Just a bit Absythne Mind(ed)

Chapter Three: the heart that fed

Your heartbeat roars in your ears, and it feels as though the organ may come up your throat along with the acrid taste of vomit. Muscles tremble as you move on, and your mind is struggling to keep up with your actions.

What had you done, what had you done, what had you done?!

Showing any form of mercy to him of all people was unfathomable– it was beyond treason! It was, it was- 

Stop. Stop.

You couldn’t think about it anymore.

There’s the distinct feeling of your hands shaking, but as you look down they don’t feel like they’re attached to your arms. These hands weren’t yours– these were the hands that had ruined everything.

Serayne gets your meal ticket again as you curl onto the threadbare blanket on your bed. Your insides twist and turn, and you weep again, tears dripping down your face and splattering onto the pillow.

What a pathetic sight you made. 

All you had truly done in the time since starting this wretched duty was cry and cry and cry. All you could feel was desolation and ever present rising bile in your throat that threatened to spill over more and more each passing day. All you could smell was the ash of your home and the sharp tang of blood tainted bleach.

Was this what you were destined for?

Had you done something to deserve such torment?

Perhaps you could beseech the Commander to use a different cleaner, or at least to rotate the shifts out. Plead that it was eating at your soul– that you couldn’t stand another moment with that haunting figure of a man. You would beg at the Commander’s feet if you had to. Surely he would understand– those eyes haunted you at night, and now there would be a new nightmarish vision to join them.

As you drift into fitful sleep, you resolve that no matter what you need to get further and further away from the whole situation. 

Because if you don’t… it will ruin you.

“Well, I have to say I’m impressed– a job well done!” comes the greeting in the morning.

You’re gobsmacked.

Either you have the worst luck in the universe, or there is an entity with a cruel, cruel sense of irony. Stars above it might be both. Or perhaps you are fantastic at manifesting the worst of circumstances– because here, at the crack of dawn and start of the work day, is the Commander himself standing outside your door. An unusual escort to your least favourite task, and you can only wonder what fresh hell would grace the halls today.

There’s tiredness in your bones as you follow him. Never directly beside, always one step behind.

He looks you over approvingly, and there’s some idle chatter as the two of you walk. You try to stutter out something that sounds vaguely appropriate as an answer and wrap your head around the early morning ambush. The conversation takes a distinct shift in tone when you enter the prison complex section of the base, and Davidson seems to stand taller and straighter as you approach the room. His medals sparkle under the fluorescent lighting.

You jump as a hand lands on your shoulder, and he chuckles goodnaturedly.

“Listen, I wanted to speak with you personally today to tell you that you’ve done a good job,” he starts as he casually undoes the first few locks as though he were opening a shed instead of a cell. The Commander pauses to look back at you, “but I suspect you already guessed that.”

You nod in agreement– because you had, and swallow thickly as the anticipation kicks in to see what awaits on the other side.

The door swings open and as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you search for what’s changed on his figure, darting up and down the now horribly familiar form. What catches you off guard is that nothing looks worse than yesterday. If anything it looks better, especially now that his legs were a little cleaner.

His cuts seemed shallower, scabbing slightly and only oozing rather than freely weeping down his skin. Older scars look ever so slightly fainter, and though his face is once again obscured by his hair, you can tell there is an overall better pallor to him.

It makes you stop short, and the commander chuckles warmly, placing a hand on your shoulder while looking down at you– his gaze not transfixed by the captive laid bare like yours has been.

And then he remarks, “When we first trialled the idea of getting someone to clean in here, we weren’t sure what the results would be,” his hand moves off your shoulder and he turns away from you, letting your head follow his movement. 

“But we like it - or, well, at least the senior officers can stand in here now without having to wipe down their boots afterwards - and hold their noses.” Davidson winks at you like this is some sort of inside joke, but all that you can do is glance between him and the prone figure that haunts your dreams.

Your body remains turned towards the Emperor as you look back to see what Davidson is doing, and you’re surprised to see him fiddling with a large new attachment to the wall behind you. It’s on the far side of the wall, but you hadn’t even seen it as you’d come in, far too concerned with changes to him rather than the room itself.

“And we like yesterday’s initiative, too.”

Your heart sinks to your stomach, and your breathing quickens as anxiety shoots to every inch of your skin.

This is it. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk with him about anything you had wanted too, so caught off guard in the early morning and the conversation was utterly dominated by him. And now they’d seen what you’d done.

Blood rushes to your head, the pounding of your pulse so loud in your ears you can barely make out his next words:

“I know it hasn’t been easy, and that this is a tough ask of you— which is why I took the liberty to have this installed just for you.”

You recognise the shape now that he stands back slightly and turns towards you both once more. 

It’s a hose, with a short but thick pipe, topped with a twistable nozzle that the commander is still fiddling with as he steps forwards. 

“What?” you finally question, voice tinged with confusion and concern for what they were going to ask of you. You couldn’t deny it would be handy, but you had your buckets and you could refill them with the hallway tap like normal. It was of no real inconvenience, and your brain has yet to make the leap he wanted you to.

Water gushes out, fast, hard and freezing cold.

The commander turns it slightly until the spray is a harsh jet, and you have to bite back the shriek of shock that jumps up as he turns it on the Emperor. It doesn’t quite blast his skin off– and for that you are grateful– but it acts much like a pressure washer as it works to detach the muck from his flesh. 

You’d never felt so uncomfortable just watching something– gawking as the chained man folds in on himself as icy water savages his torso, the overspray dripping onto the tiles. Chunks of grime flake off under the pressure and slide towards the drain, revealing more and more olive toned skin underneath, along with even more hidden injuries and at least a dozen scars to match each fresh line that makes itself known.

However, almost as soon as it has started does the torrent come to a spurting stop. Your thoughts are interrupted as you’re spoken to again.

“Your new task is to make sure he is as clean as the room - or well, close enough.” Davidson’s words are accompanied by a proud smile of pearly white teeth as he pushes the hose into your empty hands. He commiserates, “I know you don’t want to get close, and I don’t blame you, but I trust you to get the job done. Keep up the good work!”

He leaves the room, door thudding heavily behind him, and the only thought you can form is that you don’t understand.

You don’t understand any of this, and trying to process it is making your head spin. 

Worst of all, you didn’t understand why you?

The room tilts on its side as you stare at the hose in your hand.

The Emperor’s face rises for the first time since you’ve entered, and when you catch sight of his face there’s the clattering noise of the hose falling to the floor, rolling across the tiles in a semicircle as your loose fingers tremble. Your feet shuffle backwards in horror, and you barely catch yourself from tripping over the coiled rubber behind you on sheer instinct.

Brown, piercing, bloodshot eyes have moved to meet yours.

How they’re back you could never have guessed– you certainly know they’re not spending insanely costly healing resources on regenerating him, but they’re back. They’re back and they’re staring at you intently, as if memorising every inch of your face. 

You hate it.

You hate him.

You hate everything about this situation and your gut twists as you war internally.

Another step and your back has hit the wall. It’s cool and solid against your shivering and sweating form. You can only imagine what he sees when he looks at you– a small rabbit in front of a starving lion.

“Go on then,” he hisses, venom seeping through every syllable. You flinch.

His whole form is tense, as if waiting for the next hit. Lean and ragged muscles are taught against every restraint as he braces against them, face defiantly bared towards you. His teeth have returned, and his lips have curled up in a snarl to show every single one.

But then the fight drains from him.

His words are not defeated– they still grind through gritted teeth– but they hold a resignation that his burning anger didn’t. 

“...get it over with.”

The silence between you stretches on– neither moving, neither yielding. You have nothing to say in response because you don’t know where to begin.

But you do know what to do, because the job needs to be done and you know you cannot pick up that hose. It lies on the floor, pristine like an unexploded grenade. You already know your hands will refuse to hold it. The Commander cannot be refused though, so you leave into the side room and start filling up your cart. Fresh buckets of water, soaps, scrubber, sponge - you check each article twice just to buy yourself precious time before you have to go back in. 

When you enter again, his head snaps up to look at you– face impassive and unreadable, but his body is more composed than when you’d left. Just as soon as you’ve registered his action, he lets it fall down again, hair closing in to shield his expression.

You approach tentatively, like you would have a rabid beast– with wide eyes, trembling limbs and the constant mental whisper asking you if you really want to do this. 

If you turn around now and grab the hose, you won’t have to get any closer to him.

The whole trolley shakes as you fiddle with the scrubber, changing out the attachments and pouring some soap concentrate into the bucket until you’re satisfied with your weapons of war - a sponge on a stick and a jug of lukewarm soapy water.

Your brain wrestles with the fact that you’re going to have to get close to him. Far closer than you’ve ever been comfortable with. If you’d told your month younger self what you were about to be doing, you would have laughed until your face turned red– because the idea was preposterous. It bordered on insanity, and yet here you were, about to embark upon the task.

Why did the line you were willing to cross have to keep shifting?

You were closer now than you ever had been before– able to see the details of his skin that were bruised and filthy, and he looked exactly like he smelled. Decrepit. 

A section of the grime was peeled off now, along with the small section you’d done yesterday, but everywhere else was still caked in gore. It was disgusting beyond measure. You had not a single clue how he could remain so composed while practically embalmed in his own blood and viscera. 

You supposed that he would have to be, well, used to it by now.

Do not think too hard about it.

Turning off your train of thought as best as you can, you set your jaw in grim determination. The only way out of this room was through this task, and there was no easy way to complete it.

The water sloshes as you sink the sponge in with a vengeance, water and bubbles spilling over the sides in equal measure as you dunk it until it’s fully saturated. 

There is no more delaying it.

