for now, but in time, could I surpass all? I simply know I will work harder than any if nothing else.
When I refused to accompany Filegnir on one of his carefree romps through the city, instead shoving my nose into a tome, he said with a teasing smile, 'You know, we are not in competition.'
Aren't we though, dear brother? The way some of them look at me, especially the lady of the House- Mother. Always measuring, giving a silent push, encouraging, perhaps, yet laced with challenge. Rise or plummet. Even if the rivalry only lives as a fabrication in my head, it is the greatest motivation I hold.
I thought I glimpsed the fey creature again today. Rustling in the bushes, a swish of the shadows, evading the corner of my eye. Must be tired. My lids burn. Perhaps I have been pushing myself too hard.
Mother said I am ready to perform at the next upcoming festivities. I wish I could say I am more nervous than ever, but I have known apprehension far greater before. On the other hand, for all of the etiquette classes endured, I am still uncertain of how to behave in the intervals between performances. I researched other party amusements.
A few good ones
I missed count Grause’s funeral. I am not really a mourning person.
None of us are completely useless. We can always serve as a bad example.
When you see the names of lovers scrawled in a tree, it is not quite as endearing when you think about how so many people bring knives with them on their dates.
They say the quickest way to a person’s heart is through their stomach, but wouldn’t a faster path be through the ribcage? (Too dark?)
A new sign was erected in the square that read watch for children, and I think that is a fair trade, don’t you?
I mistakenly attempted to enlighten tonight’s party with the material I had saved away. Mother did not appreciate my word-plays and jests. Though her husband laughed at each, she herself described them as, 'Low hanging fruit.' I hid pursed lips beneath a sweet guise meant just for her and explained that I would keep solely to my musical endeavors. That made her happy. Just as I hoped I would be, I believe I am her favorite. It is a nice feeling- to be supremely special to another person. But being unique because of what I can provide or how I make them look in the eyes of their peers, it does not
It makes her love transactional.
I cannot say I know what love is. All I do know is that this is not it. Would it even be recognizable to one such as I? Whatever it truly feels like?
Chapter Text
The others have learned, in time, to leave me to my own devices. Many believe I err on the side of a recluse- an assessment I do not dispute, but circumvent when in the presence of Mother, Father, and our guests.
I need not frivolous disturbances, I reject the flippant opportunities extended toward me. They think they have so much freedom. Some of them have forgotten entirely of the siblings that did not make Mother proud- too young to care or charmed to forget their presence. The eldest and brightest are left to mourn the absence, to learn from their mistakes. A reminder that on the surface we are replaceable.
For myself, this makes things simple. I know a distinct line not to cross. And then there is Filegnir again, acting as if nothing ever troubles him, unfazed by the same quiet reckonings that raised the rest of us. I have always suspected he was a trueborn child, though I have no proof. His presence is unintendedly risky, it complicates the mask that must be donned.
Mother chastised me for the amount of gold upon my neck. She said, 'No son of mine would dress so garish,' and relinquished the chains. I had half a mind to play the role of disobedience, but I stopped myself from sucking in my teeth, clicking my tongue, slamming the door.
The old fey creature has indeed followed me here. Of this, I am almost entirely certain. That I saw the same grin, too wide, too captivating, glinting from the dark.
…Or… Have I convinced myself I saw it?
Do not look at it- do not even think of it. Do not give it reality. Do not feed it. Impossible asks. Disastrous notions flood my mind while every day I attempt to keep busy. What could it possibly want from me? To raze? Lose myself again?
As I have continued to ascend above most of the other children- or I suppose we are a bit too old for that term any longer- I find myself thinking… how difficult it would be to remove the remaining obstacles in my way. I am self-aware enough to understand the corrupted essence of these musings, but that does nothing to stop them from creeping in unbidden- how to craft an effective poison, the trajectory of a stray cantrip, how many stairs it takes to ensure one would never wake again. Accidents. Having any kind of cruelty at my fingertips once more- how long has it been? I cannot even recall how many years now. I ought to be put off by the notions, as one is expected to be. If I had remained in my previous dingy prison, I think it may have only been a matter of time before these impulses were acted on. Blame for the cruel thoughts should be shouldered on horrendous upbringing or the apparent demon that haunts me, and yet here I am, afraid that the cause for these intrusions may be neither of the escapes I hope it to be.
It is not enough to be happy in sanctuary.
Perhaps because I never deserved it.
I should have been left buried.
What does a cut from paper also look like?
What does a bruise from a doorknob also look like?
What does a burn from the embers of an hearth also look like?
What does
'Child remained, of field forlorn,
whilst walking slain, inner torn.
Nostrum, remedy, therapy, burned,
with all but innocence adjourned.
Learned to steal of passions slight,
a gesture, a smile, a laugh of light.
Remaining sullied, thy, only friend,
every mean, every hollowed end.
'O, the nights, the darker more,
the need within, its hidden sore.
Loathe the past, loathe the me,
the broken cup, spilt debris.
Crave the shard, harvested wine,
pain that makes the pale divine.
So thee, thou wilt forever be,
a grave inside, lost of key.'
They have been discussing sending me to the college of New Olamn which resides just outside the city limits of Waterdeep.
'Once next season comes rearing its head,' Mother said. Though barely on the cusp of being of age, and even I cannot consider myself most accomplished among us, she sees my potential- said I show the most promise and speaks of how pleased she is, excitedly anticipating what I may accomplish. She is mesmerized, just as everyone else appears to be, when I move, when I speak, when I sing, when my flute sings for me. All of the solitary hours were worth what I learned by being observant and opportunistic. Eye contact at the right moment, flash a dazzling dangerous smile, drive home the strongest feeling welling up inside- jealousy, envy, pride, ego, yearning for companionship, lust. I call forth the manipulative monster that enjoys having them all at my beck and call, and I have become skilled in this respect.
Sometimes I wonder how far I could possibly guide someone away from who they are. What they would do for me, if asked ever so sweetly enough.
Not all, but some, have never been more bitter after hearing of the news regarding my departure. Though none, I noticed, as conflicted as Filegnir. One moment he will be thrilled, speaking of all the fun we will have when he eventually joins me as student also. Then, he will be profoundly sad, freely crying, swearing he will miss my presence greatly in the interim. It would be flattering were it not so exhausting. As much as this annoys, it is safe to say he considers me a friend more than a rival. To me, his whiplash emotions are a chore to keep up with, therefore I still remain more cautious around him, although It has been taking increased effort to gauge how I should act, who to be, when he is around. I cannot be so blithe, I must hide behind the facade this family chose.
So I laugh and smile and remain friendly, he smiles back, he can believe I am genuine, and when I am weary enough, sometimes I can too. For a short amount of time. Until my brain reminds itself that everything I do is for someone else’s enjoyment.
Chapter Text
Lost time today.
No fainting, no falling over, only the treacherous way one moment bleeds into the next without knowing. The in-between, lost. I am no stranger to this exact feeling- the warm envelope threatening to burst, something terrible to be expected once I exit. But everything was as it was, except that, this time, a souvenir was left- a large violet bruise on my leg that had definitely not been there before. As I fought to recover memories missed, I rubbed this mark, accepting its discomfort and… something new. An appetizing ache greeted me. I was a bit startled by the insidious pleasure. I pressed deeper. A tingle radiated. My toes curled in response.
A beast is nestled within, entertaining the pain as something other than shame or guilt, not something to conceal, recover from. At times like these, when the hurt becomes balm, I wonder if I had actually ever seen the strange creature of my childhood? Was it influencing me still to this day? Nay, I think I have known the truth for a while. That this has always been a part of my wild imagination. And the smile I repeatedly saw… was mine all along. Me, yearning for company, holding the knife, close, at arms length instead, pretending I was content with being alone, allowing a bit of optimism, here and there, a morsel of hope, to be granted, justified, unconditional affection, wrong, the torture warranted. Free from myself and such short lived dreams? Collapse in the palm of mine own hand. I laugh at my inevitable failure. Suffering is all I am entitled to. Accept that you enjoy it.
I grounded myself. I pushed harder upon the tender spot and my mind flashed before it steadied. I must not spiral into this absence. Not when I am so close to unlocking the cage door. The family cannot know.
