Chapter Text
Hatred used Its... hand to cover the snicker that arose in It at the sight of the Player slowly slaughtering Fear. So gullible, were they not? It was outright telling them that the real danger was not itself, but something different, even more sinister. Hidden in plain sight, was it? The purple mass tried so hard to warn, speak, to beg them, yet nothing seemed to work. The combined misery of the situation, the utter tragedy of it made It feel giddy. Truly, this was just the thing It had been waiting for. Just a bit longer and the oh-so-brave shall be damned, condemned for eternal torture by the very thing they believed to be their guide, an ally in this broken parody of a world.
They, of course, didn’t see it. Neither how the desolate plains of too bright colors just didn’t make sense, too busy trying to hide their real nature to appear believable, nor how the familiar figure speaking and offering guidance seemed to pulse just slightly, edges unfocusing and blurry.
Hatred allowed Itself a deeper breath, as It relished the thought of the long-awaited moment. It will finally, finally be able to drop all disguise and confront the person next to It. The meat enveloping It itched and oh, how It yearned for the sweet taste of blood and crunch of breaking bones. Of course, it would have to take a bit longer than expected, as, like Hatred noted, when It was spectating the youth’s previous few battles, the Player seemed to pull out pie after pie, item after item, seemingly out of nowhere, and devour them. Why consuming those pastries, vegetables and fruit appeared to be healing and restoring energy in the Player, Hatred did not know, yet It didn’t allow Itself to feel discouraged by such a small inconvenience. Everything was going according to plan after all, was it not?
Yes, yes it was. For what is man next to his deepest, darkest self? It hid in all of them; Hatred knew it as well as It knew the shape of the Player’s pulsing heart or the agonizing feeling it brings to be hiding oneself behind a fake façade, trying to suppress that darkness inside. Even so, it always crawls out, if not for everyone to see, then at the hours between midnight and morning when the moon barely offers enough light to make out familiar shapes in one’s room. It is suffocating and it is eternal.
Then, a blink of light. Hatred blinked slowly, as It observed the air in front of the Player turn misty, then impossibly fuller. Then there he stood. An older gentleman, it seemed, bearing a crown and flowing cape. Cold air formed a sort of white mist surrounding him, claiming him as its own. It had not occurred to It that there could ever be any other human in that desolate void. Yet he remained in place despite Hatred’s ponderings of his existence, with a proud stance and heart beating as lively as the Player’s own. Perhaps this had something to do with the adventurer’s recent victory against Solitude? But It knew well that would not be possible, as even in absence of the lonely one, It was well in control of the environment and its… inhabitants.
Though, It mocked quietly, could he really be called a person? It could sense a deep hatred in him too, or, rather, a gaping hole left behind by it. It seemed as though the king was completely devoid of that special spark that makes men succumb to anguish and wrath. It was certainly once there, but now he looked to be completely at ease, as only a dead man could be. It hoped it had hurt.
Even so, Hatred curled Its too-fleshy fist into a tight ball, as It sensed the tempo of the king’s heartbeat quicken and stumble irregularly as he was attacked by one of Fear’s tendrils. How could that fool achieve something It could not? It bit Its tongue hard to keep Itself from screaming in frustration, then again, harder, just to feel pain ignite Its nerves once more. For all Its efforts and success in replicating an image of a living human being from the Player’s memories, It could never quite get everything right.
The blurriness was one thing, however the constant and steady rhythm of Its ‘heart’ made Hatred feel sick. It never changed, never skipped a beat like the Player’s did. The sheer incompetence of it caused Hatred to grind Its too-small teeth.
No matter. It knew well that It was far from human and that It would never be able to achieve such status.
It perked up a bit, as Its beady eyes caught on to just how weakened Fear appeared to be. Thank Telamon-
What. The slight vicious smile It was displaying immediately dropped from Its face. What or who did It mean by that? A flash of images went through Its head in quick succession, only adding more questions to the growing pile inside Hatred’s twisted mind. It saw a robed figure, standing grand and tall, then feathers so big the wings they belonged to must have been massive. Finally, a grin, not unlike Its own. It was blinding and carried a display of ill-disguised malice, alerting all senses of the sheer danger of it. (since when did Hatred have senses of Its own..?) This was all too much, why.. no, how come was Hatred seeing these haunting images as if It were a real person with memories of a real past life, from before It would have been ‘trapped’ in this realm? The figure itself appeared god-like, was it possible that Player’s own faith somehow bled into their emotions, making Hatred carry those memories..? Yes, that had to be it, for there could be no other way to explain the phenomenon.
Hatred ignored how those.. images seemed awfully familiar and personal and invoked a wave of emotion in It, that It had never felt before. It did not experience the faintest urge to reach out and run Its fingers over the softness of feathers and Hatred certainly remained stood breathing calm and on steady legs.
What proved to be a great distraction to whatever that was, was the king receiving what It knew was his final blow. Hatred was about to adjust the helmet on Its head and breath out a sigh of relief, when It spotted him speaking his last words towards the Player. It must have been some mushy words of encouragement, as Hatred found Itself having a physical reaction that stemmed from the effect they had on the Player and their psyche. It cringed when the feeling grew increasingly unbearable. They were planning something now, weren’t they?
In astonishment flavored with quite a bit of loathing, Hatred observed as the one whose wrath It was a physical manifestation of stopped in their tracks, slowly extending their hand towards the cowering mass in front of them. What were they doing. No. This.. Crap, It should intervene, do.. something…
But it was too late. With non-concealed relief, Fear paused too, letting words of thank you’s and encouragement spill from its mouth. Hatred felt like punching something.
Frankly, It could as well have done so, if not for the sudden sensation of the strange world starting to slip from Its grasp, vertigo encapsulating It in Its entirety. Everything.. shifted. Bright light covered everything in sight and It suddenly found Itself in company of 5 more or less familiar faces, along with a very much not-stuck-in-stone sword.