Your teeth grind as you poke the stick towards him, excess water dripping down his legs as your contraption wobbles towards his shoulders. His frame is still somehow excessively broad and strong, even with his skin pulled tight over muscle that’s too lean - not a pinch of spare pulled across his bones. He just looks too big to be real. When the sponge connects with his skin you expect him to say something, do something or even just acknowledge you - but he doesn’t. 

So you get on with it. 

The sponge rubs back and forth, the stick providing a leverage that lets you put some force in without getting too close. You can’t imagine it's very soft or gentle but it’s far, far better than the practically skin flaying spray down. There’s a horrible joke somewhere to be made about nurses, sick patients and sponge baths, but you try to shake away the thoughts and treat it like you’re washing down a dirty statue, given he might as well act like one most of the time.

Slowly, more and more of a greyish olive tone is revealed, thin veins trailing but standing out starkly from his skin. Sections are lightened and raised where scars upon scars upon scars have been layered and layered and layered. Every pass reveals more and more collected cruelty. 

It was far easier to ignore the injuries and implications from afar, when you had the luxury of staying away and ignoring him in the dim lighting. Disregarding the way his flesh always held some kind of fresh bruising. You supposed that you could ignore him again – this was a self imposed torture, after all.

All you had to do was step back and pick up the hose.

But you don’t– you keep scrubbing, occasionally splashing over fresh water to clear your canvas, working at him much like you would the floor. Tiles first, the larger expanses of anatomy mostly cleared, then the grout, finer creases and folds of the skin worked into and focussed on. 

And just like the room, he is eventually clean too, or well, everything except his head.

Then you have to ask yourself - are they expecting you to do his face when washing him down? 

…

The answer is of course they are. 

You can imagine it easily, water pounding against his face. Delicate skin, tender and recovering eyes, mouth, nose - all victim to the same treatment. The way he’d splutter and cough involuntarily as it forced its way into his lungs.

Maybe it would have been best to use the hose after all, it would have been over quickly rather than subjecting yourself to even more mental torture and gymnastics to justify your action to yourself. 

For a flash of a moment something else plays in your mind, where you’re kneeling next to him, softly wiping down his face with a gentle touch and cloth. The thought bites at you, making your stomach churn and hands tremble.

No.

This was far enough. You had gone far enough now.

Instead you dunk the sponge back into the bucket, swilling it a few times and pressing it into the sides to try and clear it from most of the muck. The water had long since turned into a discoloured mess, but it was clean enough in comparison to him at least. It would just about get the job done - not unlike yourself really.

He twitches when it pushes against his cheek, but he doesn’t flinch back from you, his head still bowed. You push it back slightly and his hair parts as you try and make a start and get it over with. 

Which is a mistake.

Because he is watching you, and now you can see his eyes.

They’re not piercing you, no, that would be far too kind. They’re questioning, and cynical.

Brown, but in the way amber is when it’s hit by the midday sun, like honey on rye except there’s a light to them. You wouldn’t have described them as the glowing golden judgement that the galaxy depicted, but as warm earth backlit by something untold - like he knows something you don’t. 

For all they hold something of the beyond, they’re human. 

They’re human and they hold his pain. 

You can ignore it from afar, you can build up walls and defend yourself from the way his muscles shake and form trembles and body bleeds but you cannot look a man in the eyes and ignore his agony as it seeps into you. He is not a chained God, he is sickeningly human.

The cold of the tiles doesn’t register against you as you sink into them.

He is silent as he regards you. There are no snippy remarks or quips or witty cutting words that remind you why he is here, why it is he deserves this fate. You have to wonder just how well the power limitations work on him when he might as well be stripping your soul bare.

Except he isn’t, he can’t be, because he doesn’t understand… though then again, neither do you.

“Why?”

The sun beats down on you, scorching your skin as you work the saw– sweat dripping down your back and soaking the thin shirt you wear as you heave the massive instrument with your fellow worker. You’re beginning to get concerned for him, watching his breathing get more and more ragged as the two of you continue. His eyes aren’t…quite all there anymore as he throws himself against the motion of the work.

Back and forth, back and forth.

It’s hard labor, using the massive handsaws to cut the trees– which is why you and your fellow rebel captives had been assigned to do it by the Imperial soldiers. When you’d come to consciousness in that camp, they’d stripped you of everything except your clothes and set you to work cutting down the trees that had once protected you.

Back and forth, back and forth.

You’d cried your first few shifts as you’d made wounds in those giants, practically feeling the anguish that you inflicted upon them. But eventually the tears had dried, and you were resolute in your job. You still mourn the towering woods, but you would rather see it fall by your hand than the cruel fist of the Imperium. At least they would go down with dignity– with decency.

Back and forth, back and forth.

If only your family had been granted such a respite.

Back and forth, back and-

Your companion seizes, then falls to the ground, not moving, and you freeze– hands still curled around the slickening handle. Glancing around, you mentally weigh the options. 

Were you meant to help? The guards weren’t looking at your team directly, which meant that no one had noticed the prone figure. But your fingers refuse to move as your mind turns over the idea that you could get punished for not continuing in your job, even if you were showing simple concern.

Words stick in your throat as you stare at the man on the roots. He’s gaunt from starvation and twisted from his fall. 

Then the guards finally notice, and one of them shouts out, “We got another one down!”

Grumbling breaks out from the group, and two of them peel away to come drag your partner away. They’re about your age, and you shrink backwards as they approach– cowing your head and staring at them through the hair that’s fallen into your eyes. 

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

One of them looks up suddenly from where they’re inspecting the body, and scoffs upon seeing you.

“Well, well– look at this one taking a break. Get back to work!” he snarls, and your body jerks back into action.

The saw doesn’t move nearly as fast when it’s just you, but you heave your entire body weight into it. Your own breath gets a little ragged as your muscles exert themselves beyond what they’re capable of. Your former companion has been dragged away, and your mind wanders to the Rites that should be performed for him. Maybe you could… try… later. You didn’t know his name, but he’d been a sturdy fellow until the bitter end.

You wonder if you’ll be joining him shortly as your vision swims. But you keep on going.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Another man joins you not too long afterwards– a middle aged man with a half-shorn beard. He looks world weary as he takes up the other end of your tool. The two of you spend the entire afternoon and evening working that damn saw. Neither of you say anything. There wasn’t a need to– it was already stamped on the lifeless things that lie behind you. People and trees, cut down before their prime.

It isn’t until the next day that all of you are roused– the bunkhouse you’re assigned to is hastily constructed. There are other teams assigned to building railway systems and command posts and more bunkhouses because the Imperium will not rest until everyone on your planet has a place within it. The snake has opened its mouth wide to swallow your people whole, and it will succeed.

They always will.

Your bunk bed is shared with several other people– but your group has the fortunate luck to only have two people to a bed. It totals out to six people in each column, the bunks going three beds high. All of you are expected outside for roll call, and you stumble onto the ground from your vantage point.

You always got stuck with the highest bunk. 

By the time your feet have hit the ground, feeling the splintering wood underneath them, your bed mate has not moved an inch. You share a look with the leader of your little squad, who goes to poke her.

There’s no movement, even on being shaken.

The floor swims in your vision as you think about how last night you’d been glad when she’d stopped squirming so much. It had been interrupting your sleep, making it even harder to do already difficult labor.

And she was dead. Fuck. 

Fuck. When did you become so cruel?

You should’ve helped her. Should’ve done… something.

It then occurs to you that you never did the Rites for your former sawing companion either.

But your eyes can’t summon any tears, and you think that maybe you’ve dried out every portion of water within your veins. Maybe there was never any to begin with– only salt crystals like those in the dried riverbeds of your home.

All of you sans one march out into the main quad area. The chances of someone escaping are low, and the command likes to keep it that way. So when they come to a halt in front of your squad, you begin to nervously pick at your thumbnail cuticle. It’s already torn to hell and back, but it’s an anxious motion.

“Shouldn’t you lot have twelve, not eleven?” purrs the officer, leaning down to talk to your leader.

She clears her throat, for all the good it does her with how parched everyone is, and says, “One of ours died last night.”

That changes his mood immediately, and he sighs, “All of you need a stronger constitution. We can’t have everyone dropping like flies all the time.”

He moves on, but there’s a sense of tension still amongst your group. What was going to happen now? You can’t turn your head, but your eyes follow as far as they can. The other groups are eventually dismissed, but yours is made to stand there. 

The commanding officers finally drift over, with the one from inspection speaking to them. 

“They’re filthy,” he gripes, “I don’t know how you expect me to make the quota when all that happens is they get sick.”

“Let them bathe, then,” one of the commanders says, waving a hand idly, “Surely there’s some water somewhere for them to use?”

You perk up a little at the idea of a bath. Oh, it had been so long! Even before you’d been captured, you’d had a layer of dirt and grime on your skin. You’re almost certain that it had become congealed onto you, thick and sludgey. The dust from the trees created an even worse experience, sticking to your sweaty exposed skin and hardly coming off even when you swatted at it during the night.

All eleven of you are paraded over to a small, grassy area. The guards depart, but all of your group stand still, not moving a muscle. 

Finally, someone– a younger girl, barely seventeen, whispers, “Ka’tahlia, are they really going to let us take a bath?”

Ka’tahlia, ever the leader, shushes her, “I don’t know. Now stop talking.”

Her tone is harsh, but there’s worry laced into it. Not once has your lot been given a good advantage, and you have to agree with her sentiment of concern. 

They’ve left all of you to the point that even you’re shifting in place, weight moving from foot to foot. Then there’s the sound of footsteps coming around the corner, and your heartbeat skips, before you feel it plummet into your stomach. 

There’s a hose being carried, and all of a sudden any hope of a proper bath is vanquished. They don’t even have any soap.