Someone, somewhere, perhaps in Waterdeep, may be able to assist with this odd affliction I carry. If I must hunt through the shadows to find them, I shall.
Filegnir has become clingily present in these final months before I depart. We dance in unison, a bit closer than before, I noticed, for his limbs have lengthened. He must have grown an entire head taller than I in only half a year, while my body refuses to gain an inch. I would not mind so much if it were not for the fact that our ballets became more awkward because of it. His locks fall lower, brushing his shoulders. His eyes- hold a weight, eyelashes- longer, nose and lips- more pronounced-
Bah- this is absurd-
I do not know why I am suddenly so aware of Filegnir lately. He has been my partner many times before, for many practices, many performances. It did not bother when he held me close before. Why does it do so now?
If I must excruciatingly name them, he has slept with Cirince, Zinako, and- gods, I think her name was Mende? He mentioned it once or twice, the well-endowed barmaid down the way. I would never. Those kinds of distractions are what dragged them below me.
But a distraction he persists.
Days passed. Weeks passed. I realized that it has been a long time since my heart held a dark ache. A different presence fully occupies my mind, taken root. Too potent.
Filegnir’s body is still as soft and flexible as it always has been, yet now taught. When did this happen? At what moment did I miss the evolution? His hair, flowing copper, would be nice to hold between my fingers, warmed by the afternoon sun, smelling of jasmine vines, the ones he chooses to sit beside while taking a sweaty break. My hands run between the harsher valleys of his muscles, slipping off those delicious bones that protrude on his hips like altars beneath skin. I picture myself worshiping there. He tastes salty. 'As a boy growing man who consumes his healthy share of red meat would.' A phrase I have heard uttered, gossiped before. But I know Filegnir would not be unpleasant. A tinge of fruit- mango, faint, undeniable. And I waste not a drop.
I cannot help these suggestive thoughts, more powerful than anything before. My chest beats like an animal barraging against its enclosure when he is near. My skin, so feverish. I dig these claws into my own flesh thinking of him, and when they reach the spot they aim for, I think, he could be my end. I think, I would welcome it. And as the outro of my fantasy blares softer with release, I lie breathless, furious, that I have fallen so easily. Enraged, that I would even think of annihilating everything I have worked so hard for.
But throbbing calls return again and again even with my protestations. I am hooked unto his lure. The reprise, which makes me so delirious, makes me forget all else. How am I meant to accomplish anything in this state?
‘Eyelash-daggers, serrated, feathered precision,
blinks a derision, strokes a dominion,
prayed to the marrow neath sleeve,
neath hymn, neath shoulder, neath cleave,
rivers would swallow silhouettes shrined,
seraphic, eternally pined, horrific, split apart rind.'
Something happened.
Filegnir’s voice reached me, sharp and sudden, almost like our supper bell, asking, 'Is everything alright?' I was not altogether there, but I snapped back, out of the haze, where we were standing in our rehearsal hall. I heard him audibly gasp, then a pleasant pang throbbed from below as my body relaxed. Without realizing, the nails of my left hand had buried themselves, leaving fresh crescent moons in the palm and a bit of red at my thigh. I can barely recall what I was doing before, what I was thinking about when it happened. How pretty Filegnir would be covered in his own blood? The perfect color that compliments him, the one he has worn on multiple occasions. He grabbed the maimed hand and began to whisper healing words I know too well. I pulled away, gently, so gently, as if pleading him to snatch me back, offering a smile for his worried face. He beseeched with a hurt expression as I insisted I was fine, and he- thank every deity in the sky! Again reached for my hand, and this time I did not shy away. I could not possibly. Internally, I screamed for more, please, give me more. His fingers moved over already healed skin while I attempted to hide a delightful shudder, which he mistook for pain. He said, 'I can tell when you are forcing yourself.'
For a heartbeat, I was nothing.
It terrified, being on the edge of this anxiety and defeat. I so desperately wanted to collapse into his chest, cry in his arms, sob about my longings for pain, for his embrace, that I dream of him bloodied and beautiful, that I cut my hand open while thinking of him and touch myself to the image of his half-lidded gaze. Instead, I replied, 'I know not what you mean,' and laughed, a bit too loud. It surely sounded off, but he had no choice other than to return a sad smile as I retreated, back to my corner that should not be shared.
So much for thinking folly, that I was unbound from the more manic desires. At least I am consistent. I have learned to make use of the hurt, employ it. Alas, the hand he held dear- no marks left, no pain any longer.
Filegnir is free. Allowed to be tender, tranquil, angry, confident, sorrowful, cheerful. Anything he wants to be. Whereas, I must calculate, worry about every interaction. What could I have done differently? What would make you like me more? Like me so much that I become a person who could do no wrong? Would you change your tone, give me the same disgusted look as little Adeline did when I betrayed her and her precious rabbit? Would you be revulsed if you knew that I hurt myself often, with intent? The deep destruction tempts me. To make him aware, horrify him, be done with it. Tell someone, anyone. Expose me for what I am.
This is not love. Love does not exist. Only desire, how to achieve it, what to sacrifice.
Why do I really truly bother to keep going? Ruination? Of those around me? My own self? Am I doomed to this rotation until someone eventually decides the world would be better off without me residing in it? I cannot bring myself to accomplish the deed, I am too great a coward, and selfishly, there is still a part within that wants to believe I may be a person worth saving. One that, someday, would not need distractions of the flesh, with all it has to offer, in order to remain along an alignment of good.
This place will soon be behind. If there is no cure at the end of this path… what will I do?
Chapter Text
I have arrived.
A generous contribution made on my behalf by the ever-watchful House of Corvus has afforded a rather luxurious room, high above in one of New Olamn's towers, a space all to myself, spacious, secluded. It should be a blessing, and yet, in the social mire of aspiring peers belonging to prosperous houses of their own, it has made me unnecessarily stand out like blood among snow.
Admittedly, while packing my belongings, I had half a mind to be rid of this journal. But tis too heavy in memory to be destroyed, and I was afraid of someone finding it, reading it, knowing me as I know myself. In this perch, I find my fingers drawn back to its spine, pages, curled and stained with pieces of myself I cannot sing. I looked back through them, reading the impressions I had written since the beginning, experiencing the moments that escaped my memories over time…
I thought… So here we both are. Still contributing ugly traces.
'Do not dread the dark, child. It carved you from its marrow.'
I was able to remember this whisper spoken by the supposed fey creature that my little warped mind locked away.
New Olamn is, at the very least, an improvement over my previous lavish cell. The House gave me everything- opulence, tutelage. It was a cage, a well decorated one, still, a prison nonetheless. And the bars erected remain. They expect me to return to them one day- perfected, polished, profitable. Their prodigal ornament.
And what do I really intend to do? If some divine miracle appeared before me- a severance from this bloody affliction- I ask myself, would I take it and flee? And if so, to where? Would I truly survive without the luxuries I have grown dependent on? What is life without decadence, without indulgence and comfort? I have been spoiled, I will not pretend otherwise.
Before anything else, I need answers. And now, at last, I have the freedom to seek them. There is little point in speculating until I have found footing in some research.
Today, the library yielded something- a thread in the tapestry.
Loviatar, Maiden of Pain. Her name rings like a chord across the ages. Servant to one god, consort to another. Her love is suffering, her mercy, seldom. I already knew of her, of course, as a whisper in places that pretend to forbid worship. From what I already recall of her history, her followers are considered the strange, the twisted, finding solace in willing torture. Unsettling to most. Never to yours truly.
When I first read about her, perhaps a few years ago, I felt a flicker of something. Curiosity, surely. The budding young masochist did not understand the deeper meaning. Then came recognition, which was buried quickly. Yes, when I discovered that the ideas stirred something within, I knew it was another humility to hide. Though what started as a denial of the brutal inclinations I was drawn to- it became much more than that. Satisfaction, contentment, that nothing else brought.
If pain is a gift, perhaps I was born bearing a divine one. I could never pursue these thoughts under the House’s roof. But here, I am able to walk the shelves most freely. Peruse volumes that name the dark gods—Bane the tyrant, Tharizdun the chained, Shar the manipulator, Myrkul the deathless, Bhaal the seed of rot, Lolth, Talos, the list goes on. There are too many connections.
