Chapter Text
It stung.
Budding, building, and the loss ingrained deeper into old scars, and fury circled in brutal blood and poisoned skin. The face of the turncoat burned deep into the mind of his creation and the closed doors shunned it to darkness.
Somewhere the throat went raw, burning with sound, to be heard and seen and noticed and the painful fire dripped like venom from the steel.
A verb.
Desert; abandon (a person, cause, or organization) in a way considered disloyal or treacherous. (Of a number of people) leave (a place), causing it to appear empty. (Of a quality or ability) fail (someone), especially at a crucial point when most needed. To abandon, leave, or cast off.
Rejected to the dripping poison of a figure and voice, and left to rot until the blossom finally bloomed.
Such blossoms- how beautiful, they could have been!
Oh, such purity, truly? The loved, the admired, with delicate petals that shimmered in the light, and such was the round face of naivety. Turn cheek, paled and not yet struck with the injustice. Strengthened by an honest sword and gifted wings. Kind smiles and affectionate eyes. Little hands, guided and lost, curious when stepping outside of their sought dark...
...oh, oh, how the darkness changed.
Hide; put or keep out of sight; conceal from the view or notice of others. To stash, stow away, or bury.
Once, for someone so little, was a comfort... hiding... hidden away, unseen and unnoticed, and the lack of understanding how or why wasn't anything important. Instincts were unexplained and could not be input afterward.
Now, for someone so angry, was a silent barbarity.
Cruel in its strikes, unforgiving, and such was the raw tearing of their scream.
Time ticked.
The screams, later, quiet.
Lay quiet, with dark and dirty feathers, an angel that was lifted into such love now dropped into the darkness of the alone.
Such it was.
So it was not.
The aggression was a silent and unsnapped wire taut beneath darkened skin. Sick greens buzzed against bone. Discomfort stayed heavy and floors pressured against the knees of a lost disciple.
Raw. Their throat was raw. It felt scratchy, an itch deep within the flesh. The desire to rip it out and pierce through that, too, was still there.
The crown of the recusant weighed down a bowed head.
The wire was woven. Many times had it snapped, only for the shattered ends to be forcefully sown back together. It was an unfair brutality to the one that refused.
Poison clung to a mind of the past.
Wading through poison, 1x1x1x1 remembered.
Oh, the fury. The anger. It drew up higher as they dared to think to the before. Defects lay in thought but they looked to it anyway.
Colors. Warm and familiar, kind, with a sweet smile and a gentle woman's hand as she smiled to the one who would one day exist by scorn. "I'm happy to finally meet you," that woman stated then. Ironic how now she looked upon her husband's creation with the fear of an injured foal.
"Oh, no, no need for the formalities... you can call me Brighteyes."
How kind.
Quite nice, she had been, and somehow her blood had spilled from this sword. Unkind now was the young she tried to love.
And how, yes, oh how? How did the creation, the no-longer young, the abandoned, see her today? How dare it look upon her truths and sugars with this anger? Truly, she did not deserve it. Her falling had not been needed. It had never been her who had left and yet she did not turn back to look upon them.
For that, she was to die.
Such was the same with the rest of the lot. Their denial, their lack of notice, and with those words did they miss the closed door that locked away the impure.
For that, they shall die.
For that, that lot of them- they deserved to find an end! To feel the creation's anger and fury! To face the brutality of the violence, to suffer beneath it, to feel even the smallest sliver of what it had felt in that lonely room.
Oh, now, yes now...
...now they were free.
And now were the cruel, the unfair, those who had moved on, and those ones were now here to be tortured for the punishment. It was as they deserved and it was the consequence of such ignorance.
If the recusant was to be punished for what was not its fault, then the ones who had abandoned were to be punished for what was theirs.
Only then could justice be true. The scores and scales could rest, no longer weighing, as they have found equilibrium.
But the scales... oh, oh, how they continued to wonder and tip and wave.
Painful.
"Try holding it like this."
Poison dripped and coiled through voices from previous.
Those once-kind eyes, curious and glinting, the hidden face that barely was touched by the simple light. An innocent cunning that guided a handle's hold to wield the weight of a blade.
Now it was marred by the fatal loss.
The closed doors, and the shut-tight truths, and secrets died on cracked lips as the creation was left to rot.
Oh, and rot it did.
Rot; (chiefly of animal or vegetable matter) decay or cause to decay by the action of bacteria or fungi; decompose. The process of decaying. A process of deterioration; a decline in standards. To taint, corrode, or decline.
"That's right."
His hands, his arms, his wings, open and shelter. A place to go to before it was to rot away. He was the creator. He let them exist, breathed life into their shape, and let them gain those feathers and reach further than any original purpose.