You’re all forced to stand farther apart. The other girls flinch as the water hits them, and no amount of bracing yourself can equate to the feeling of being hit by the torrent. Any warmth from the water is gone, and instead you’re sprayed with cold, salty river water. You can’t help the shriek that claws its way from your throat, but all that gets is a laugh and a second jet on your other side as they attempt to detach the dirt.

Once the lot of you are thoroughly soaked to the skin, the commanding officer nods in approval.

“That should do it.”

You’re all dismissed to your jobs, shaking and dripping water as you walk. The salt from it dries sticky on your skin, and you almost miss your grime layer as your sweat battles to cool down your body.

The new guy you’re stuck with sees you approach looking like a drowned rodent, but says nothing. There’s nothing to say– he knows what’s happened. It’s as much as obvious, and beyond that there’s still sawing to do. You take your place again, and begin putting as much of your strength into it as possible while your muscles scream in agony. 

Back and forth, back and forth.

Endure, endure, endure.

You stare at him for a long, long time– to the point where he even begins to look uncomfortable. The rustling of his chains break the spell, and you curl your lips in a snarl, similar to the way he had earlier.

Spit lands at his feet as you hiss like a wounded animal– “Fuck you.”

The cart rattles as you leave hurriedly.

You hope it hurts tonight.

A/N: sorry it took so long, our jobs are beating us up.

:(

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Chapter 2: the hand that mocked them

You wake the next day with that stubborn flame of determination stoked in your belly. You are a part of the Order, dammit. You’re not going to be cowed by someone who’s locked in chains. 

You ignore the way you’d left trembling yesterday, clutching the handle of the wagon, hoping that your iron grip doesn’t betray how shaky you are. 

You made it back to your room in one piece, and it doesn’t matter that you cried for the first time in a long while, or that you curled up under the covers and cried even more. It doesn’t matter that tears dripped down your face and onto your pillow, and your shoulders shook as you tried to keep the sobs quiet. 

It doesn’t matter because by the time your bunkmate returns, you’re asleep, and no one is the wiser.

You are too deeply asleep to wake from your own mumbling, for all it keeps your bunkmate up. Murmuring about how he stares at you, begging him to stop, pleading for him to stop tormenting you.

When Serayne gets back she goes to wake you and stops short when she sees you twisting and turning, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

She would wake you now, raise you from this nightmare that traps you, but she knows better than any that you’d never get back to sleep. Exhaustion is written into every line of your face, and if you’re going to be in anguish awake or asleep, you’d be better off at least getting some rest.

When you wake you are tired but resolute in your determination, and you get to the antichamber connecting to the Emperor’s earlier than normal.

Apparently, the commanding officers of the Order have decided that you’re not a threat, as Samson is only there to hand you a set of keys this morning. 

You question him and he shrugs.

“I’m not babysitting anymore– I think you’ve got the gist of the job down,” he leans forward, “Although between you and me, you have much better self control than I do.”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows scrunching in confusion.

Samson grins– you see his mouthful of perfectly intact teeth– and he says, “If it were up to me… he’d had more damage all the time. But it’s good that you give him a break. The peace amps it up for the next time, you know?”

There’s a creeping sense of horror that crawls up your back, but your ally claps you on the back. This time you don’t stumble, bracing yourself.

He beams, “Good luck! I’ll see you around.” Samson strides away, leaving you and your cart alone.

What the hell was that?

The locks are easy enough to open, having seen it done dozens of times before now, and you swing the door open. 

But this time, he isn’t sitting. The swing bars that the chains are attached to have been moved so his arms are forced high above his head, his wrists pinned together slightly behind him, and he’s kneeling on the floor, the constraints on his ankles pulled tightly to keep any slack from giving out. 

He’s closer to the light than usual, and you wince. But he’s been moved off his usual corner, so you think that maybe you could try and clean the mass of blood off the floor where he usually occupies.

It’s the worst by far over there, having not yet been cleaned once, and where he has created the most ‘mess’ too.

You scurry around the room, doing your normal activities first. It’s odd that there aren’t any new visible injuries, you think– until you bring your mop behind the man and turn to look. There’s a clattering of the handle on the floor as you stand there, mouth agape as you stare at the horrifying lash marks on his back. 

The muscles have been ripped and torn, the skin peeled back to reveal raw flesh beneath. Thick strips cover every inch of available space, some at the edges are heavily raised welts, others weeping, but most are bleeding with freely exposed muscle showing through and flecks of white you think are bone.

Wincing isn’t enough, you have to completely avert your gaze away from the mangled mass of viscera. It takes a few minutes before the world stops spinning as you fall to your knees and try not to vomit. The scent you’d grown so used to is sickening again and burns your nose.

Eventually the world stops fading at the edges and you get some control over your seizing throat. Your hands are spread flat against the tiles, thankfully the mostly mopped ones, but the water is tinged pink and you’re touching it. 

His blood is on your hands now.

You lift them rapidly, dunking them in the bucket of fresh water and soaking the ends of your sleeves, but you don’t care, you just need to get it off.

Your hands are clear but you leave the room for a new bucket of fresh water anyways and repeat your actions, scrubbing with an entirely new brush until your hands are raw. Until your breathing eases.

Today’s work isn’t done. You need to go back and finish the job. Slacking is not an option when it seems like they’ve moved him specifically so you can clean that spot.

It’s half an hour's work to steel yourself to the task, but you do it. You go back in.

It hasn’t gotten any better, and you have no idea why you thought it would be. If anything it’s worse and you have to work quickly to wipe away the faint handprints on the tile before you meltdown again.

Your back faces the massive figure, and you scrub away at the floor. There’s a good chunk of time in which you’re busy scraping what you think might be clumps of dried flesh off the floor, and the vomiting sensation returns. You try to steady yourself on the wall, attempting to shove down the feeling of acid creeping up your throat.

It works slightly, and you manage to get through the entirety of your task without vomiting. You stare up at the wounds again, and then have to avert your eyes while gathering up your supplies.

“S-see you tomorrow,” you say as you go to exit the door– entirely out of habit.

There’s no reply behind you as the door clangs shut. You grip your arm and remind yourself of everything the Emperor has done. Everyone he’s killed. 

Samson’s words echo. The Order’s manifesto replays through your mind. The screams of your loved ones haunt you.

He deserves this.

Doesn’t he?

Sleep comes easier, but at the cost of your dreams.

There’s fire around you. You stumble as you run through the burning wreckage of trees. The former giants creak and sway with the force of being burned by the ships of the Imperium. Great trunks that have stood for generations upon generations reduced to ruin in mere moments.

Your heart is racing as you run, legs pumping as fast as you can make them. Ash and smoke fill your lungs as you go, and you have to squint to keep your vision clear. The smoke keeps you half blind, and you fall over a branch that’s just fallen.

Screeching, you bat away the fire, trying to tamp them down to keep them off your clothes. You cannot afford to go up in flames as well– not when you can hear your mother’s cry in your head, the comforting words of your brother and a final goodbye from your father. They’ll only live on in you, and so you have to make it. You have to live. It’s only fair.

It’s only fair.

You manage to scramble upwards, heaving yourself along the trail. There’s a small clearing at the end that isn’t ringed with the orange flames that bite at your heels, the scorching heat searing you through your clothes. Finally making it to the end, you collapse onto the grass and wheeze and cough. The smoke follows you, but as your vision clears, you see a pair of boots standing in front of you, waiting.

Wobbling to a kneeling position, you slowly look up. And you realize with a dawning horror that an Imperial soldier is in front of you. He’s wearing a massive overcoat that splays out like wings from an angel of death.

The man pulls a cigar from his mouth and smiles, “Hello there, rebel tree scum. We were wondering when we’d flush one of you out of the brush.”

You open your mouth to respond, and then everything goes black as something hits the back of your head.

You wake with a gasp, snapping upright as you try to make out your surroundings. Your fingers curl in the sheets, feeling their worn texture as you try to ground yourself. The smoke still curls in your nostrils, the acrid smell lingering. But there’s no fire here– only on the charred corpse of your homeworld so far away from Terra.

Flopping back down onto the bed, you try to go back to sleep, but it eludes you. You wind up simply staring at the wall across from your bed. There’s a couple of nightstands there– but you hardly use yours. Serayne has things scattered across hers, and a few photos haphazardly taped to the wall. Those people smile at you in the dark, and you avert your gaze.

Your nightstand is barren. There’s a few hygiene products within it, but so far as personal items– you don’t have any. The one thing you have left of your home is a necklace you wear constantly. The weight of it soothes you, and you fiddle with it, running your thumb over the smooth surface. It’s been worn from that motion, but there’s a cypress cone embalmed within your pendant. You’d gotten it from one of the trees you’d been climbing since you were a child.

Serayne snores from above you, and you’re very glad that you decided to take the bottom bunk. It lets you get out of your room without disturbing her as you go to get something to drink. You shrug on some clothes and stagger into the hallway.

It’s early. So early in the morning that there’s hardly anyone but you awake. You’ve decided that the normal drinks won’t cut it, and head to the dining hall. Cool air hits your face as you cross through the quad on your way over, ignoring the covered pathway and trudging through the mud stained grass instead.

You take a deep breath as you go, trying to clear your head. It’s still fuzzy this early, but walking has always helped with your nightmares.

There’s a few people in the dining hall– there always are. The base you’re on is one of the biggest in the Order, if not considered a main base. Admittedly, there are less people now that patrols weren’t needed as frequently. Most of the soldiers are stationed on the side of the base with the prisoners, but a few are scattered around the other side. You’d question it, but you’re not one for a military mind.

“What are you doing awake?” a voice jars you out of your stupor, and you look over. You struggle to recall his name, but you’re faintly certain it’s something with a D…

Darian, maybe? You’ve only spoken once.