Following eyes began to trail my every walk as I move through the halls. They want to be close. Too close. They see a charming golden boy with a silver tongue, not what lies beneath. They cannot. I show them what they want- a smile, a wink, a well-placed laugh. In doing so, once again, am I on this pedestal. How long until my legs grow tired this time…
I think of Filegnir now only on rare occasion, which shows how fleeting and fickle these emotions are. What most crave is money, status, pleasure. None of these people are any different, their admiration, revolting, same as the faces at the House’s prestigious parties.
I have begun mapping out where else I might find the truths buried beneath centuries of ash and altar. The library here, while vast, is curated, selective. Even still, in a place that teaches magic, myth, there are corridors they fear to dust and collections they keep under lock for fear they might look back. Although, these tomes are largely academic in tone, presenting little more than anatomical case studies of ritual rites, always written by those on the outside looking in, scribes who flinch from what they observe. What I seek is not in observation, it is in experience.
Thus discreet inquiries have been submitted into where I may locate the following-
The Psalm of Whispered Bones
Rumored to be beneath the catacombs of Baldur’s Gate- said to hold fragmented gospel of Bhaal’s followers, etched into bone, sealed in silence. If it exists, the city’s most depraved priests or relic hunters might know where to start looking.
The Hidden Choir
A traveling sect of Loviatar’s followers, rumored to use performance- dance, song, theater, as sacred ritual. They do not advertise their troupe, but I have read accounts of disappearances after lavish shows in Luskan and Neverwinter that fit the description. I would attend in a heartbeat, if only I could find them. Interestingly, the influence of Baanites seems to not only be dependent on pure tyranny, but also in practicing submission. There may be overlap, more than the dogma admits, between Bane’s cruelty and Loviatar’s intimacy. A tension between control and surrender I have yet to understand perhaps.
The Chained Manuscript
Supposedly kept beneath the Vault of the Order of the Gilded Eye. Forbidden knowledge catalogued and sealed by paladins who fear that knowing breeds corruption. Which, in my case, may already be too late. How humorous. Am I sure I should not pursue a life in the comedic arts?
Chapter Text
Religion of Loviatar hails from the country of Dambrath, the shining south. I thought them to be an isolationist kingdom banning communication to all but drow and their ilk, though it seems foreign trade has boomed these past years. I do not know how this resurgence can be connected or how I would go about locating an active worshiper around here to inquire with, but I find solace in learning every new detail surrounding the scourge mistress and her cohorts.
The power of bestowing pain and suffering, embrace authenticity, not only physical but psychological as well. The goal of those who follow her is utilization of your given virtues, devices- whether it be beauty, cunning, anything, in order to lure another person into a sense of false comfort. A way to unlock what is stowed behind locked doors of courtesy and cowardice. For if you truly knew someone, everything they held dear and feared, the more pain which could ultimately be inflicted.
An adorable passage stood out among the pages of On Receiving Her Grace
'Be wary of your mortal limitations. While it is tempting to allow pain's ecstasies to sweep you away, particularly during a delicious bout of self-flagellation, broken bones hinder worship of Our Maiden of Pain. Instead, when the body is spent, focus on whipping, or perhaps nail removal, pliers or blade is recommended, to ensure Loviatar may forever revel in your agony, as is her right.'
It stirred something wicked and wonderful. I hurried back to my tower with the suggestions.
Lately, the library has become more loud than sacred. The other students clutter the aisles like carrion birds. Their interruptions, chirping, cawing, constant.
'What are you reading?' They utter in their high-pitched put-on voices, not caring for the genuine answer. 'Would you care to study together?' They ask, revealing their true nature. 'Sure,' I say, through gritted teeth.
Bothersome damn fools with ulterior motives. Why can you not leave me alone. I must be careful with which book is on display in my hands. I cannot borrow them, too suspicious to leave a paper trail. I cannot visit in the late hours, only a delinquent would have that kind of attendance.
Someone who sits at my side most classes, I do not know her name, or I do not care to remember if she told me, commented that I bite my nails often. I was taken aback. A habit, a compulsion, I hadn’t realized. I laughed off the mild shock and said that I was merely stressed for our upcoming performance reviews. Later, I inspected them. She was right. The corners of my cuticles were speckled with wear from thoughtless nibbling, pink and red, raw, trying to heal, never quite getting the opportunity. A mundane tic. I am unsure if this merits covering up. As long as I do not leave the other, larger, purposefully inflicted marks presentable, there should be nothing to worry about.
Song of Sune
'Pon hush of morning’s tender glow she lifted all in pyre,
life unfurled across the fields, vigor thread through air,
it bound the newborn sun in gilded nets of bright desire,
while lilies stirred, roses woke, to hear the maiden fair.
Her meadow wept with jewels of dew where grasses softly bent,
each petal turned to listen close, each bud to lean and sigh,
and lark came herald true of dawn’s resplendent occident,
her presence crystal ladder stretched from earth to sky.
'O sing, bright lark, through morning’s flame,
your gilded wings unbind my name,
'o lift me high where dreams abide,
and crown me in dawn-tide.
She of youth, of fervent flame, of heart so newly bold,
of fleeting hours, of pearls unstrung, of careless cast in stream,
told of longing’s sweet delight, more precious yet threshold,
kindled every soul she touched to follow her in dream.
Touch, grasp, the twilight’s ebony veil crept slow across the land,
the lark fell silent, wings grew still, her radiance withdrawn,
the hush returns, the pastures dim, shadow takes its stand,
but heaven’s vault, shrouded deep, the light of day not gone.
Within the secret heart her song shall never die,
for those who once have heard her keep, her echoes clear and strong.
'O sing, bright lark, through morning’s flame,
your gilded wings unbind my name,
'o lift me high where dreams abide,
and crown me in dawn-tide.'
It impressed. Professor Emrys commended, 'It could be sung for years to come.' And I have indeed heard the chorus repeated through the halls.
Her name is Brynn. I did not gain this knowledge by asking her, that would be too embarrassing. It was sneakily found written on her course materials with a well honed glance.
She approached me after class, asking if I could teach her the piece I composed for our midterm through lengthy lashes displaying longing. She resembles a doe- one stepping into a clearing, unaware of a predator watching from the brush. I decided to humor her, match her whimsy, and consented to teach her how to translate the notes into chords. She blushed as she went on about herself, about how she was more than a bit apprehensive of approaching me. She was afraid I would reject her. Open, honest- many of the qualities I used to hate, and now would love to exploit.
I did not lie as I laughed along with her, responding, 'I would not have said no.' Indeed, this word was not something I frequently used within the House or even that which came before.
As she spilled more of herself unto me I felt the black waves within stir. If it grew, became louder, a yell, a flash of myself true, a quick gesture, and her look would change from delight to detestation. I pushed it down, as I always have. It scares me, how close it knocks now. So close and willing to flood. I keep waiting for the final submersion, to feel something real, but all I feel now are itches, and oh does it feel so good when they are scratched.
A gathering was held tonight in one of the dorm buildings.
Music, laughter, drink. As always, I became the centerpiece, dangling speech like some myth come to life. And as always, I certainly look the part, parading most of Corvus' crown jewels for all to be envious of. Yes, it is ostentatious and flashy and garish, Mother. What will you do about it now? You cannot put a stop to my willfulness here. I was bold, I stood on my platform, the alcohol making it easy to fall into the mould. And then it made it much, much worse. So adored, yet so... empty. As always, the same. I think I said an odd thing or two, my veneer cracking, until Brynn pulled me aside, away from it all. In that very moment, I never liked her more.
She guided me to a hallway tucked away. I knew of her aim, but not a word was spoken between the both of us. I was too curious. She pressed her pliable body against mine, warm, eager, so soft. Her hands explored, slipping beneath my clothes. Then our lips met. Each bare contact ignited, and I could feel the familiar itch beneath my skin growing. She seemed like she knew what she was doing, unlike myself. We were alone, were we not? I payed no close attention. Her tongue forced its way to my own. I did not know what to do. Did I move? At all? Reciprocate? I do not think I did. I was too busy imagining biting off the tongue attached to mine and watching her choke on her own blood. A hand moved to the nape of my neck, it brushed freshly sore piercings on my ear, my knees buckled, I felt myself growing ridiculously stiff. I was giving in. Head, spinning, body, melting. I could not distinguish myself. Did anything else exist? Besides the bliss?