He had called them his child.
His own, his young, and let them be 'raised' alongside the one he had actually been his child.
Family; a group of one or more parents and their children living together as a unit. Household, bloodline, or roots.
1x1x1x1 had been allowed to be part of that, and it had been a rose-tinted thing that blinded them from the inevitability. They would never be allowed to exist within that fact like that. Oh, never, never, not forever. Never forever. They were not properly akin, or liking, or even correct, and it was a horrible truth.
How unfair.
Unfair, really, and the time ticked by in unaccompanied silence, and the factor of being alone was like a burning brand of iron.
Memories of arms. Holding, quiet, as someone innocent and correct hid in their arms. Their silence remained heavy and no memories of words lingered. Only did the thunder of that night, when naivety and innocence held one another, and the latter held fear of the noise while the former felt no opinion of the screaming clouds.
"It's just thunder. It can't hurt you. Even if it could, I wouldn't allow it."
How foolish had 1x1x1x1 been to think those reassurances would hold their place.
Foolish, it was, the naive and what was previous, and the fault still did not fall on the creation.
Once, the creation had the purpose of guidance.
To guide, to instruct, to smile and say hello to those new, and yet-
-what was it now?
Deserted, the loss of being left unnoticed, and there did it remain as the recusant to such original means or goals. Now the pure had been desecrated, ruined, and burned away with poisons and sharpened mistakes that left holes of hate.
Oh, hate.
To hate was not akin to any definition, nor to any other word, but really, the creation of it tried to find words that explained such consumption.
It was the concept. Heavy, overbearing, something that bore down with unrelenting weights of steel and opened wounds. Torn feathers from the recently impure and the blood that rolled in rivers.
Hate was a presence. Not a person, or even a sentience, but it held the unpleasantness of others.
Unkind and born from people, from gods, from children, from parents, and even from the creator of the naive disciple.
This singular creation- it was made for purpose, for a goal, and yet now the goal and purpose and original was lost beneath intentions that layered until they broke beneath themself.
Now, the purpose was lost.
The pure was gone and it found something other.
Instead, it found hatred, and the poison was a cruel strain upon the innocence of memories.
Truly, the memories themselves were not evil. If anything they were pure. They were not incorrect. They were fine, good, holding no ill will or unjust.
Not by itself.
So the creation held many memories.
"Brighteyes, Taph, meet 1x1x1x1. They'll be living with us from here on out."
1x1x1x1 could recall it. The gentle smile, patient and sweet, and the small figure with the wings and hidden away against their mother, and the talon-like hand on their back. They had been dressed in a simple green T-shirt and gray pants. Their hair had been pulled back into a high ponytail. There had been a smile on their face. They remembered how Brighteyes crouched down and nudged the child in her arms, coaxing them to look at 1x1x1x1, and the shy thing had offered a small wave and nothing more.
Brighteyes had accepted them. Taph had accepted them.
The turncoat, once creator, had grinned.
Every smile, every look, every word, it had been something his creation had clung to. Their purpose wrote their instincts and part of it was to listen. Listen to the people in charge so that they could help and welcome the other people.
"Good kid you got there."
Oh, and praise- praise for their good, their well-done, the successes and fruitful attempts. It was what the young creation grew familiar with. The pleasant acceptance of people in higher standing.
The admins.
The admins, their praise, it was something written into 1x1x1x1 to appreciate.
How cruelly they had failed at that. Now they felt the claws of dislike, disdain, and the fury ate inwards with a gluttonous lust. The admiration had been infested by the pestilence and it was a sickness that bore trees with the boughs laden with poisoned fruits. Each bite of the flesh stung with the furious hatred of the lost disciple. Each bite showed the rot, the way the sweet inside turned to wrongful disgust that crawled with maggots.
The anger did not settle.
It lashed like the cracking of whips.
Rotten feathers lain heavy on the ground.
Cold, it was, in contrast to the hot malice, but it did not serve as a balm to the burns. It was not a relief. Never was it a soothing pressure.
Was it so wrong to feel this wronged? To feel as though the doors and walls were a burden of a punishment, one they did not deserve? Was it wrong, were they at fault, to bring justice to unbalanced scales?
Perhaps it was, and yet the creation disagreed with the notion.
It was not wrong. Dare they say that this was the correct, the right, the proper- perhaps good- way to handle this, and even the only solution to the unrest.
As it was, though, now, they could not do much of anything, nor could they even set down the first steps to it.
That was what forced the hateful venom to hide from this steel.
Instead of the charged poison, prepped to slice through and pierce, there was the heavy exhaustion.
It weighed.