You realize you may have been silent too long, and blurt, “Couldn’t sleep. I thought I would try a walk.”

He looks down at your cup and snorts, “And a mixed drink?”

What can you say? You shrug, and take a sip. It’s horrible– the acrid taste of alcohol burning your tongue over the sweetness of juice. But the fire seeps into your veins, dissipating into a bit of sleepiness.

“I’ll be right as rain by wakeup,” you grin at him. “Goodnight.”

You depart back to your room, and the meager contents inside the cup vanish by the time you arrive at your destination. You close your eyes, feeling the warmth in your chest that spreads to your limbs. 

You try to shake the feeling you’d been watched on your little outing.

You do not dream again.

The sound of the wakeup call rings in your ears, and you groan. At least your concoction worked, you think to yourself as you roll out of bed already dressed. You smooth the wrinkles out, and begin your trek to the supply closet. You’d noticed that one of the common areas had a ridiculous amount of gum underneath the tables– where it was coming from, you weren’t sure. But it was going to bother you regardless, so you pull out the necessary tools (a scraper and a bucket), and head off.

Usually they come to get you for the cell in the early afternoon, so it strikes you that it’s odd that they haven’t. You’ve managed to get almost all the gum off the tables and into your bucket when you’re approached from the left as you’re hacking away at a particularly stubborn bit. Your head swivels, and you see a sergeant with a neatly trimmed haircut standing beside you.

“Hello,” you greet, rising from your kneeled position.

He gives you a curt nod, then informs you, “You’re on patrol to clean up the city.”

Blinking, taken aback by the change, you ask, “The city?”

“Yes. There’s Imperial propaganda that needs to be taken care of.”

Oh. Alright then.

You’re relieved for the change of pace but something uneasy churns in your gut. Tomorrow will be rotten to clean if today’s agenda is so bad they don’t want you in there. A not so small part of you never wants to go back in there if it can be helped.

Shaking the thoughts away, you get the information on where you’re meant to be, and head off to go make your preparations.

A shift like this was a long one, but a fun one. 

Fresh air away from base, a small team together for ‘safety’ that actually meant good banter as you worked to erase the everpresent propaganda that sprawled across every corner of the planet.

Of course, it was each citizen's duty to remove what they could, but there was just so much of it.

Statues, posters, paintings, shrines - every imaginable avenue of art littered every garden, were carved into every gothic arch, imposing into every aspect of life. It was impossible to escape the gaze of the Aquila. 

For now at least.

With the sheer amount of work there were dedicated shifts just to clearing it when there was nothing more urgently pressing.

There were some things that took too long to remove, glued down too strongly or just not worth the effort. That was where they gave you posters produced by the Order to cover it.

‘Unity and Peace - A life free of torment!’ was the title of the poster you were plastering over an infomatic on how to sign up your newborn sons to your local legion. The art of it depicted baseline humans toppling a statue of a cruel looking marine that was pointing, large and in command. Ropes that looped over stone and a team that toppled something that seemed insurmountable. 

A layer of glue is pasted onto it and you slap it down with a faint smile as your comrades crack jokes from the back. 

You needed this.

The base comes back into view in the wee hours of the morning, the truck pulling into the garage. It’s not fuel efficient to send a team out for short trips, even if it means you get back in late. Your group hops out on tired legs, and you begin the process of putting all the gear back. Thank goodness they didn’t make you take a gun– you didn’t envy the paperwork needed to return it.

Everyone bumps fists and chug the last of the drinks you’d gone out to get as a team, before you each say good night and split to separate bunks with the promise of a later start for your efforts.

When your head finally hits the pillow, it’s early in the morning.

And when they knock on the door to wake you up, it’s earlier still. Serayne groans from above you.

“Who’s at the door at this hour?” she slurs, still half asleep.

You’re still half asleep, so you grumble in response, trying to pull your thin blanket a little further over your shoulders and snuggle into your bed. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.

“Heaven’s sake,” your roommate curses at you, saying your name loudly, “Answer the door!”

The unfortunate duty of the bottom bunk– you’re closer to the ground. You pry yourself from your warm nest and open the door, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Hello?” you say, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light in the hallway.

It’s Samson. He’s in his usual outfit, but seems a tad bit more tired than usual. You could relate to that, at the moment.

“They need you to come do cleanup,” he tells you. “It’s already unlocked for you.”

You stare at him, eyes scrunching in confusion, “Now…?”

“Yes, now.”

You agree with only a slight grumble, forsaking what was meant to be your extra sleep.

Clothes on, and you forgo breakfast to get your things faster– you’re not entirely sure if the Commander would be alright with you eating first. It wasn’t like the Emperor was going anywhere, but you don’t want to make the man in charge of the base upset.

There’s hardly anyone up again at this hour, so you only pass one person in the hallway on the way to the supply room. Everything is organized exactly the way you left it. 

The lineup of doors in the prison ward still brings you some level of anxiety, and even more as you slowly open the door for your intended location. You walk in fully, cart in tow as you shove the door open. The cell is… oddly still. 

There was never much movement from its inhabitant, but today his head is bent at an unusual angle, and the air hangs oddly. The faint smell of rot, though from where you’re not sure. You know what corpses smell like– but the Order wouldn’t make you clean the room of a corpse. 

You think, anyway.

There’s a sickening squelch sound from underneath your foot. Your eyes are still on the chained man on the wall, and you slowly look down. A scream almost comes through your throat, but you stuff it down and produce a strangled noise instead. There’s chunks of meat on the floor– part of an organ, if you had to guess. 

You don’t want to guess. 

Now that your attention has been drawn to the floor, you actually look around you. There’s half dried pieces scattered all around, now that your eyes have adjusted. You’d wonder where they came from, but you get the sneaking, horrifying suspicion that you know precisely their origin. 

Fine. You’ll just scrape that up too. Trying to ease yourself into the gore, you try to compare it to the gum on the tables. The stench tells you otherwise. 

You curse a little as you go to work, trying to rehydrate what’s stuck to the floor so you can pry it up. It’s disgusting– you’d known it would be, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

The curtain of matted black hair catches your eye more than usual. Not only is it raggedly covering more of his face but it’s rife with bits of blood and flesh that haven’t yet dried. You can see the shine of liquid on it even in the dim lighting.

You’re too busy contemplating what has happened, not focusing enough on your feet that the mop stick trips you up. There’s no one to blame but yourself, and you barely manage to avoid another tangle with the floor by catching yourself on the cart.

Instead, you send everything else careening across the room, clattering against the floor, walls, sending your water buckets spilling and splashing everywhere. The sound is deafening for a moment as metal and ceramic collide and smash all at once, so loud you’re sure a few tiles have cracked with your stupidity. 

Fuck.

You take a moment to make your legs cooperate and support your weight, eyes closed for a moment as you come to terms with how much extra work you’ve given yourself.

Tilting your head back and coming back to yourself as with one last clack the final tin— probably the small one filled with gritted paste— finally stops rolling away from you.

But silence doesn’t fall.

A noise had been covered by the huge crash, but now everything was over, it becomes distinct.

The sound of faintly rattling chains, caused by the violently shaking muscles of the Emperor.

His head has snapped towards you– or maybe the commotion that you’d made. Then your gaze finally lands upon the grisly reality in front of you, and the acid in your stomach threatens to rise. Gooseflesh ripples up your arms as you’re rooted in place.

This has to be a nightmare, with how his hollowed face stares at you. Or rather, doesn’t.

He looks directly at you, through your soul, and you will never be able to rid yourself of the impression of him in this moment searing into your brain.

They’d taken his eyes.

Left in their place was fleshy emptiness– hollowed sockets with the ends of the optic nerve shriveling up as it lay outside its home. There’s the feeling that you’re being watched anyway, despite the lack of eyeballs. Scratches litter around his sockets, some digging in further than others and it looks like someone simply went at him with a mostly dull instrument and a mission. Your heart stutters, and you can’t look away.

Asides from his tortured face, his whole body screams of agony, covered in smaller lacerations and contorted inwards as far as the chains would allow while he shudders. There’s a smell that hits your nose as you’re on the floor, the water seeping into your clothes. 

That’s when you remember that the water that’s gone everywhere is full of bleach. 

Fuck. Fuck.

And in dawning horror, you realize that there’s water dripping off his body, smearing the chemical into the wounds. Your brain finally kicks into gear so you can think of something to do about the situation, but all you can hear is the shaking of the chains, and see his chest rising and falling shallowly. Your hangnails hurt badly enough whenever they accidentally come into contact with the solution, and you can only imagine the agony it would be to have it dumped into fresh, deep injuries.

You have to fix this– you can’t leave him like that. A part of you wishes you would– to let him suffer, feeling the fire of chemicals in his blood the way that they had wreaked havoc on your homeworld, sent by his hand.

But the other side of you, the one that had nurtured birds back to health and helped to repair trees in the winter months before the spring would solidify the damage– that side could not walk away. So you’re caught in an internal war as you stare at him. The Emperor, at the very least, seems to be aware that you’re there.

“Is nothing enough for your lot?” comes the raspy, hissing voice of the man before you. His chest heaves, and you can see the grit of his jaw as you presume he works through the pain.

You finally manage to get to your feet, but the Emperor sneers at the noise. The nubs of white are gone again, revealing only bloody gums.

He gives a ragged chuckle, then contemptuously comments, “Truly, you are not better than my ‘Imperial scum’.”

White hot rage shoots through your veins at that, the arrogance despite his situation, but your feet are already moving to the door.

A new bucket makes it under the tap in record time, and you slam on the taps until water is flowing as fast as it possibly can. You storm back into the room with it sloshing over the edges from your quick and uneven gait, creating a small trail as you go. 