Then our teeth clacked together and she was pricked by one of my fangs. She winced, letting out an 'ow,' through a giggle.
That was almost her last breath, if not for me, regrettably, claiming I had too much to drink, feigning I was going to be sick, and retiring to my tower for the night. I let her keep the Caelum she held dear, the one who valued her attention, not the one that would shatter every virtuous presumption. And I kept the excellent illusion she provided- my first kiss. My first taste of someone else’s sacred crimson.
Chapter Text
The presence of Brynn is enough to deter others from approaching too closely.
Especially the eager ones with lingering eyes and wandering hands who believe that kindness and politeness is an invitation. Our arrangement benefits me. And she is soft-hearted, easy to direct. I give her just enough, taking her hand in mine when others are watching, brush her hair behind her ear when she rambles, tell her she inspires me. It is quite effective, while I continue my search and am so close to grasping the truth behind the urges, the why of it all.
I have thoroughly combed the tomes, obtained a few relics of the damned, even conversed through coded message with a likeminded being. They all speak, reveal, bloodlines cursed by divine interference, souls shaped, constructed with precision.
By a god who only wishes to witness the end.
My mouth is wet, I swallow, and it is a sweet poison sliding down my throat. Bitter almonds. I believe I know where the next door leads should this path be pursued. Perhaps I have known for a while. That there was no alternative.
Brynn reaches, she asks for more, metaphorically, literally.
With a hopeful spark in her eyes, a dream of inching closer to being mine and I hers. She wants me, gods, she wants me. I am able to hold back enough in order to give her a taste, although there were some narrow calls that excited even I, but I let my hand drift down her, hovering at the border of impropriety, whispering something against her skin- poetry I invent in the moment, just obscure enough to sound profound, she quivers, and then I stop. I provide a quiet apology about timing, about how, ‘I care too much to rush,' and, 'Let me do right by you.' It works, too well, in the way that gossip has reached around the campus. This narrative is an opportunity- lovers running hand in hand against the backdrop of a sunset, away from the pressure of their oppressive houses.
She thinks my chest beats out of passion, blindly unaware of the hunger to see her eyes wide, not with surprise- fear. She trusts me to be the person who deserves her devotion. Devotion which rhymes with destruction. When she finally offers herself completely- body, soul, everything- Not yet. I need restraint. Until the stage is set.
'Red purpose, little one. Purpose never forgets.' This is yet another resurfaced heed rattling around in my mind now that it has opened. Steady tides, rising fast and foul. I dream of the sunset crafting, burned behind eyelids when they are closed. I wake, disappointed, to be drawn back to a reality lacking.
'Dearest Brynn,
Come, beyond, where canal seeps, past Trades Ward wayfare,
beyond, where garden weeps, long Mt Melody Walk's air,
beneath the edge of designated chapel stones,
unrestrained moss gives in muffled moans.
Where it is other silent, shadows wrap us,
and we shall skip through veil of dusk.
You, the chalice. I, deeply parched,
will drink from you, hollow you,
lay us down, upon altar willing,
sweetest sin, each's undoing.
Make me wait not long,
to deliver this song.'
I attached a hand drawn map to the letter in the event that her unimaginative mind has issues with reading between the lines.
Chapter 9: [Jagged edges from the next missing pages have left noticeable space between following entries.]
Chapter Text
Chapter Text
Too much has happened too swiftly.
I have been born again.
It has taken me time to find the words, to even care to write them. Language feels limp in the face of such revelation. Each time I attempted to, I found myself starting over.
I do keep thinking- it could have been anyone. Fate, chance, rotten luck, decided it was Brynn. Sweet Brynn, trusting Brynn. You were more useful than you will ever know, and I will only remember you as a beginning. Already, I cannot summon the color of your eyes nor the sound of your voice. These things slip away so quickly when they no longer matter.
That night, she stepped through the archway, caught my sight, and laughed, 'Would you not prefer somewhere a bit more… dry?'
I humored her witty observation and spoke of a chamber with grand acoustics, a space I had discovered and wished to share with her, not to worry. We descended down the crumbling stairs, past the lock I had broken off an iron gate, repeating the footsteps of others who have walked this path before. This stairwell led to my aim- a long, open room with higher ceilings, its masonry a bit different, raw, the tiles laid with wider berth. The air changes there, becomes thick and still, as though the place itself is holding its breath, knowing of my presence, what is to come.
She followed without hesitation, smiling, clutching my arm, breath fogged in the cold. She did not question, she was not nervous, no reason to be. I smiled back at her. What was the first misstep, the first blunder you took, in a long line of mistakes? Not enough time to think on it at present, not nearly enough care to brood on it ever.
We closed the distance between a stone pulpit at the back of the hall coated with blackened old blood, masked well by the tinted candles I had lit in preparation. I walked her down the aisle like a blushing bride, positioning her carefully in the center of the sigil etched faintly on stone below. She clasped her hands together in martyr like fashion. Perfect. ‘This is for you,’ I told her, my voice bouncing against the walls back at us, guiding her farther along the snare I laid. I sang the lyrics I had arranged, then unsheathed my flute and let the notes furl around her. My fingers danced across silver, while the dagger nestled within my boot pulsed against ready ankle. I do not know how I heard it- but her heartbeat began to match in tandem. When I finished, with a flourish, I received her light, eager applause. She meant to embrace me, but I stopped her from moving closer. ‘One more moment,’ I crouched, removing my shoes, carefully placing the stashed blade behind me as the cloak, the only other garment I donned, slipped off my shoulders. I bore myself, as I had entered this world, with nothing. A vessel. In response, Brynn flushed a lovely deep shade. My body straightened, concealing one tight hand behind my back, gripping the handle of the blade. I met her. I leaned in. I kissed her neck, her cheek, her brow. I thanked her. She titled her head and asked, 'Whatever for?'
'For letting me cherish you in the only way I know how.' I admitted in a whisper.
Brynn beamed sincerely before she emitted a gasp indistinguishable from either pain or pleasure, such a saccharine sound. I plunged the metal between her ribs just as I had practiced. It sank down, through heart, with little resistance. Her blood ran, ran, ran, in elegant arcs, soaking the grooves in the ground, filling the sigil worn by centuries of offerings once again. She attempted to speak, but all that poured out of her quaking lips were gurgled rasps and more blood for the chamber's gullet, which drank deeply. I held, then kneeled as she slowly collapsed into me, gazing until her eyes dimmed. They, and everything else about her, belonged with the abyss now.
She lay upon my lap, resting unsoundly, a slumped ruin. I soaked my hands in her stained carcass, anointing every crevice of my body in her essence. I waited. Elbow-deep in my own artistry, I waited. For thunder or some mythic current to take me in its jaws and proclaim destiny. Nothing came. No rupture in the air. No tremble in the stone. Only the hypnotizing drip of blood pooling at my knees, and the unbearable rising notion that I had misread it all- that the story I had strung into existence was only but dust I gave meaning, and the barely warm fool had died not for a god, not for a purpose, but for a boy’s cracked delusion. My throat cinched. My heart raced. Not from guilt, no- I had been excised of that long ago, but from a deeper, more crushing grief. The fear that I was still broken and I would always be broken. No song, no father, no design. Only my own echo, dying slowly.
Then it came. An impossible gust of wind, freezing and real. I took it in, and for the first time in my life I felt as if I was really breathing. From the shadows, the creature I recognized, the one that lingered in the corner of my sight for years and I had convinced myself wasn't real, sauntered into what little light remained. The voice, I remembered as unnerving, silk dipped in venom, suddenly sounded so comforting. It bowed low, theatrically, called me, ‘Lord,’ said it was at my service. The name Scelaritas accompanied its short introduction. Scelus… a wicked designation for a wicked thing. Fitting.