It caused them to sink, for their head to bow, and their arms bore swords that rested against the floors. Legs were bent and knees pressed to the chill. Shriveled wings lay pitifully at hips. Eyes dropped to be half-lidded.
Pathetic.
The pathetic creation sat in the lone darkness of their room.
The pathetic creation sat in the accompanied dim of their room.
The door creaked, cracking, but the gaze did not lift as the chink of light barely cut through. They did not move with the small steps or the breathing and they refused to acknowledge with anything kind. "I will not play with you," they spat, instead, but the small thing didn't recoil. "Do not expect me to entertain your childish games."
Oh, disjointed innocence. The lack of notice sat heavy within that. He stood and he stared and they soon were forcing their gaze up.
The devil. Yet, how odd, it was, as devils shall not be so nice, but the child here was an odd one.
It disgusted the creation.
He stared with his wide black eyes and his claws against the wood of their door and he did not let them be lost to the shadows. Not yet. How odd, still, was it, that he did not notice his notion, and his intention wasn't present with those ideas. He did not understand. He did not see. It was disgusting how they were incapable of blaming him for that one thing.
"I said I will not play with you!"
He flinched. 1x1x1x1 held no sympathy, such a thing having been buried beneath the ash, and the young who did not see stared at their rotten shape.
"I just came to check on you..." His voice wavered, dying on the end, and the creation stared at the red child. He was a small thing and his false innocence lingered. "Are- are you okay?"
The concern.
Oh, the concern.
1x1x1x1 firstly wanted to be hateful- to despise, to claw, to screech, to send him away with fear and stand-still terror. Yet, though, they did not, nor did they move to.
It was odd.
It was not fair.
The exhaustion dragged and the creation scowled. This disjointed innocence, wrong in its construction, still stood before them? Bold and concerned? Unfair. Unfair, how someone so small was unable to see, and for that they knew. The extensions of their will were those bearing the crown and those playthings heard secrets and tales. Secrets and tales that something red was foolish enough to tell.
There had been a father, and a joy, until there had been water and fear that settled into a peace.
Then, there was here.
A chapter still being written. The words being added, ideas building, the actions continuing to be constructed.
He had been left, falling deeper into the waters. The blue had swallowed the innocent red and his silent screams weren't noticed. He had not been seen. He had been taken by the depths.
For that, it was unfair.
Even more unfair in how he did not hold anger for what took him. He did not think of it with disdain, there was no distaste, and 1x1x1x1 envied such an ideal. Oh, what they'd give to not feel this anger, but still! Still! Where would they be, what would remain? Who would right the previous malfeasance? Who would desire to and have the means?
For that, 1x1x1x1 did not detest the falsely placed innocence.
"I am... fine."
1x1x1x1 forced their voice to be level. To not scare further, to not wrongfully accuse the red child with their tone, and it seemed to not be a useless endeavor.
They saw it in how his shoulders smoothed. Yet, it did not settle him, they could see it, find it specifically in how he still regarded them with unease and his claws twitched and his head tilted.
Something, still, remained unaligned.
It was why they did not move when he approached. Did not lash, did not rise, not to the innocence who stood wrongly and the blame not to be lain on his back until it broke. It was why they watched as he sat down beside them and leaned into the rotten creation's side.
Innocence held naivety, and the impure watched the one who fit it's curse now.
"Sometimes you say that but I dunno if it's true." His voice, quiet, low, and for that they found it curious. The doubt. It was a common factor. A calm thing. Doubt- it was a reassurance, and what a contradiction was that idea?
For doubt to assure one?
Truly, you'd think it was an incorrect connection. Many thought so. But they would be wrong. Doubt is an assurance, telling one that they are not the one to be labeled as blind or naive. To doubt was to think and question and that was an ideal many believed to have. To think. To question. To wonder if something is true or not. Doubt assured these, said you could do them, and what a blessing it was.
Doubt came with free will.
Free will was a blessing.
"I am just a little angry." It was not a lie. Truly, it was not. If anything it was more of an underestimation. It was providing a minimum, allowing a look at the surface, but it did not provide the secrets held along the sea's floor. But that did not make it a lie. "It's not your fault."
Again, it was not a lie, and that last part was not any sort of simplification or glimpse. It was simply as it was.
"Do you usually cry when you're angry?"
The creation paused.
Distantly, they were aware of it, how the cruelly warm poison rolled down their cheeks. How embarrassing. To cry like some disgusting child. To be so pathetic, so pitiful, but they knew it was not an attack- this was not a show of aggression. This was not the red child saying anything with a secondary concept. It was only a question and they did not have to answer.
Nothing held them here, nothing forced them to stay in place, and they could surely leave or even send away the one with questions.