Not to mention the Emperor, whose chains rattling could be heard from down the hallway, now that there’s nothing blocking the sound. It quiets down as your uneven footsteps approach the room, water getting on your shoes and adding to your damp clothes.

The door is ajar as you make it back, arms screaming from carrying the heavy pail. You curse as the light shines on the thrice damned mess you’ve made of the room.

His head snaps in your direction, his teeth bared and gritted as you clumsily enter the room. There’s a sense of dread that builds in your stomach as you approach. 

Just leave him. 

Dump the water and go. 

Let him suffer. 

Clean your mistakes.

Wipe the ledger clean.

The muscles in his legs clench as you gently flush the cuts. 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, gently patting them. The tone you use is similar to the one you’d used while patching up mild injuries, back when you were a medical apprentice. You know it has to hurt. 

“Of course not,” is the snarkily growled response, followed by a muffled hiss as the cloth you’re using scrapes over the cuts on his leg. Admittedly, it was harsher than you’d intended. 

Resentment builds again, but you stuff it down — focused on rectifying your mistake so you can go finish your actual task. You have more important things to do than talk to him. 

There’s no more talking other than the sloshing of water in your bucket as you move to his other side, and you scowl as you see the amount of dirt that comes off him. You haven’t even gotten everything— just the first layer of grime. Of course, with the state of everything else in the cell, it probably shouldn’t have been a shock.

But as you continue on, your mind wanders to the statue you’d seen of him out on your excursion. Different from the man that’s in the cell with you— a picture of the pinnacle of humanity, staring down at the citizens of the Imperium with indifference. Because none of you will ever live up to what he is. 

You finally finish, and you stand all the way up, stretching. 

He doesn’t thank you, not that you should expect him to thank you for washing off the bleach you spilled onto him in the first place. You try not to think about the agony you caused, but then a worse thought comes to you, unbidden: 

You hadn’t left him like that. 

You helped him.

The thought that this was probably the first ‘kind’ gesture he had received since his capture is not lost on you, the idea repeating like a mantra over and over while you worked to finish off the rest of the room as quickly as you could to make up for lost time.

Picking up strewn supplies, you finally get the rest of the room back in order, ignoring the way his head follows your sounds as you trundle around the room and try not to cause any more damage.

Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.

Pausing at the door, your fingers grip a little tighter on the frame. 

“I- I- …see you tomorrow.” 

Then you’re gone. 

As you lock up the door behind you, his marred face flashes in your mind. Eyeless sockets bore into you almost as if he could see anyway, in spite of the gouging. Your hands shake as you click the last of the security measures closed. 

The walk back is spent wondering how much more he can possibly take. What more can they even do to torture a man who has lost everything? 

You’re not sure you want to find out.

But that choice was never yours to make.

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If you want to be added to the taglist for this fic specifically feel free to drop a comment!!

Chapter One: half sunk, a shattered visage lies

The Imperium fell in your lifetime. You didn’t think that you would be there to see it, but you were. The Neoimperialist group you were with had swooped in to gain power in the burning wreckage that the Horus Heresy had wrought upon the galaxy. It was within that group that you had been taken in, and given a new purpose. Admittedly, it wasn’t a glamorous purpose, but it was a purpose nonetheless - one you were happy to fulfill.

You were a cleaner– and a very effective one at that. Some might say that the work was tedious, but you took pride in it. It was rhythmic, and besides that it gave you a lot of things to do. The station you were at was large– there were many rooms to be cleaned. What you didn’t appreciate was your fellows dirtying the hallways that you just mopped.

Which is what you’re staring at with contempt when Samson comes to get you.

“The floor won’t bite, I think,” is his snarky commentary upon seeing your glare at the floor. 

Someone had spilt the entirety of a beer on your clean ground and then left it there, glass and all.

You sniff, then respond, “It might. I need to be ready.”

He snorts and gives you a hard pat on the back. You grip the mop a little tighter as you stumble forwards with the force of it. Samson laughs good-naturedly.

“Sorry, I forget that you base-only types aren’t trained like the rest of us,” he says.

“It’s fine,” you inform him, before going back to your task.

Samson waits for a few moments, then he casually tells you that “Command is looking for you.”

Your eyes shoot to the ground, then the mop and then to him, and back down again. Your mind whirls, trying to think of a reason that they would be looking for you. You haven’t done something wrong, have you? Maybe the graffiti in the bathroom had been you, but you were the one that had to clean it anyway, so why would it matter? 

Stammering, you ask, “Do you know why?”

Leaning on the wall, Samson gives a small shrug, “Beats me– all I know is that they told me to come and get you.”

Oh no. That couldn’t be good, could it?

“Well I’m done here if you want to go,” you respond, “Let me put this up.”

Your company waits for you to stick the mop back in storage, and then leads the way for you to go to Command Headquarters. Sweat is starting to stick to the back of your shirt as you enter into the dimly lit area of the main hallway. The command section of the base contains more points for security checks, but apparently there’s no need for that as your duo breezes right through it.

The bottom of your shirt is getting worn out from the way you’re wringing it with worry. Surely they can’t fire you, can they? The graffiti wasn’t even anything bad– it just said ‘I love you mom’ on it. Very innocent! You’d thought it was funny and then cleaned it up. Hardly anyone had seen it! 

Spiraling is very busy work, so you don’t even notice that you’ve come directly to the Commander’s office doors until Samson knocks on it. The thing is made of thick wood, and the sound of his knuckles rapping against the surface has depth to it. 

“Come in,” says a voice inside, and you’re led in.

Samson bows, hand on his chest, “As requested.”

You’re struck at the sight of Commander Davidson sitting before you. He’s older, with grey hair that’s cropped in a short military haircut. You’ve never actually seen him in person before, and you straighten a little as you remember you’re supposed to salute as well.

He doesn’t seem to care all that much, and waves your attempt away.

“At ease,” the Commander says. He leans forward on his desk, lacing his fingers together, “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Ah,” you look at Samson, who offers no assistance, “No, sir- Commander, sir.”

The man in question leans backwards in his chair, the leather creaking as he does so. His hand taps a file that’s open on his desk, and looking down confirms that it’s your file. Your own face smiles up at you from a photo that’s been paperclipped onto the paper. You shift in place nervously.

Commander Davidson speaks again, voice low, “What is said in this room stays here, do you understand?”

You nod, then give your verbal assent.

A second file is slid across the desk, and you tentatively move to go pick it up. It’s thick, with many addendums and post-its scattered through, sticking out from the neatly bound pages. You open it, and see a face that you haven’t glimpsed in a photograph in years– only on the sides of monuments and paintings that hadn’t been stripped from the city.

It’s the Emperor. Or- the former Emperor, you correct yourself mentally. There’s a massive wound in his side in the photo that makes your stomach churn, and you turn a page to try and see what happened, only to be struck by the amount of notes that have been taken.

The file makes you falter, why would they be showing you something this important and confidential - you were janitorial staff.

You stop reading and look up, “I don’t understand. What is this?”

The Commander responds evenly, “Those are photos of the now ex-Emperor when he was captured by our forces. He is being held on this base as we speak– he has been for a while.” He takes the folder from your hands, and gently closes it, “What we need is a cleaner, and you’re the best of the best in that regard.”

Insult to the rest of your abilities aside, it was true.

“What do you need a cleaner for?” you ask apprehensively.

“Due to the nature of his stay, the room is a little messy. You’ll be tasked with keeping it clean.” Commander Davidson chuckles, “He has been declawed, I assure you. There is no threat of danger.”

You really don’t feel like there’s much choice in the matter. And besides, what better way to serve your cause than to spit on the person that you’d spent years fighting? 

Agreeing, you’re led out into the hallway again, and Samson takes you to what you think might have been a hospital bay at one point. You pause to go get what you assume will be the most useful of the cleaning supplies at your disposal, and he rattles a keychain to unlock the door. There’s multiple locks that line the metal door, and there’s loud thunks as each one is unlocked.

There’s a bit of fear that’s building up as you wait in anticipation. You’ve heard many rumors about the Emperor. That he’s a monster in disguise, that he’s a god. The massive displays that line the Imperium don’t help much in his favor for arguing that he isn’t at least one of those things. Before you joined the Order, you’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the man at least once. There’d been whispers in the hallways of your old planet about him– the kind that said he had a halo, and basked in a golden light.

All across Terra there were still statues of him, paintings, posters, everything - the Order had teams working to scrub the planet clean of his filth but for every image torn down it seemed like two more were found. Not to mention that there were more urgent matters to attend to following the ending of such a long galactic civil war.

So in some ways he still lorded over humanity— not for too much longer, you hoped. 

It would take far more time to erase the suffering he’d caused on humanity. The blight of the Imperium would probably take centuries to scrub away at, but you would be part of history - the first generation of the free.

Would he still be proud? Proud of himself, of his work?

The idea makes your stomach churn as the final locks begin to click open.

The door swings open slowly, betraying its weight, and you see that he’s none of those things.

What you do see is a very tall man. There’s no light, no halo. His hair is unkempt and matted, and there’s a cut that runs down underneath his eye. 

Oddly enough, the Emperor is much smaller than you’d imagined him to be. Gaunter, too. 

‘Starved’ your brain supplies. Starved. Which, which is good, it is good because he is bad. 

You had starved, your family had starved, your friends had starved, your people had starved - humanity had been starved and drained by the nobility sat in their palaces with dozens of dozens of starving serfs crawling on hand and knee to feed them. Not only was he one of them, but he enabled the rest. 

It was his sons, his generals, which had caused such horrors, split the galaxy in two and humanity along with it - as if there was not already enough strife and suffering, they endeavoured to spill nothing but cruelty in their wake.