'You have felt it at last. The symphony resonating in your blood? Not a curse, not a sickness. A birthright. Scion of murder, chosen flesh.' Scelaritas murmured. The words, breath to the drowning man I was. He continued, 'Do you recall? The tiefling bearers, the first false family. Destroyed by only your scream. My, what a delicious end that was! As they all ripped their faces free of their skulls, confusion never leaving their minds- hee hee hee!' Scelaritas chirped.
The memory eluded me but what Scelaritas said was true, it indeed sounded delicious.
'Well, no matter. And although you spared the others on that dirt hovel of a farm, your father still thought baby’s first conscious murder was very cute, even if it was only a lowly rabbit. I believe it gave him a bit of nostalgia. He knew you were his favorite from then on- admired your tenacity, your resolve, to remain sane through even the most enticing of times. Your savor of pain. Worry not, for he knew you would one day understand. One day you would embrace your lineage. And oh! Oh! Oh! What a spectacular display you have chosen to present this time!' Scelaritas clapped, 'She enjoyed your company very much, master. Perhaps even loved you? Though you won't hear her say it now. No, not ever.'
I was not mad, not lost, not alone. I was found. Chosen. Crowned.
'Does it not feel good to be home, young master?' Scelaritas said with glee.
Yes, nothing felt quite like the embrace of finally welcoming the sanguine throne I was meant to occupy.
Chapter Text
Every day begins in blood. Molting.
Rise. Before the sun has the decency to do so itself. Too exhilarated to stay slumbering when there are so many succulent sounds to listen for. Reaching into fresh carcasses, their tender caress, I withdraw with my spoils, bathe myself in sharp scent. It is my mantle. It dries and hardens, flakes beneath fingernails. I prefer it there, crusted like signature. The taste, different stale. A dirty candy.
'Wake,
gut me tender,
stitch me new,
drip,
drown,
dance,
I was,
I am,
I will,
sleep,
scream,
seed,
redound,
wake again.'
I become stiff merely writing about it. No need to be eloquent any longer. Bask in it all. Do not push the dizzy away. Drink and fuck and hurt and kill.
Chapter Text
Much time has passed since I last opened this journal.
Scelaritas teaches lessons that begin in silence, end in screams. Suffering is not only a byproduct, it is a medium.
However, I had not foreseen, in my blood-slick coronation, that the throne of viscera would come with such… committee requiring governing. At least my rule was more or less met with welcome. And the ones who held reservations- well, I was able to invent ways to convince or deal with the non-believers.
I preside over a gathering of lesser knives- acolytes and aspirants, and the occasional sycophant under close observation, their tongues as sly as their hands, but lacking any of the grace of faithful malice. They speak, squabble, over entrails, mistaking zeal for wisdom. The problem with zealots therein lies with them fabricating a pet doctrine for truth. One supplicant, whose name I shall not dignify, suggested they consecrate the temple with morning offerings due to their schedule. As if murder obeys anyone's circadian rhythm. But perhaps a semblance of individual structure would benefit the inferior among them.
A reminder I put forth, less than gently- as one must, as a leader- how we shall delight in organized frequency and finesse, yet bear in mind the concrete will of the great architect of murder, father bloodborne. He still expects a performance of at least one murder every tenday from each of you.
I had asked for a child. They brought me a goat.
Cleric Lilt insisted it had, 'The eyes of a youngling,' and, 'It walked on two legs in my dreams,' and that surely this was an omen incarnate. I stared at him for a full fifteen seconds, wondering if perhaps he was the one that should stand as offering instead. Graciously, I let them proceed with the rite, if only to humor the imbeciles. They chanted, the goat bleated, a bit off-key, and as Lilt lifted his ceremonial blade- the beast voided itself unto the sacred sigil.
As hilarious as it was, my new musing- if it eats tin cans or grazes, it is not an acceptable sacrifice. Unless, of course, it has personally insulted our father. They blinked at me like oxen before a storm. I may yet lobotomize one of them, if only to see if a small improvement in temperament can be achieved or to provide an example of my mercy.
There are moments when I catch them watching- not with trepidation, which would be tolerable, nor terror, which would be preferable- but with that dreadful gaze of admiration. The very same as pasts before. They imagine their romantic butcher of a prince. It is nauseating. I want worship, yes, not affection. Affection is a leash I will not wear from these devotees.
I have ensured that our sanctuary is not but peasants in a hole. We cannot enact his creed within a crypt. I require silk banners from the rafters, chandeliers that sway with the tremor of cruelty, murals depicting divine agony, statues of titanic proportion, unforgettable hymns. Bring me painters, stonemasons, glassblowers, scribes. Our enemies shall die jaundiced. And when the artisans complete their tasks, have them drowned in the blood front.
Chapter Text
A child has been brought upon me.
How it has existed in the temple without my knowing up until this point I do not know. When I caught sight of the milk pale youth dart behind a curtain I at first thought I was experiencing an aneurysm. 'WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS,' I bellowed through the halls in synchrony to the stomps of my heels. Even those out of earshot could feel the scream. Helena shakily explained, 'She is shy. Her name is-' I tutted her quiet before she could continue. A daughter spired from cleric Helena Anchev. 'The temple is no place for a child,' I told her, 'Unless upon the altar.' I could not care less for the tiny thing’s welfare, and the itty bitty patter of footsteps, the incessant sniffling, giggling, screeching- the sounds I hate more than anything. How would we expect sufficient offerings from such a weak body? 'Get rid of her,' I said. But Helena pleaded with me, 'She will pull her weight, and if she does not, I will take the burden upon myself.'
The unassuming quality of children is never accompanied by innocence as most believe. They are unsated, living the years before shame, unfiltered monstrosities. I instructed Helena and the others to keep the thing away from me if she insists on caring for it. Helena is most devout and proven useful. My reasoning for the allowance of this transgression will make sense to her if the child disappoints, for I have given her hope, and a more devastating end it will make should it come to be one.
Although I distinctly recall commanding absence from the straying child, it appears I will not be granted it. Her eyes as white as her skin, she stares too long and too deeply into things she ought not understand. Standing proudly in the threshold of our sanctum, blood up to her elbows from her fresh kill, she tilted her chin as if awaiting my applause. She wished to be seen by me.
I gave her nothing. Yet despite my disregard, I witnessed something familiar in the wiry defiance of her posture. That coiled readiness to do violence for not only personal pleasure- for permanence. I must admit, there are those among the ranks that could learn a thing or two from her.
I caught her again today, watching me from a shadow not quite dark enough, with eyes too wide for her skull, as I rehearsed a liturgy by candlelight. I paused, gave look, she vanished. With a silence that unsettled even I. Like mother, like daughter- changelings, the both of them. I am told she practices with blades in the long hours when she thinks no one is watching. Ambitious. Admirable. Her kills, few though they are, are strangely precise. I have seen older initiates flay flesh with more unversed tendencies. She may make a fine follower yet.
Still, I will not speak to her directly. I offer the occasional nod of acknowledgment when she earns it, though I think she values those gestures far more than she should. A flicker of something, something ecstatic, crosses her face when she receives any sort of attention, and I cringe that she thinks I am softening to her in ways that will progress into endearment.
She hums sometimes, mostly tuneless. I heard it while passing the hall, it stopped me. Not for the melody, but for the recognizable ache in it. She was sharpening a blade at the time, rhythmically, without noticing my presence or pretending not to, and her hands were steady, humming never ceased. I watched from behind a cracked door, she whetted well. For once, I did not resent the sight of a little one. The truth is, I remember being like her. Alone, desperate. Dreaming of a kiss of legacy.
Pale skin, fair hair, little one, little fawn…
When I finally chose to learn of the name given to this disturbance, I found it more than fitting. Now she is tall, almost overnight, just as the title foretells- like an ash tree.
Orin.
Orin, who has discovered what is sharper than any blade, the difference between promise and delivery, always forward, always reaching. Patience is a bitter fruit for the young, I know this too well, but she is learning to savor it, just as I had to.
Chapter Text
Helena looks pleased at the fact that I began to allow Orin by my side. There is a sweetness in her glance, a relief even, as though she had genuine fear her daughter might grow into a ghost, unclaimed, unwanted. Sarevok too, that brute, offered his approval in fewer words, but with an air that passes for paternal warmth. He might believe my affections have stitched some semblance of family together. His aim, a grotesque little domestic scene.