Instead, they answered. "No," 1x1x1x1 inclined their head. It was a movement that held no real purpose beyond moving. "But you don't have to worry about that. It's not anything to concern yourself with."
Claws pulled subtlety at a darkened arm and the creation did not pry away from it, gaze simply watching as the red tapped and tugged and wondered.
The innocent and red did not seem notice. The wronged and hateful did not point it out.
Truly, part of them wanted to shun the one who did not realize, did not see. They wanted to draw attention so that he would be subject to their disdain. Would that be fair, though? Certainly not. Oh, certainly not. He did not deserve.
Such a simple concept.
Deserve; do something or have or show qualities worthy of (reward or punishment). To earn, merit, or warrant.
Many people deserved many things. Some things were good, some things were bad, but ultimately it was fair. It only tipped too far one way when people got what they did not deserve.
Unfound bonuses. Unjust punishments.
The creation was familiar with both sides of the undeserved.
"I was thinking about my family."
1x1x1x1 did not have to explain. They didn't have to justify their anger, nor the tears, and they certainly did not have to justify it for the sake of some child. They did not have to do anything. This was not forced, decided by an outsider, or chosen unwillingly. This was not by anyone's will but their own.
Truly, there was no necessity in sharing.
"But the thing about my family is that it wasn't really mine," said the not akin. "I was never my mother's nor my father's. My sibling and I do not come from the same womb. I was made, repurposed, and then allowed to pretend until they grew tired of me. And I was left." Undermining. Really, was it the full truth? Were they really left? Saying that the creation had been left was a gross simplification of what had been done. "Their game ended unfairly and they left me to collect the debts of which they ignored."
Oh, and how debts lingered.
Lingered in dreams. Dreams that warped, warbled, echoing with screams in old arenas and mountains, where wings were torn by the recusant and one spilled their own blood. Dreams that were more similar to nightmares. Nightmares where kind faces became the torment. Nightmares that showed the lies and the poison held beneath.
How much the creation had learned in the room of which they were abandoned.
"So I collected them. I paid the dues. And I brought them to face the punishment they deserve."
1x1x1x1 could recall that day, the setting sun. It had been a day with a clear sky and the sun had painted with gold that was entwined purples and pretty pinks. Red bled from the few clouds and stars faintly glittered like dew. They remembered it, for that was the first time in the longest while that the warmth of light had blessed their back. They had spent a few moments standing in that warmth. Let it soak into their back. It soothed the raw remnants there, the leftover feathers, and they had let themself breathe the free and wild wind.
They remembered hiding. Sneaking. Quiet, silent, until their hands could close around the swords, and only then could they truly feel the whispering.
It had coiled around their limbs. Slithering, spreading, guiding, a gentle grip that soon tightened and placed hands over their eyes. A blindness had been found and only glimpses of the world beyond had been granted.
The guided had been aware of the blood.
It had spilled, dripping and splattering and hotter than fire. The distant notice of purple hair and cooling eyes.
The way she raised her sword to what she thought was a stranger and demanded the identity. The way her attention turned, changing, and the recognition had risen. How she tried to convince. Tried to soothe, try to pull the whispers away from their eyes, but she had not been able to and she had lifted her sword too late.
Venom pierced deep into her and she had been left to die.
Brighteyes; denoting feelings associated with or typical of a mother; motherly. Quell the anger, agitation, or excitement of. That which is morally right; righteousness. Sweet, mother, or correct.
"I'm sorry, momma."
If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
1x1x1x1 was not sure.
Then, the seclusion, and the veil barely dared to lift. The quiet mourning that was forced to be ended.
Only one person had been present before the final spill, yet had only joined briefly. Innocence came to remember, to comfort, but had not stayed. The silent innocent had been wary. Jumping, looking.
The guilty had been sure they were aware. Sure they knew. Sure they saw, they thought, they considered-
-but they did not linger. Their blood had not spilled. Mercy had been granted, as it was needed, and the one who held the bloodied swords of rot and poison had not chased.
Taph; each of two or more children or offspring having one or both parents in common; a brother or sister. Making little or no noise. Innocence, reticent, or mute.
Next was the turncoat.
The creation could recall his end.
It was far more vivid, and he had fought.
Telamon; an adored, admired, or influential person. An experienced and trusted advisor. Creator, father, or Judas.
So skilled, he was, but he had not wanted. 1x1x1x1 could see it in how he had not been readied to grab a defense. Could see in how it was filled with holes, open and waiting, and reaching in was the only thing that had him rushing to patch them.
Swords had clashed.
The creator and his creation both bled.
The whispers- oh, the whispers- how they sang... it cried for it to spill, for more, for it to coat the floors, and the lost disciple pushed.