As you walk inside, his head lifts a little, which jostles the chains that are attached to his neck. Your eyes are drawn to them– there’s shackles on his wrists and ankles as well, heavy chains swirling to be attached to a device that juts out from the wall, inscribed with some sort of sigils. You think it’s all some kind of swivel mechanism that would allow him to move a bit. Not that it would help much, given his height.

You can’t help but stop and stare as you struggle to comprehend the man before you and the God you’d been expecting.

Samson pats your back, which jerks you out of your stupor.

“Well,” he says, “You need anything else?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, then you stammer, “No? I don’t think so.”

He looks over you, taking in your reaction to the chained God and nods, “I’ll leave you to it. Sparkling clean, remember?”

And then he simply leaves, the door clattering behind you. All that’s left is you and your supplies, and the Emperor. Suddenly it strikes you that this may be an incredibly bad idea as you stare at the man on the wall. You’re pretty sure he can’t reach you, but you never turn your back as you start to clean the floors.

The floor which is utterly disgusting. You can’t even tell what colour it should be for all the dried and crusted brown, rife with chunks that you have to look away from before you can think too hard about it. Not to mention the pools of darker red, blood congealed but not yet dried.

Your brain starts to catch up with the task, still working overtime to comprehend the situation you’ve so suddenly been thrust into when the smell hits you. 

Rancid.

Rotting.

No wonder they wanted it cleaned, only a few moments in and your eyes were watering from the sheer stench that had been produced.

It provokes you into actually moving, not just staring dumbfounded. 

Quickly pulling a mask over your mouth, a few drops of scented oil in the cloth to try and mask the reek of decay, and you’re pulling out the harshest chemicals you have.

No dilution here, you’d be letting everything soak and sit for a minute then having to scrub like never before to shift the layers of build up. 

There was no way anyone had touched this in months.

The walls need spraying too, where there had been splatter across them, but you daredn’t get too close to him.

You ignore the sick shade of red that comes up as you start to scrub. Foam builds as you do so. Periodically you glance at the giant figure in the corner, but he hasn’t moved. The Emperor does not look at you. You hasten your cleaning, pushing the water into the drain in the center of the room.

Why would there be a drain?

Pausing to think about the implications sends a shock of numbness through your system, so you choose to push it down, continuing with your task.

There’s only silence, and the sound of your squeegee on the floor. It’s surprisingly easy work, once the chemicals have soaked everything it seems to come right off. You’re done now, having barely broken a sweat.

The floor is a bleak greyish white now, though the grout is still a stained mess to say the least. That is aside from a semi circle around the man who you’ve refused to get within an arm’s reach of.

He might be a shell of a man, half limp against his restraints but just being in the room with the pinnacle of your torment has you feeling all sorts of disgusted and uneasy. 

You’d done enough, certainly compared to what you’d worked into, and you couldn’t make your vaguely trembling body comply with doing any more today. 

The edges of the room are swimming by the time you go for the door, having gathered everything up. Strong chemicals and stronger emotions making for a dangerous combination you have to escape from. 

Pausing, you turn to look at the man strung up in the corner. A small part of you feels rude for having not said anything yet. And your mouth moves before your brain does.

“I’ll…see you tomorrow…?” you stammer out, and immediately feel blood rushing to your ears. Stupid stupid stupid. Why would you say that?

Before you can even try to hear a response, you sprint out the door, and breathe a sigh of relief as it closes behind you. Samson reappears to lock it up, and you leave, feeling completely rattled. 

Samson claps your shoulder, grounding you for a moment and gives you a grim and understanding smile, “good work - hard work, but couldn’t imagine anyone doing a better job than you.”

You don’t feel like you’ve done a good job, you feel like vomiting, but you nod anyway. He looks like he understands and gently guides you towards the exit.

You feel disquieted until you reach the safety of your room, able to lock the door behind you. A blisteringly hot shower where every inch of skin is scrubbed raw later, and you curl up beneath your blankets, trying to bury the images that come to your mind unbidden.

Your nose is still ruined by the stench.

Luckily, you don’t dream of anything as mental exhaustion swallows you whole and darkness claims every corner of your mind.

They come and fetch you the next day, as you’d thought. Perhaps you’d been a little hopeful when you woke up that maybe you did a bad job, and you’d never have to go back there.

The stench of blood was never one that you could manage, which had led to you being assigned within the base instead of in a soldier role. You’d cried when they had tried to teach you to shoot someone. And being a medic was out of the picture when you threw up while trying to help with a surgery.

You’d never been good at following orders, anyway. So it had all worked out. The comfort of the base and the knowledge that you wouldn’t be doing the fighting. You could even pretend that there was nothing untoward going on. That everything was normal.

It was very hard to pretend that the world was normal when you step into that cell again, only to find that there’s a massive wound on the Emperor’s side. It’s a large, ugly thing– jagged and reaching from his hip bone to wrap around his back. Blood seeps from it, pooling on the floor in thick puddles. The clothes that he had on the day previously have been stripped, and he’s slumped in a sitting position with a cloth to cover his private area. Red has dripped onto the light colored cloth, and you avert your eyes back upwards. 

You almost think he might be dead until you see the rise and fall of his chest.

Okay, cool. Not dead.

Your breath shudders.

But also… it’s going to be awfully hard to keep the floor clean if he’s going to be bleeding like that. You think about it for a moment, then tap your knuckles on the door.

Samson opens it a crack, and all you see is a glimpse of his beard and his eye peering inside.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Uh,” you say, “He’s bleeding…?”

Samson doesn’t appear to be very concerned about that as he curtly responds, raising an eyebrow as if this is expected, “Yes, he is.”

You blink for a second, and shift in place, nervousness filling your chest, “I don’t… won’t the floor just get dirty again if he keeps bleeding on it?”

The soldier snorts, then flippantly remarks, “If there’s blood over there it’s not an issue. Just make sure everything else is good to go.”

He stares at you for a moment, before you mumble “okay” and the door shuts again. It’s dimly lit inside, and the sudden lack of light from the hallway causes your eyes to struggle to adjust. 

You stare at the door, listening to the sound of your breathing. Right. Yeah. Just… let him bleed. Cool. That’s fine.

The jitters have returned in full force from yesterday, but this time you turn your back on the Emperor. You feel a stab of guilt as you do so, but you can’t stare at his figure. His hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and there’s not even the jangle of chains to try and signal that he may be moving at all. 

Squeezing your eyes tight for a moment, you clutch the mop and convince yourself he deserves this. He deserves whatever they’re doing after everything he’s put humanity through with his Imperium. You dredge up the memories of your friends that have died unnecessarily, the families torn apart by his reign.

You remember your planet.

The cloying smell of fresh blood is replaced by the choking scent of burning ash.

But the feeling remains, twisting your insides as you get back to work. You still don’t go close to the giant, instead making sure the floor is spotless around him. You flinch at the amount of dirt that’s lining the floor underneath him, your common sense telling you to make sure that all of the floor is clean, but you do not approach. Your mind is still warring with the idea of the Emperor being only a man. 

His depictions contrast so heavily with the gaunt person you see before you that you just can’t do it. These are different people. The man who burned your home is not the broken one before you— he simply cannot be.

You pause again at the threshold, and then bid him goodbye. You exit quickly, leaving the room like he might chase after you. The Emperor doesn’t even flinch.

Day after day passes the same, each time he’s littered with fresh wounds, but it also seems like the old ones heal too quickly to be normal.

And each day is different too.

Huge bruises that splay across his whole torso and paint him in battered blues and purples one day, and what must have been thousands of thin slashing cuts the next.

Some days the new injuries look like nothing you recognise and your stomach churns as you can’t help but wonder what they did to inflict them. 

There’s always some kind of harm on him, or something festering. You do your best to ignore it, but it’s eating at your conscience. Your mother always told you that you had too big of a heart– and it’s proving true once again.

It’s beginning to feel like they’re testing you, the way you’re paraded into that awful cell. It’s been two weeks, and you’ve been taken completely off the roster for normal cleaning tasks during your allotted time. The mopping goes smoothly now that you’re less concerned that he’s going to escape and the bulk of prior build up has been scraped away. 

You wouldn’t say that you’re braver, but you turn your back to the Emperor. There’s been nothing but silence from him. It’s hard not to fill it, wanting to ease the oppressive air in the room, but you refrain from your usual habit of whistling while you work if only because you can’t do it while watched.

Today you decide to tackle the discoloured grout. Not because it matters, but because your brain won’t let you leave it alone, a job unfinished.

The solution is a bright blue, and tiny bubbles form where it meets the porous material, eating away at the top discoloured layer. You have to apply it on your hands and knees, shuffling as you pour it out into the gridded lines.

Still, it doesn’t take too long, and you sit back on your feet looking over the application for a moment. It would have to sit for at least half an hour to really work.

As you peer up it strikes you that you’ve grown far too comfortable working in his presence, but the prickling feeling of wrongness always rises whenever he comes back into the focus of your thoughts.

And now you are here, sat with nothing but time to kill while you wait. And nothing else in here but him.

You stare at the figure in the corner, quiet save for the humming of whatever the chains do to ward off his power. He doesn’t move. You glance at the door, and then at the Emperor.

Curiosity killed the cat, and it’s curiosity that finally wins out after so long, and so you approach carefully. 

There’s grime all over his skin to accompany the main cuts and bruises, and you wince at seeing it closer. It’s almost a mimicry of the way the room was coated in filth, except no one has been assigned to scrub him down.

You’ve been giving him a wide berth, and even then you could make out the wounds. Up close it they’re a thousand times worse, puffy and raw, skin festering with the attempt of infection.

The one on his side from when you’d first entered catches your eye, and you spend a long moment staring at it.

Then you look up and make direct eye contact with the Emperor, whose eyes have moved underneath the curtain of dark greasy hair to look at you. You flinch, and stumble backwards, falling on your butt in the process. 