Orin is the only one who understands. She grows with pride, with confidence. She asks, mounted over lured flies splayed, over and over, 'Is father pleased with my offering?' And I respond, yes, without speaking. Until eventually it escapes my mouth before I can barely think it. What breaks is the unholy smile of infatuation, begging for recognition for so long.
I am teaching her. That primary skill lies in depth. Killing quickly is accomplished if the blade results in an internal hemorrhage or embolism. The interesting thing about sharp force injuries is that victims are relatively unaware, too preoccupied by the struggle, too distracted to feel pain. Yet. Adrenaline. And often… richest blood comes from those who never see the knife until it is through the heart.
Today, I pointed to vital spots on a corpse Orin had finished with, 'Here, here, and here,' soaked-through rags clung against skin, 'They will have naught but a few minutes if this is where you aim.' Orin stared downwards, seemingly studying earnestly, as I studied her almost blank face. 'Though this is not what you desired to learn, is it?' Of course not, her eyes were hungry. I shared with her my secrets, told her that if she would like to play a while longer- avoid large arteries and lungs, use an oblique angle.
I even provided some prose for her to practice, simply personal things that couple nicely with torture when the mood calls. She was unabashedly giddy with newly discovered ideas and skipped off to practice on something breathing.
Attempting to share my other preferred passing-of-times, I presented Orin with numerous musical instruments. However, they have a habit of always ending up through the middle of her victims instead of remaining in her hands.
Scelaritas is most put out. Orin, in her infinite capacity for mischief, spent the better part of last night sneaking through his quarters, rearranging his collection of ritual knives into merry smiling faces.
When Scelaritas discovered the display, he ranted on about, 'Sacrilege!' and, 'Disrespect!' while tiny muffled giggles could be heard behind a pillar nearby. I said, with all the gravitas I could muster, that the knives looked positively cheerful, a rare aesthetic improvement. It was obvious Scelaritas did not appreciate the bolster of Orin’s spectacle, yet he grumbled a disingenuous, 'Yes, of course it is, young master.'
He wound up sulking around the temple like a wronged cat the rest of the day. Orin never far behind, shifted to match him perfectly and mimicked his every gesture whilst adding comedic flair. She is quite humorous when she wants to be. How I wish I had someone like myself to support the same aptitudes when I was her age.
Albeit grown considerably, Orin remains at an age that yearns to demonstrate her worth. She is nevertheless clumsy, rushed, but I will clap anyways. I know she lives for the applause as I once lived for none. Unfortunately, her taste for theatrics is entirely my fault. I am slightly torn between encouraging her or ruining her fun, for ultimately, though I enjoy them as well, these grand extravagant rituals needlessly sap time, resources, garner attention…
Helena has soured. I see it in the way her lips pinch when Orin slips a hand into mine, or when I laugh at the girl’s pranks. Her eyes flicker like broken glass between us. She must sense that her daughter loves me more easily, more freely, because I do not demand, or guilt, or choke affection out of her. And Orin has the skill of being an unerring little barometer of falsity. Helena always reeked of it. In my eyes, she is no longer as profitable or entertaining, eclipsed entirely by Orin’s presence. While Helena silently seethes, a palpable rotten incense, behind platitudes, I wonder who she is more jealous of- Orin or I.
Sarevok’s silence of the matter is too deliberate, too measured. He thinks himself cleverer, whispering with Helena in their shared shadows, fanning her envy, the gleam of a wolf who calculates whether the shepherd or the lamb will be easier prey. He is pleased when Helena snaps, quiet when Orin clings to me. I made it perfectly clear my part in his play would never surpass that of a doting butcher-brother. Sarevok said nothing back to the declaration, but I could hear his gravelly voice within my ears, 'A pity.'
Orin and I slipped from the temple at dusk, disguised. She insisted on rags. Though I prefer silks, compromise is the marrow of kinship. We drank bitter wine in an alley tavern until the innkeep’s patience wore thin. Then, she whispered, all teeth and anticipation, 'Blood-kin, shall we?' Before the last syllable left her lips, my dagger was in his gut. She laughed so long and so loud I thought the walls would cave on us. We left a trail of corpses down the crooked street, singing a shared tune, red rivulets seeping into each cobblestone. And at dawn, we collapsed on the temple steps together, giggling children sticky with jam.
If father frowns on this joy, he shall forgive us. The massacre was thorough.
We delight in our shared savagery. Yes, it is foolish, messy, but free. Gods, I missed this chaos incarnate.
Tonight, Orin pressed her pale head to my shoulder and whispered, 'We shall kill the world, you and I, and laugh forever.'
I did not answer. How could I? If one day father demands the sacrifice of her, I think- no, I know… I would hesitate. But hesitation surely is the highest form of love dread siblings can muster.
Father, I am aware I was created to be the last soul alive. When the time is right, when power is assured, slaughter will arrive, where I myself hope to die when the world itself is wheezing its last gasps. At the end, not a single creature living. Everyone will die. Everyone will die for YOU. I will make you proud, father.
Chapter Text
I have let myself be carried too long upon the tide of revelry. Too much excess, dangerous indulgence, for even I risk becoming drowsy in laps of pleasure. Let me set to ink a few orders of business, lest I forget easily-
The temple glitters in tulles, strung up, decadent folds, gold adornments, and lacquered blood. Initiates, flowing, proficient, move as the well-trained currents I intended them to be. There is lately little to scorn in their conduct, only wisps of complacency on the edges of our momentum. I will not allow stagnation. A visit to the houses of Tillerturn or Vammas may prove inspirational.
Word has reached me of a prying younger diplomat, newly hatched among the courts of Baldur’s Gate as an advisor, whose tongue, it seems, cannot stop speaking of my presence. He has requested an audience. So naïve. He cannot fathom the gravity of what he seeks. He will regret, immensely, the persistent request.
Closer to home- Helena, in a most spectacular lapse of judgment, dared raise a hand to Orin. Stupid woman. I would have rent her limb from limb and scattered every piece to the corners of the sanctum myself were it not beneath me to intervene. It is Orin’s destiny alone to return her mother’s ashes to the soil. Sarevok knows this truth as well as I, though he feigns indifference. Still, I keep my watch upon Helena. Not that Orin herself requires anyone's protection, I simply cannot help myself. I would loathe to be denied the sight of her vengeance unfold in its fullness.
The forge requires more hands. A shipment of ironbound timber awaits inspection for decay.
And finally, a most bizarre recent stink within the sewer, not of rot but of ledger. We found them, cloaked, damp, envoys of the Knights of the Shield. What could compel such contract rats, consortium of unseen fingers pulling invisible strings, to tread to the filth? Three initiates have been addressed to shadow their spoor.
Other matters hover on the horizon- so much to oversee.
'Boooooooring, booooooooring,' Orin calls for play. She does not see the intoxication in having authority.
Chapter Text
I decided, against better instincts, to meet the man calling for my attendance with civility. Engaging him on my own terms, I invited the conference to take place at an inhospitable alehouse, low-roofed, loud, occupied with the sloshing mirth of patrons too busy forgetting their own faces to notice either of ours. A stage suited for disarmament of a perfumed dandy, or any whose boots receive more polish than their thoughts. Instead, he arrived tailored in both dress and demeanor for the part. A bit older, conceivably, by a handful of years, or else simply worn in ways that made exact age irrelevant; stained cotton sleeves hugged trim shoulders, tanned forearms, worked by some practical labor, not the languor of aristocracy; hair dark, greasy; a noticeable scar or two, none too dramatic, yet still the scars a man earns when life throws him through backstreets and expects him to crawl out bloodied, breathing. Packaged, beneath a self-assured smile, rarely gifted by birthright, one I knew well to be the result of countless years of practice. Not at all what I expected.
I regarded his appearance, unusual for one aiming to ascend the ladders of lordship. He did not flinch at the remark, he voluntarily clarified, 'It may be difficult to delineate- what an aspiring official would be doing, lingering about, at The Blushing Mermaid of all places.' He laughed, quickly adding, 'No offense intended.' I swear I heard a tinge of smugness. It may have been a construct of my own annoyance. He continued, 'Now If you wished to see me donning my best robes, please know you are most welcome to sit in on one of our council meetings.'