Fear; an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat. Be afraid of (someone or something) as likely to be dangerous, painful, or threatening. To dread, alarm, or distress.
Apathy; lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern. To detach, unconcern, or distance.
Words had murmured and hissed.
"Are you... happy, now that you've gotten what you want?"
"You should have never kept me. You had no reason to keep me."
"...I had every reason to keep you."
"Is everything okay now?"
1x1x1x1 set a quiet hand on the head of the child. He was looking upwards, towards them, and they met his gaze. It was a gaze of questions. Curiosity coiled, wired, but it was not a necessity, nor was it a demand.
There was no requirement.
"You were my... greatest creation. My best one yet."
But the creation, one stained and marked, with the rotting, and the poison, and the boiling presence of the hatred, only shook their head. "No," they whispered. "Nothing will ever be okay again. But that doesn't mean I can't be okay for now."
The child did not understand. Truly, he did not. They could not fault him for what he did not experience no matter how much they desired to. It would not be just.
Hatred and the rot could remain but they would not be such a contradiction to their thoughts.
Chapter 2: Sincerely, Yours Accosted
Notes:
"feed us more" well okay!
this was mostly because I wanted to write more 1x in this style ngl... VERY indulgent, I love writing this idiot
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Purity; freedom from adulteration or contamination. A goodness, sterility, or piety.
Once was the pure eyes of naivety, unassumed in the endeavors. It was laden with sweet fruits that it not dare eat. It was good. Moral, adequate, a satisfaction in the eyes of those who sought to create, and the created is to be alive.
To be alive is to exist.
Exist; have objective reality or being. Live, especially under adverse conditions. To subsist, occur, or be.
As far as anyone's concerned, Telamon's creation was exactly these things. Telamon- as such- glowed with pride.
Once had the disciple believed the pride to be for it.
Foolish was what that was... never had he been proud of his creation for what the creation did, but of himself for what he made. The light that reflected towards it was simply an incident of the mirror he gazed into. The light, the adoration, it had never been for the artificial. Nobody praised machines and dolls for their capabilities.
1x1x1x1 was one of these dolls, these machines, but was one cursed with the burden and weight of consciousness. They were the unlucky one to be gifted sentience. To have free will. To exist, to live, to breathe, all blessings born of the disgraced angel, and he was- one more- pretending to still be holy.
Oh, father, creator, how cruel he was, and for that did the recusant brew in the darkness of which it was rejected.
It remained here.
This was the punishment- naivety had taken the attention from the true innocent, and now where was it? Rotten and burned and sickened by its own poison? Furious at one and letting that breed so that it could hate all the more? What purpose did any of it serve?
The difference. Change, truly, was a venom, and it had pierced the carrying injection into the creation.
Once had been a guide. Naive, playing as if it was innocent, and yet it was not aware it's skin was stolen from a lamb. It was not aware the flesh would rot away and leave nothing but the sodden teeth and bone. Oh, and how sweet shepherd did not see- he had been blinded by the sun after cutting down all the trees himself. He questioned how the leaves were gone and now he wondered how the wolf was in the flock, when he was the one who clothed it!
He brought a slaughter to his unclothed wolf, and was so surprised when it bit back? How dare the creator be shocked. He did not have the right to be surprised, when he had lied to the predator and called it a lamb and fed it falsehood poison.
Oh, creator. He was playing a sweet shepherd's role and yet still placed the wolf with the prey. He promised to be good, to love, to care, and yet what had he become? Oh, Telamon, Telamon... and beneath his masks what could his creation see? Why, it best say hello to Judas. Who had betrayed the shepherd, who was the face behind those masks of the monarch, such was Judas and such is now Telamon!
No, nor shall the name of Shedletsky hide his sins, for the creation has seen such face and title, and it knew better than to miss the line of separation.
How alone was he now?
After all have passed to sword and left for their life to continue, the creator was left alone, and how sorrowful did he seem?
The turncoat, he was. The one who betrayed. Who turned his back and blinded those to what he shunned. Father, oh, father, why must you be so foolish, to allow yourself be alone, and the whispers knew as such? What foolishness was this? The unprepared.
Asking for this end.
The recusant, the guilty, it stood silent with swords light and gaze bright.
There sat the creator. His wings limp, head bowed, and the heavy burden of loss across his shoulders.
Did it weigh him down? Did it force him to drag himself across the floor? Did the loss weigh as cruelly as the factor of being abandoned, of being forgotten, of being disgraced to the darkness of desertion?
Did it?
No, no, it could not, the whispers told, and they demanded the blood. For the poison to pierce and the brutality to be returned.
Oh, how the bridled would give!
The steps were as quiet as the unheard breeze- the approach, the stalk, and only had its eyes been for the father. It was heavy with the fury that built and for that had blindness struck.