It’s a scramble to get up, heartbeat racing in your ears, and his cracked lips curl upwards into what might have been a smile, if not for the teeth he’s missing. But he doesn’t move other than that, only watching.

You two breathe, and hold eye contact for just a moment too long. Then you break it and run, grout cleaning abandoned as you scoop up your supply bucket and flee.

The door slams with the force at which you open it, cleaning products clattering across the chamber floor where Samson is waiting to lock back up. He eyes you with concern for a moment, eyes quickly scanning for damage.

“You alright?” he asks as he steps around you and locks up, “You look extra spooked today.”

It's an understatement and you both know it.

He lets you recover a moment though, not rushing you as your breathing slowly becomes easier, and you inform him that the Emperor had looked at you.

“What if he’s trying to read my mind or something?” you whisper, horrified. “Is that something he can do? I think it is.”

Samson frowns as he pockets the keyring, before remarking, “He couldn’t be doing that. The chains block his power, remember?”

Right. Right. You nod, trying to relax.

But now there’s a festering problem in your mind. Before, when he was a motionless statue, it was easy to ignore that he was a real person, or something close to it. The Emperor had faded a bit in your mind as just a still figure in the background of your work. Now though– now you've seen real proof of life. 

Breath in his lungs, awareness in his eyes as they bore into yours.

Judgement.

You bite your nails down to stubs as you head back to your bunk, still trembling. What were you going to do?

You do not sleep well. The Emperor’s eyes are burned into your eyelids. They weren’t golden eyes like all the paintings. 

They do not hold untold and limitless power. 

They’re brown, and they stare at you in your dreams, unblinking. You keep waking up in a cold sweat, breathing sharp pants.

Serayne, your bunkmate, grumbles at you to keep it down as you stagger out of bed to go splash cold water on your face. You stare in the mirror, and realize that the bags under your eyes have worsened. That’s just great, isn’t it? You can’t decide if your face or your morals are in worse shape, and you slump against the cabinet under the sink. Your mother would disapprove greatly, but then again she wouldn’t have agreed with anything you’ve done since the fall of your homeworld.

But your mother isn’t here, and you have to do something with your time, so you scrape yourself off the floor to get ready for your shift. 

Tired feet dragging as you wander down to the dining hall and get your rations for the morning. The lady that works there slips you an extra biscuit as you go through, and you smile at her tiredly. She is kind and you like her. 

It feels like the first day all over again as your chest thumps faster in building trepidation with every step closer to that forsaken room.

When you arrive, Samson is smiling grimly, looking you over with a sort of determination, like he’s checking you for something.

He gives your arm a squeeze as you enter, “I know it’s hard work being in there with him, I can tell it’s taken a toll - but he’s getting what he deserves, don’t worry.”

You try to let the words just wash over you and not absorb them but they reverberate in your head.

He’s getting what he deserves.

He’s getting what he deserves.

He’s getting what he deserves.

Don’t worry.

An extra bucket of water is put onto your cart today, and you almost wish you hadn't had breakfast today as you enter the dingy cell. 

They’ve pulled off his fingernails and toenails, and left them scattered about. You’re frozen in place as Samson swings the door shut. 

You stand there for what must be minutes, just staring before your body moves, feet shuffling over streaks of gore.

The Emperor is slumped against the wall again, and out of desperation to carry on in your work, you choose to focus on the familiar routine that you have– going from the other side of the room towards him, but keeping your semi circle.

You gingerly sweep up the nails and throw them into your trash can. Where they will go, you have no idea.

But you have to keep averting your eyes from the nail beds themselves. They’re red, spots of blood pooling in them. Some of it has crusted to the edges, turning a deep, dark shade of reddish-brown, and your stomach turns as you try not to throw up. 

There’s the slight rattling of chains, and you freeze in place. Your eyes slowly track upwards to meet the pupils of the Emperor. He’s looking at you again, and your mouth hangs open as you try to summon something to say. 

Fortunately, he breaks the silence, speaking in a raspy voice that might have been commanding if not for his raw and ragged vocal chords.

“Get on with your job.”

You blink, and stand there, dumbstruck. What?

His eyes narrow, “Surely they did not send someone so stupid to do this task.”

Arrogance. 

A wrinkled lip sneering in cold command.

That breaks you out of whatever spell you were under, pity for the God fallen from grace, for the man who deserved to be broken fleeing you and you scoff, “I am not stupid.”

The Emperor looks unimpressed and unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything else. Now you’re annoyed, and your scrubbing becomes harsher. 

How could you have felt bad for him? Your brain has taken the separation of the Emperor of the Imperium and the pitiful man you too far, and you needed to remind yourself of exactly who he was.

You scowl, and move away.

“I’m here to keep this room clean, that’s all! I don’t have to stand here and talk to you.”

He grins at you, flashing all his remaining teeth again. This time you notice that it’s his canines that have been pulled. There’s small nubs of white that poke out over the top of the gums.

“And I don’t have to listen,” he sniggers, which breaks off into a wheeze.

Beaten bloodied and yet still so proud as to goad you.

You puff up in indignation, anger flaring “And which one of us can leave this room?”

A beat of silence rings out as that seems to catch him, because he falls still again. 

His eyes feel like they’re scanning your very soul as he sits there. You whirl towards your cart back around and drag it towards the door. Not bothering to say goodbye, you leave.

Wretched man.

Chapter 7: beam me up, biscotti

Your eyelids are slightly sticky with salt as you open them again. It's warm in your little nest, and you decide to close your eyes again. You wriggle in the sand to get comfortable again, until your back hits against a very solid wall. You pause, taking in the temperature change, and realize that the wall is, in fact, breathing.

Your eyes shoot open, and you crane your head backwards to see that Vulkan has partially entered into your nest. You're curled up against his chest in the sand. He's not looking at you, instead he's watching your surroundings, and relief washes over you. Along with a rising blush, because why are you tucked against his chest.

He finally looks down, and in a tone you can only describe as tender, he quietly asks, "How did you sleep?"

Rubbing your eyes, you move to sit up a little. You feel incredibly well rested, despite the fact that you just took a nap in a sandy hole.

"I slept well, thank you," you say, before your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, "Not that I'm complaining, but how did you end up in here?"

Vulkan's eye membrane blinks, and he responds, "You were shivering. I promised to watch over you, and that includes being cold. It seemed the most efficient method."

Oh! Well that is…very kind. Your brain is currently blue screening while you process that information. Obviously, you decide, Vulkan doesn't understand the implications of you waking up against him. It was a lovely feeling though— you felt very cared for.

You dip your head, and smile, "Well, thank you. I feel a little better now."

Vulkan smiles, and his tail swishes in the water. You stare at the sky, and realize that you've been sleeping for a much longer time than you'd thought. Then your hear the distinct sound of a truck pulling in at the top of the cove. Vulkan's head moves quickly to scan around as you scramble up, sending sand fly.

You whip around and hurriedly explain, "I think my friend Mercedes is looking for me. I'm going to go before she spots you— thank you again, I'll come back tomorrow!"

Your mer-friend nods, and you begin brushing the debris off your clothes as you walk away from the shoreline. Mercedes' red hair is easily spotted as she rounds the edge of the trail and sees you. Her ponytail bounces as she strides down to meet you. You suppose, given the lack of reaction, that Vulkan has hidden. You wave at her, and she smiles back.

"Hey," you greet, "You good?"

She looks you up and down, then snorts, "Apparently not as good as you— what did you do, roll around on the beach?"

You shrug, "Yeah, pretty much."

Her eyes soften, "You feeling better? I saw you left your phone back at the house and I wanted to come check on you."

You hum, then respond, "Yeah— loads. I got a good nap in."

Mercedes reaches over to tug at a lock of your hair, which causes sand to dump all over your shirt. Snickering, she says, "I can see that— I think you're more sand than person right now."

"I feel more sand than person," you retort.

She slings an arm over your shoulder, "Alright then Sandman, what do you say to showering and then we go out to eat? A regular night out on the town."

"Hell yeah," you shoot back, returning her gesture by slinging a sandy arm over her as well, "Where are you thinking?"

She sighs at the dirt on her clothes, "I was thinking that new place on the boardwalk— Captain Clark's?"

You raise an eyebrow, "The burger joint?"

"Yeah! Supposedly they have some killer seafood too— those fried oysters are calling my name."

The two of you make it back up to the top of the path, and you glance back. All you see is a familiar fin going in lazy circles in the water. Smiling, you face forward and climb into your friend's truck as the two of you discuss your evening plans.

You shower, and laugh to yourself about the amount of sand that comes out of your clothes and undergarments and gets on the floor. You'll have to vaccum that up later. You scrub your skin clean, and feel light as your step out of your steam-filled shower. It's like the weight that was on you had drained away with the water. You pick an outfit that's a little nicer than what you might normally wear. Not date nice, but better than a tshirt. It's a cute sundress with seashell print on it. You don shell jewelry just to stick with the theme.

Mercedes finds your ensemble incredibly funny as you emerge from your room. She attempts to hide it by covering her face, but you can see her shoulders bouncing.

"What?" you ask, looking for something on your outfit.

"I thought you were leaving the mermaid getup at your job?" She comments.

You toss your hair and wink, "Being a mermaid is a full time gig. I could never leave it behind."

The drive to the restaurant is uneventful, the two of you sitting in casual silence as the radio plays a local station. Captain Clark's restaurant winds up being a busier place than you'd expected. There's so many people milling about in there that you shoot a longing glance towards the mostly empty pier before Mercedes drags you inside.