'Bureaucracy seldom holds hands with the likes of my company. Perhaps you knew that already.' I smiled, ready to put emphasis on unearthed knowledge of my own, 'Perhaps... I will make an appearance, to provide a display of how much more reasonable lord Enver Flymm is- by comparison to yours truly.' The man's temple tightened. He corrected me at once, 'Enver Gortash.' The insistence of the surname carried weight, a refusal of both designation and inheritance. I grinned at the lapse. Small cracks make for fine entry points.
After a few more pointed pleasantries, we agreed to progress with his intended spiel. Unity, he explained. Potential. Beyond prayers and shrines, an empire yoked atop industrialization, steel, limitless improvement, was his word, for our unsuspecting city. Thrones, fit for the taking. Plans, detailed. Much to my innate distaste, it did indeed sound impressive. But what I lingered on was his comprehension for each ploy presented. None were the usual power sermons recited by deep pocketed narcissists with god-complexes and dreams of dominion. No delusion, just an inescapable future, a realm engineered from a mind that knew dirt and consequence and manipulative guile. Where did he learn that? Certainly not at a cobbler’s bench.
The longer I sat, the more I was reminded of my informants' descriptions of lord Enver Gortash: handsome, witty, magnetic as the north star. I, however, know my standards to be intolerably high, and recognize seasoned charisma, a garment worn better in the light of individuals easily susceptible. Nonetheless, nearing the end of our parley I could begin to acknowledge the undeniable intrigue many had surely been ensnared in before. Men with such ambition either calcify into immortals or shatter beyond recognition. And damn my curiosity, but I might want to see which ending becomes him. I left an undecided answer to his proposition of partnership.
He lives. For now.
Orin awaited my return at the temple entry, as if she were a being of restraint, though I know her to never be far behind when suspicion sings. She let me pass, trailing in matching gait, eyes narrowed into the slimmest of slits, demanding without words to know why I let him breathe. All the way to my quarters, where I shed my cloak, sat down at my desk, and began this record. Her foot tapped in perfect precision while leaned over my side, silently reading each line the second it was wrote, lip curling further with every absorbed sentence. Normally, I would scold her for prying, but there was nothing of shame here worth hiding. By the time she reached the end of the preceding paragraph she exhaled sharply and departed in a huff.
She does not realize that the issue with Enver lies not in his possession of many duplicitous talents, it is the tiniest smirk that betrays how much he delights in others acknowledging them. Ego, a beacon. Beacons, luminous, are targets. When cunning is paraded, it becomes infinitely easier to study its angles, to anticipate the routes that the intellect behind it will take. One need only watch for subtle tremors of satisfaction or momentary flares of dignity to map pathways of destruction. Should the need arise, a counter will prove unchallenging, I think.
The great artificer, preening monarch-to-be, is not so pristine as he would wish everyone to believe. A history among the Zhent, the Shields, the Guild, seedy endeavors.
Most scrumptiously, I learned- the current chosen of Bane. Father told me in a dream of his devotion to oppression, despotism. Suddenly, every ounce of that swollen pride, the boasts, and struts, make so much more sense now.
How marvelous. He must believe himself unrivaled, although he speaks of dual reign. How amusing, a man playing at empire while I walk, bathed in true favor.
Whilst uncertain of this alliance, he may actually be someone deserving consideration.
Chapter Text
Enver is satisfied with our brief consultations for the present and merely tittered away when confronted of his allegiance to his dread lord. He hides something still, seems convinced I shall be leashed as eventually as the iron colossi he builds into being. But my obedience towards entities beyond father has been buried for a decade.
Ah, but his specific brand of leaning in, of letting his gaze rest a moment longer than propriety allows- he knows I am not blind to it. Another act of persuasion? Genuine interest? Here is my truth- I choose not to lay with any who survive me. Cruelty, only a lace of everything, not for vicious bloodthirst, not for mindless lack of restraint. No, it is personal. The thought of pieces of myself floating around in another's head fills me with anxiety leftover from a youth afraid of being revealed. The faces in vulnerability, even I know not the legitimate look of, the sounds unbidden from the throat, embarrassing noises, fragments of speech when passion strips me raw, private conversations to be wiped from reality. Humiliations. And it would be mighty idiotic to call an end to an alliance so shortly formed due to these conscious humiliations before Enver has the chance to donate his usefulness.
Forgive me again, father, I cannot help but admire the chosen of your sworn foe. Enver Gortash's genius will take us far. When he is focused on the pursuit of his plan, locked upon his grand design, I find it possible to imagine this pact reaching glorious conclusion. Fear not, those of Bane always fall to the same folly- they cannot see the beauty of obliteration. The world he narrates arranges itself neatly around him, and yes, he trickles with charm and acuity for what people desire, holds a deft hand in shaping it, and is peculiarly attractive in a way I want to deny. He possesses plenty of other qualities normally lacking in the wider audience, attributes that make me think we are opposites and also unsettlingly similar. So when he crosses a boundary, speaks an insinuation, my admiration curdles. The creature is less commander, less schemer, more a mess of fleshy appetites, and therefore suddenly revolting. It is a monster that resides within me too. That I have divulged in, that I think myself better than. A weakness, if permitted. I despise the way Enver senses it, coaxes it.
Acts and veils are not worth all of this effort, are they? A younger me, living in reduced stakes, would have thoroughly enjoyed the dance, throwing manicured insults back and forth, tart, barbed, meant to bruise the skin of eachother's confidence. Enver relishes his retorts, tossed with the glint of one who would not only accept my atrocities, but who would take them as caresses. Should I just kill him and be done with it? I cannot decide. It would certainly make Orin pleased. When I told her that I was to meet with him once again, that I could not accompany tonight’s hunt, her changeling features rippled with anger, skin- melting wax, shifting between ranges of new faces before settling back to the slaughter-sister I am familiar with. She spit and snarled, 'You would choose his company over mine!? He is poison! He is inevitable treachery!'
Her jealousies, evident as day, would be cute were my nerves not already frayed thin by other measures in motion. 'Poison,' I said in depleted tolerance, 'In the right dose, in the right hands, may make a tonic yet. He is merely opportunity.' I ruffled her hair, 'Be the slightest amount of reasonable for once. Do you not trust me?'
Her eyes, wide and suddenly wet, cried, 'Always!' Such unguarded honesty that, for a moment, I almost wavered and canceled my predetermined plans. 'Leave a straggler ripe for the picking,' I told her, 'Should this meeting not come to be fruitful.'
For all her sulking, she obeyed.
At last, I met Enver with acceptance. The Bhaalists will lend their knives to the design, so Enver trusts, for as long as necessary. Beknownst to I and the faithful- only for the time being. This hoax, our ruse, will garner false love from new slaves, but once I have built a large enough army, I will use our hold to begin this vile world's end.
As expected, Enver was delighted by the supposed mutually beneficial arrangement. He extended an invitation for celebration, which I respectfully, and with a sham of uninterest, declined. I thought it as cool a refusal as prior deliveries, though some part of me must have double-crossed my aims. I made to turn. He brushed a palm down the open sleeve of my left arm. An innocuous touch, or meant to appear as such. I had already warned him against such liberties. I never wanted to make more numerous holes in that body of his and poke and prod the wounds with unmentionable things.
I may need to exercise precautions before future meetings. Expend. To prevent better judgement, again, be swayed. It would be premature.
Orin has not spoken to me for two days.
I found her, hunched in the rafters tonight, frame thinner than last I saw, still simmering in fury. When I reached for the beam beside her, she spun, blade flashing, quicker than I could react. I scarcely felt the sting, so shallow was the cut, it startled us both, for it was obviously unintentional. The look on her face, the tiny gasp she gave, as though she had dropped something irreplaceable.
Strange, is it not? How after all these years, for all our murders and mayhem, we had never once spilled each other’s blood. Affection for another soul usually translates to protection, to keeping harm at length’s way. But we… are different beasts.