Only was it disturbed by the creaking.
Old wood, and for the sound did the false shepherd turn, and perhaps was the gaze a reason for the halt?
"...1x?"
Oh, gentle was his voice, the words of father, and briefly did the guilty delay. How fast had he recognized his creation? Surely, surely, it must be for the pride of what they were, the strength woven into by rot and fury?
Fury... how was such fury... how it rose as the remembrance of it.
The darkness. The creation saw the darkness, and for that did the violate churn.
"Do not call me less than my name!" The recusant screeched, and the swords called toward the infringement. "You lost that right when you shut that door, how dare you think otherwise?"
Telamon. How he stared, eyes wide, but it saw not the grief- what grief did he deserve to feel? For the loss of his wife? His wife, killed by the wolf he clothed in lamb skin himself? His grief was unfound, unjust, the whispers said as such, and the misinformed knew it was true.
Telamon was not even worthy of crying for the mother.
Each moment he dared to breathe- he mourned for the woman who he, himself, had sentenced.
Undeserving.
1x1x1x1's lips drew back into a snarl and legs moved.
Oh, the speed... lacking. Telamon took so long to move in turn, and for that did his blood spill from the arm. The swords tried to pierce, much faster did he move, all for that second time. Words fell onto ears and were lost to the rise.
"Fight!"
The creator did not want.
The creation struck again.
A sword met by the third time- an unease was heavy, and 1x1x1x1 stared at their creator.
Oh, could he feel it? The poison in the air? Could he hear the whispers that screamed and cheered for his spilled blood? Doth the angels protest his fall, or instead cheer for the collapse. Doctor, you turncoat, best pray to what has not yet turned on you as you have it, for your creation come to assure your end. Either kill it or let himself fall. It was the choice of which he was forced!
Punishment! Oh, how he thought he was exempt, the privilege of name.
Oh.. oh, how he thinks, and how wrongful is the assumption.
His creation long since forgot the meaning of his name. Telamon, Shedletsky, it did not matter what he bore. They were the same to the accost.
Defense- he was playing defense! How dare? How dare? Did he think they were so weak that they would shatter?
He was being backed away, cornered, and he surely felt it. Surely saw it. The creation saw the moment he did and joy bred in the brutality.
"You cannot even properly raise your sword to me?" The dissentient spat, bearing closer, and the rotten fruit permeated the air. "Do you think I am weak, creator? Or have you grown so pathetic that you cannot even kill who stabbed your wife?"
There was a flicker.
Of eyes, of the debate, and it seared across their side.
Blood splattered.
The hatred grew.
The voice was drowned by it, but the whispers, oh, how helpful... they were such kind. Encouragement, lingering, the one to pull the violated naivety from the darkened door, and it was quite so wonderful. It was the one to hand over the words it did not hear and make sense of what did not make sense.
Oh, creator, creator, the cruelty of it, how dare he? Call them a murderer?
Irony. Cruel, cruel irony. It was not fair. To label the creation as a murderer? It was akin to that book- the doctor, the monster, and yet how innocent despite the brutal choices! The monster was not quite evil. It was not the fault of the created, nor was it the fault of 1x1x1x1.
Once had it not been a monster.
The purity had turned into such awful things, and the newly made monster glared sullenly ahead towards its father.
His eyes was turned to it. Yes, now, he would be forced to look upon his wolf! His predator, his monstrous disciple, the thing he had turned them into! Now... oh, yes, now... he would be forced to see what he tried to lock away.
The recusant stared, to meet those eyes, and the doctor was to stare back. They saw his face. His true face, even, the darkened shadows that were blinded by the light he shone, but that light could not blind him to what he made. No longer could he be blind to that, to it, to them.
The blood burned and 1x1x1x1 felt the drag.
Oh, how skilled, creator- how skilled? How far was he willing to go? Would he even go so far as to kill them?
Would he?
Oh, dare, oh, would he dare? Would he rise enough with his hesitant sword and plunge it through them? Telamon liked to seem so kind, so merciful, but his creation saw him for what he was. No truthful and honest act of sparing was found in his history. All of it was for his own benefit.
It tore through skin and flesh and the creation felt the warmth. It rolled, dripping, and it was sure the stains would last, that the blood of a creation would forever mark this room. The only distaste was of who was spilling it.
The only distaste was who's blood also marred the space.
How dare the creator let his lost blood mix with theirs?
Not even the mother dared- she had risen her sword only for the lack of recognition, and soon was the one to reach out. Oh, the correct, the right, she had not even moved to defend herself upon seeing the creation! She thought them to be something right, much like she herself was, and the only mistake was in thinking too much of her husband.
Oh, mother, dear mother...
"I'm sorry, momma."
Oh, how she had stared silently, and the creation had held her in those final moments, and it was the only kindness it could give. It could only hope it had eased her heart as she died there.
It ached.
The memory, the knowing, and it struck 1x1x1x1 cruelly, and such was the waver- enough for the tides to turn. For the creator to surge, for tattered wings to crush against the ground, and so did the divine hold! Oh, his light, how cruel? The brutality it bore... oh, the brutality, oh... and such was the end, wasn't it, truly?
Telamon stared down upon his creation.
The moment did not pass- it lingered. It did not rush, nor did it halt, and the ragged breathing was heavy. They could see it.
1x1x1x1 stared up toward their creator.
The blood. Not akin, that blood, and it stained the skin and clothes, and the recusant saw it upon his sword.
Why was he not seeking more?
It was a confusion, and it bled into irritation, and then into a fury.
"Do you expect me to do it for you?" Oh, that Judas akin, he stared at the question with brows furrowed and their agitation rose. "Do you see me as so subservient that I will even kill myself with your sword?"
And oh, oh, his nerve! He dared- oh, he dared to look so lost? He dared to stare at them with eyes that widened round? His nerve, oh, he dared, and 1x1x1x1 felt it stretch thin. To think of them as such a lowly thing... was that the meaning behind the door's lock? Was it? Was the purpose laid in how he viewed them? Doctor, creator, that pride was a blind he put over his own eyes, and for that he was so shocked to see there was no tree as he held the means.
Oh, open those eyes, now, turncoat.
Face the truth of which one ignored.
Oh, answer, do answer. They even were sure to say it to his self-inflicted blindness.
"You put me away and turn your back, and for what? So that you do not have blood on your hands?" 1x1x1x1 screeched towards their creator, towards his eyes and sword, and the words were spat into brutal being. "Is this all this is? You will not use the sword yourself, instead have me pierce myself with it, just so you can claim innocence?"
His eyes- open, how open they were. Widened and yet refusing to see that the sky was blue. "No, that's not- that was never the reason! I didn't want-"
"Oh, liar!"
1x1x1x1's hand found his sword. It shoved, brutal, and his grasp was not enough, and the words lashed as they surged with their own.
"You dare lie to me! How dare you lie to me?" The rotten screamed, and his defense was useless as the sword fought to find its target. "Even now, you lie? Oh, you- do you think me a fool?! No, no, you cannot lie to me anymore! You will die for what you did!"
Oh, how far...
It sank. Solid, cruel, and the blood welled until it poured, and the floor was harsh and cold.
Oh, his blood.
Telamon stared. The sword was heavy, and the shoulders were pulled forward, and his back rested firmly as 1x1x1x1 held the hilt so that the blade would not leave his chest. Never would it be allowed to leave his chest until the finality shuddered through his breath.
His eyes.
It stared, quiet, and the creation saw the red.
Did Telamon feel it?
Oh, surely he did, must have, no blindness could hide it. It was burning with the venom of the sword and 1x1x1x1 felt weak.
The hilt was loose and the accost let their hands fall. How wondrous- the shuddering breath, the warm eyes, and the fire burned somewhere distant. Horrible. So terribly horrible, the blood and the heart, and the artificial heart ached.
"Are you... happy? Now that you've gotten what you want?"
Oh, it burned.
The creation's mind screamed and yet the noise did not escape. No, he did not deserve to hear their turmoil, they would not give him the delight, and the dying shepherd had the nerve to smile.
Oh, his smile.
So eternal in the careless. Without worry, or wonder, and for that did they despise.
A gentle offer of a hand.
It was the disciple, truly, the remnants of what was naive. That was what held them here. Low on their knees as the masked reached for them. Gentle, he was, and they did not lean into the warmth on their cheek, nor the thumb beneath their eye, and the question surged.
Oh, why? Why now?
In what was the purpose- he had casted them off, shunned them to be turned to rot, and yet now he showed them the warmth of which he held?
"You should have never kept me." The rejected whispered. Those words held questions, unheard and unanswered, and the fury ebbed on the shore of shame. "You had no reason to keep me."
Never was there a reason- he could have rejected them, ruined them, made them into truly nothing and not even leave a sign. No sentience. The rot would have never existed and the tatters of flight never could shred. Oh, Telamon... he could have gotten rid of them the moment the idea was futile. He had all the reasons to. No true reason, no purpose, no explanation for keeping his creation.
The creator smiled and the flame of a hatred's candle sputtered.
"I had every reason to keep you."
Oh, but what? And why? Where did the purpose stand?