I pressed my hand to the laceration, held it up for her to view, and laughed, 'Care to contribute?' The sound caught in my chest, a little too wild, a little too fond. She bit her lip, then laughed too. Without fail, she understood. Nothing could have brought us closer than the bright sting of that accident. An omen waiting to be, solidified reminder of belonging between. A new ritual, and often, which we count the time until.
Chapter Text
So, one of the last tucked away shameful fragments of Enver Gortash is uncovered. The boy-made-tyrant was once a number of coins himself. Harvested before ripe bartered produce, likely chiseled by vulgar hands into a man who only sees gears. Reigned by some high force in an enclosure thought inescapable, named the 'House of Hope,' is all the information I have been made privy to.
I scarcely remember the burn of such transaction now, matters naught, I never lamented my childhood pawned. How closely we are as kin of commerce- who is to say? There are countless tales of sold little boys and girls turned to men and women of tricks. I do have some pity for the way his pride must strangle him whenever memory stirs. I too, loathe any glance reeking of sympathy. We would rather be feared, envied, cursed and spat upon, than felt sorry for. What is pity, but salt, rubbed deeper into the true open scar of he who claws himself raw on the surface just to appear untouchable?
He would not admit these fragilities, or how he broke free, willingly that is, to his most beloved antagonist. These are the secrets to be stowed, brought to light best when they might inflict the most damage upon the bearer.
I skulked with Enver among the Counting House vaults, their ribs glaring with gold and sneering with silver, in sleep out of touch, not this one, not that one, where was the chest he meant to pilfer from? We descended further, I asked myself, if excess wealth, hoards, pressed on an internal sore or rather caused indifference for him. He shines now in emblems of triumphs, not worn as a nouveau dolt or someone who was denied them, but like they always belonged, diadem of origination, all the years in rags dragged through the mud but a lie. I should hope he might say the same about me if he only knew. For all one knows, he is already aware. We, both polite and artful in shrewdness.
And then- a disturbing second where the dazzle of a faceted bauble careened before the eyes prior to resting atop other ropes of gold and jewels on my collarbone, metal seared skin, a clasp's click in place, hairy knuckles ghosting nape. Oh, but he is sly, the gems were beautiful, I was beautiful, he was beautiful, in that dimness that captures features finest, what a vivant picture it made, Lady Wisteria Jannath would seethe. My mind rebelled, my body rejoiced. Naturally, Enver grinned wide, extracting every conflicting emotion from the air and swallowing it whole, his delicious fruit. I stood still, fighting back shakes, pining to slap that smile from his face then tongue-to-teeth devote myself to it, peel back his skin in a way reserved for enemies to subsequently sow over the rungs, annihilate and possess him in duality.
'I thought,' I murmured with taut nonchalance, 'The sought treasure was more so along the lines of documents, scrolls, dusty pledges of bureaucrats.'
'Just so,' he purred, the fraud, the fox, 'Though do you suspect that these enchanting heirlooms sitting in dust a century or more, practically orphaned-' He stressed the last utterance, did he not? Did he? Am I stubbornly searching for shared analogies? 'Would be missed? Not until it is too late.'
Enver and innocence and I were never meant to share the same room.
Later, much later, one hand looped 'round the gift, knotting it tighter, tighter, tinnitus of venous suppression, compression, stars upon ceiling above, other hand elsewhere, frantic, furtive, turned man's chafed scrapes, gestures I thought abandoned, exorcised, gods how I need the rapture now. And I was blessed. Of course the necklace broke in my stupor. Its loss I barely mourned. That I would not sport, flaunt the thing, how that omission will nettle Enver's flimsy amour propre brings too much glee.
‘Lustrous beacon, luminescent beacon,
vernaculars madrigal, succling miracle,
copulous sanctious clangoring,
throttle-thrum you, throttle-thrum me,
mariticidal duplicity complicity,
bedblades between, veinwine of thee,
steelflood, sweetblood,
pierced pleasures, delirium measures,
lachrymose, libidinose.’
Gracious… but it has been a moon or two since I last attempted this alliterative verse, rougher than I remember.
The banquet tonight hosted Enver, where I wished to see him soaked in the red glow of votive lamps reflecting off our bloodied walls. Those braziers licked his gaudy collar, the fork brought to his full lips feasting in pheasant and phrases roasted alike. Crimson suits him.
I saw it before he did- Orin, slipping spectral of moon irises behind his chair, wrist trembling with carried steel steeped in devotion she thinks is greater good. I stopped her with a cough, a sudden blurt of fluting nonsense. She froze, face flickering confusion, then bolted like a child caught stealing. I sighed audibly. And Enver looking for truth, chuckled, as if the moment had been part of a staged jest at his expense, and I laughed, for how could he know how close he came to spilling himself, pulpy pomegranate, all over the decorated dining table, and the grape-bearing devotee to my side laughed too, who I pierced through the gullet for being so bold as to join in.
Scelaritas suggested in his forked tongue of duty, 'She very nearly ruined your plans, m'lord, she should be punished, punish her for her infantile-'
My foot arced out, ungainly ballet, connecting to several of his bones I heard the crack of. He staggered to the ground with his thankful grin of an ever servicing butler that would not dream of outliving any master. I left the filth to sputter there, 'What an excellently fierce kick, sire!'
Scolding is senseless, Orin would sooner disobey any instruction to display her defiance. Something must satiate her fever, steel her malice. Head in hand at present, I really should heed my own guidance.
Hours have been looping.
I woke, gasping, hard and trembling, wanting. A pillow pressed to my face until the suffocation nearly toppled me into father’s arms.
In the lone theatre of my skull a scene rehearsed, plagued by Enver, of dragging him from his dais by his radiant teeth, pinning him down, driving my nails into his wrists, watching him bleed as he mocks me through the pain with infernal smile which I crave him more for it. The world around us disarranged itself. I welcomed old friends, old foes, chains, transparent garlands, bound to be bent, painted in bruises, begging prettily through spit and chokes, ruin me, make me undone while tightly wound, new friend, new foe- I hear the order, 'Kneel,' slithering down my throat in Bane's tongue. The voice inside my pith forces me below him-
KNEEL!?
KNEEL!?
I WILL SEE YOU GUTTED BEFORE I BEND A HAIR-
SHATTERED, BEFORE I CURTSEY A SINGLE INCH-
I WILL GRIND YOUR BEING TO POWDER AND DUST SPELLING-
Chapter 19: [Scrawls of indecencies bore down with enough strength to leave impressions on the next pages follow.]
Chapter Text
Chapter Text
I made a mess of a spree pon the halls in the last hours. Not my worst tempest, at most a few freshest members nary fluent in fear lingering periphery were struck down in the fugue. When the frenzy sweated itself out of me and sound senses limped their way back, I picked apart the dream, foul-rose vision, its exposition, admonition- heirs of demise. To be unsure of what would satisfy more, the main maturement- to gorge on Enver’s ruin, to fold in his heat, is obscene. Never would I be so pathetic a disciple of death to fall to any other hand but my own. Enver’s time will come. Not now, not soon, when it is betrayal ultimate. The imagery of laying bare, split, glazed, will belong only to the tyrannical lordling himself. He is the poison, as Orin predicted, I drink greedily of, to burn with clarity, collide with him, coconspirators, neither parsing who is tormentor, who tormented, in reflected clutch. Unlike myself, he is but a puppet dragged by feuds older than us, to topple, to sunder, but not sever entirely. Cradle as a vulture does. Snare, playing for eternity, eternity playing back.
My coming. I am the cleave meant to lop clean the tumor. Final entry.
This week racked me with lethargy, drained of energy for pain and hysterics and melodies. I observed Orin’s efforts, her pendulum swing to ravishing lashes I would ordinarily have part in, to gorgeous departures of life I wished I could be inspired by. Nothing sparked. Nothing could. The rut yawns deep.
I await Enver’s findings, as he told of an ancient and powerful artifact to aid in our quest.
sharpbirdbones on Chapter 1 Thu 10 Oct 2024 09:11PM UTC
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Duncecapdummy on Chapter 1 Tue 20 May 2025 12:39PM UTC
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demon_dream on Chapter 15 Mon 18 Aug 2025 02:19AM UTC
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