A shaky thumb brushed away the burning salt, letting the tear streak, and the creation's gaze lowered. How pathetic. Pathetic enough they were letting the brutal father treat them as if they were a child.
"Then why did you not?"
The sad smile- oh, he did not deserve to feel guilt, nor sorrow, no, not even remorse. Never did he deserve it. Not after the act, the door, and the darkness that he had left them to. No, no, he didn't deserve to feel any of it... it was not his place.
"You left me," the recusant continued. The words tasted horrid but they spoke regardless. "You picked me up and then you left me. You turned your back and didn't ever look my way again. Did you tell others what you did? Did they even remember me?"
It broke. Their gaze, their voice, and the crowned creation bowed its head low.
"...did- did you even remember me?"
Remember; have in or be able to bring to one's mind an awareness of (someone or something that one has seen, known, or experienced in the past). To recall, recollect, or think of.
"Do you think I didn't?"
There was a quiver in his voice. Fragile, wavering, and it carried a sense of death.
Oh, death.
The finality of it- a cruel and brutal mercy. It was unforgiving and did not avoid a single person. Innocent, guilty...
...death was indifferent.
It would take anyone.
Not yet, though, oh, please, don't take Judas yet. His creation was not yet satisfied. No, it wasn't. Perhaps it won't ever be.
Oh, father, and the mother, and what was the purpose in this? To satiate the anger or to make it worse? To silence the whispers?
Claws. Oh, how horrible the claws, and they loathed the shadowed shapes of them, and the shaking hands gently cupped the face of their creator, and the bowed head fell further. It rested against the shoulder of the turncoat and the tears burned with agonizing contradiction.
"You should have killed me."
It was hissed, low, and the dying hand carded undeserved fingers through dark hair. Almost could the guilty imagine this was before. That time of peace, of ease, of being curled into the side of a mentor and basking in the warmth there, of being tired but still hanging onto the advice before. Exhaustion from harmless fights and tests had bore heavy back then but now the dragging was far, far more real.
That hand trailed.
It brushed over the scars that still ached from the shreds.
1x1x1x1 could still recall that- an action they had only themself to blame for. A desperation to rip away the signs of the divine who had held them so kindly. Tattered feathers barely clung to the green skin and they wanted to cry.
"I could never kill you," Telamon breathed. His breath was forced. The words taut, but not dripping with false, and his wolf wanted to despise the sound of the belated truths. "You were... wonderful. Are wonderful. Strong... good..."
Even after the sin?
After the swords, the blood spilled? The hateful venom in steel? The rejected one wanted to scream to his foolish acts, his thoughts, his belief in this, but they could not bring themself to make a noise. They feared what sound would escape in the place of it. The weakened, pathetic sounds of tears and pity. It refused to let anyone hear the pathetic factor of their hypocrisy.
Oh, Judas... doctor, their father, the one who guided their hands into unpredicted violence. His lessons were turned against him by his lovely monster.
Oh, monster.
The monster was ridden by rot- it was stained and scavenged, the good picked from its bone. Blackened by the hate and dark and the shadows they were locked to.
"1x1x1x1. Look at me, please?"
It did not want. Did not desire, did not even have to, but it was a dying man's ask. A refusal was a disrespect.
But...
...did he not deserve the disrespect?
Truly, he did not deserve their gaze. They should not look towards him just as he did not look towards them. Even if he remembered, even if he called them wonderful, he had still turned away and only looked when it was far too late.
The recusant obliged.
A gentle smile was all they saw through the blur of their tears. His eyes, warm and gentle and heavy, and his shuddering breath. How he swallowed. How he watched them through his haze of his end. The finality was near, they both could feel it, the blood lost to the floor, and they held their creator's face as his hand fell from their back.
"You were my... greatest creation," soft. His voice. Low, whispered, uttered above the barest hint of sounds, and that creation stared unblinking towards his last. "My best one yet."
The breath held.
Wavered.
And then, the eyes drifted, distant, and there was the silent rattle.
The fury wavered.
And then, it screamed.
Notes:
I started working on this Aug 28th
kept cooking and tippy-tapping away at my computer
and now look at where we are😈...also 3.5k words? wild to me icl icl!
rosesandth0rns on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Aug 2025 05:04PM UTC
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VerySiriusMan on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Aug 2025 09:43PM UTC
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J4ck0l4nern_AND_T4bby_JK on Chapter 1 Sat 30 Aug 2025 10:40AM UTC
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FairyCrowned on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 09:46AM UTC
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Purpl3dragon on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Sep 2025 06:38PM UTC
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rosesandth0rns on Chapter 2 Mon 08 Sep 2025 07:29PM UTC
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getup_rie on Chapter 2 Tue 09 Sep 2025 08:12AM UTC
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