Inside, it's a lovely affair. There's big windows to one side that show off the ocean, while the massive bar that has bottles that glisten in the low lighting. Somehow they've managed to balance upscale and casual, and you can't help but stare at the coral themed chandelier that hangs directly in the center of the main dining room. Whoever opened this place must have some money to back it, because as you're seated you see custom carved chairs and dinnerware.

The menu is extensive, but not (as you'd previously assumed) expensive. The two of you get drinks. Mercedes goes with a cocktail, while you wind up with a mystery mocktail that tastes slightly fruity with a bubbly texture. You play with the umbrella that came in it while looking around the room. The wallpaper is gorgeous, but your eyes land on the massive aquarium on the far wall.

All the fish in it are staring at you.

You stare back, face wrinkling in confusion. Mercedes stops mid sip, and turns around to see what you're looking at.

"Uh," she starts, "Do fish normally do that?"

You blink, "No. Not that I'm aware of."

"Are they… looking this way?"

Fiddling with the umbrella, you mutter, "Yeah, I think so."

The two of you quit looking when your server arrives, and you place your entree order.

Sliding your chair a bit, you go to stand, saying, "I'm going to investigate."

Your friend shakes her head and you pause.

"What?" you ask.

She sighs, and stirs her drink idly, "Have you ever noticed that you have a bad habit of checking out weird stuff?"

"I wouldn't call a fish tank weird," you sniff, still halfway between standing and sitting, "And I don't do that!"

Mercedes fixes you with a hard, unimpressed stare, "Yes you do."

You start, "Name one time-"

Apparently it's been on her mind, as Mercedes cuts you off and begins counting on her fingers as she rattles off events, "The sandpiper, the sharks, the netting with dragged up. The fishtank. And that's just the recent stuff— not to mention the entire vibe of that cove you go to. It's so weird."

Well, maybe she has a point. Unfortunately for everyone involved in this conversation, you're in the business of doubling down.

"It's not weird," you snap, half because the cove is your space, and half because you feel the need to speak up on Vulkan's behalf.

Her eyebrows lift, "Dude. You cannot tell me that place isn't creepy. It gives me the heeby jeebies every time I go down there. I have no idea how you slept there today."

"It's not-"

"I feel like something is watching me whenever I go there," she hisses.

Squaring your jaw, and becoming uncharacteristically serious, you state, "Mercedes, if there's something you'd like to say, I would prefer you just say it, instead of me having to guess."

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forwards, fingers lacing together as she props on the table.

"Alright," she deadpans. Then Mercedes drops a metaphorical grenade right in front of you.

"I know you almost drowned two weeks ago."

What. What. What.

You stare at her, mouth agape like the fish in the aquarium. Actually, you'd been so focused on the merman aspect of that day that you'd completely missed that part of your story. You have a rapidfire flasho f thoughts that range from telling the entire truth to trying to gaslight her.

What does come out of your mouth is a strangled "…How?"

You sit all the way down in the chair as she pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration, before looking back at you.

"I was a lifeguard, remember? I've seen what people look like when they almost drown."

Ah, shit. How'd you miss that? You're gripping your chair arms so tightly that they might crumble.

You try to speak, but it fades as the words get stuck in your throat, "I don't…"

Mercedes grimaces, then says, "Listen, I haven't brought it up because you'd been going through a lot recently and I don't want to make things worse and pry. But I'm concerned. Sorry that the timing is bad, but I need you to know that."

You perk up a little, and finally seize an opportunity to add to the conversation, "You're right to be concerned, but you don't need to be. The ocean and I are friends."

Also the giant merman that you're friends with, but she doesn't need to know that part.

She looks at you, eyes sad, and says your name softly, "I've almost lost you twice to the ocean— I'm worried you won't be so lucky a third time."

You reach out a hand a touch hers, meeting her gaze again, "I understand. You know I won't stop going though, right?"

"I know," she says, giving your hands a squeeze back, "Just be safe, okay? You've got people rooting for you on land."

You nod, and the two of you sit in silence for a few moments. Then she retracts her hand and makes a shooing motion.

"Alright, I'm done being serious. Go look at your fish now," she grumbles, looking faintly embarrassed.

Flashing her a grin, you stand and head over. The fish are waiting for you as you get there, and you wiggle your fingers and coo at them. You step to the side to allow a little girl to come up and see, and the fish follow your movement in a swarm.

The girl looks at you with big brown eyes and frowns. You move again to the side, and they follow again.

Pointing a finger at them, you sternly say, "Let her see you too!"

She beams as they part into two groups, allowing her to investigate.

You lean over when she whispers to you, "Can you talk to fish?"

The image of Vulkan leaning on the sand flashes through your mind, and you have to tamp down your amusement as you whisper back, "Yes."

Her eyes practically sparkle as she asks, "Are you a mermaid?"

One of your favorite questions, especially from kids. You wink, "Of course! I come on land to visit my friends from time to time. It's not always fair for them to come to me, is it?"

The little girl vibrates with excitement, then runs off to who you assume are her guardians. She points in your direction, and the adults with her look at you. You wave, at they return the gesture.

You go back to your table and wait somewhat awkwardly with Mercedes. Your food is fantastic, and Mercedes shares her oysters with you. You trade part of your meal, and create a surf and turf experience. You know that the conversation you had will probably come up again, but she seems willing to let it slide, so you do as well.

The fish follow your movement as you go to leave, so you give them a wave and disappear around the corner. You and Mercedes decide to hit the ice cream parlor a little further down. You like it because they give out massive scoops of ice cream. It's a little tourist trap-y but it's so worth it.

You get three massive scoops of your favorite flavor in a cup and head outside to eat it. Mercedes gets through hers first, and goes into a crystal store that inhabits part of the boardwalk.

The pier calls for you though, so you separate from her to enjoy your sweet treat at the end of it. You hum as you lean on the banister, listening to the soothing sounds of the waves below you. There's a few other people dotted around, a few fishing off the side of the pier. It's peaceful.

It begins to drizzle a bit, but nobody pays too much mind to the weather change. You don't either— resolving to finish your dessert and head inside to meet with Mercedes. You've just about eaten it all, and are casually sipping from a water you'd gotten from the same shop when someone comes up beside you. You glance in their direction, but don't take in too much detail until they clear their throat and begin to speak to you.

"Hello there," a very, very familiar voice says.

You whip around to see the white haired man standing beside you. You stumble backwards, and in a panic you throw the water bottle at him. He catches it with ease, and doesn't seem to care that it spills all down his shirt.

He flashes sharp teeth at you, "Nice try, but-"

The speech is cut off by the abrupt entrance of your ice cream cup hitting him directly in the face. Now that you've had time to process, and you know that Vulkan has your back, you're pissed.

"What the hell are you doing here, you son of a bitch?" you hiss, the muscles in your jaw clenching.

That gets a reaction, and the man looks less than pleased as he wipes melted ice cream off his chin.

"That was unnecessary," he snarls, and gooseflesh ripples up your arms.

There's still a confidence you have though, with people around you. You snap, "You scared the shit out of me the other day— I don't know who you think you are with that seashell and your stupid spiel, but you should learn how to mind your own business."

Not that you know precisely what his business is, but the point remains.

He clicks his tongue, and sighs dramatically, "I was unaware that you were…acquainted with my brother, so to speak. It isn't often that one finds humans that have merfolk magic on them. My mistake."

You blink, then scowl, "I see. Why are you here then?"

He grumbles, "I was told I 'needed to apologize'."

You snicker a little at what you assume to be his Vulkan impression. His voice doesn't have the necessary baritone in it to create the proper effect.

"So," he continues, "I apologize."

That appears to be the best you're going to get, given that it looks like someone could be pulling his teeth out. You're not sure you want to accept it.

"Now I have apologized," the man says, holding out a hand with long, almost claw like nails, "Nice to meet you, human. My name is Fulgrim."

You stare at his hand like it might turn into a snake and bite you.

Fulgrim sniffs, then snidely remarks, "It's rude not to introduce yourself, you know."

You raise an eyebrow, "I think you know who I am."

Teeth flash at you again, then the nails dig slightly into your arm as he forces a handshake. His pupils shrink to slits that remind you that he isn't fully human.

"Don't piss me off," he scolds, although he seems very calm, "I'm not gentle like my brother."

Your lip curls, "I can see that."

His eyes narrow, and you roll yours. You say your name, and he lets go of you.

Fulgrim repeats your name, and then shakes his head, "I would have thought my brother would have picked a more impressive human, but alas."

He leaves absolutely no room for you to respond to that statement, striding away. You chase him all the way down to the end of the pier before you lose him. Damn him and his long as legs. Mercedes is waiting for you, having seen you try and run down the guy. You come over, grumbling about the situation. You'd like to rip out some of his hair. The nerve to comment like that!

Your friend looks at you, flabbergasted, "Who was that?"

You groan, "Some guy— his name's Fulgrim."

She whistles, "He's hot."

Sputtering, you reply, "That's the man from the other day."

Her face immediately scrunches in disgust, and she spits out, "Now why didn't you lead with that? I rescind my statement, he is not hot. In fact, he's downright atrocious to look at. Like a house on fire personified."

You jostle her shoulder and laugh at her reaction, "Mer, it's okay. He apologized for scaring me. I think."

Mercedes doesn't look thrilled, "Eugh, I guess.""

Deciding to change topics, you ask how her store was. She launches into an explanation on what she got as you head towards the parking lot. You're extremely tired by the end of the evening, and take a quick shower and go to bed. You stare at the curtained window, mind drifting towards Vulkan. Your eyes slide shut, but you can picture him still guarding you while you fall asleep.

Your dreams are peaceful.

A/N: Hi guys!! Sorry it's been a minute, my job's being wacky right now, and then I went on a camping trip with no service for a few days. On the bright side, I have most of chapter 8 done and a bit of lore and outlining done!! Most of this chapter was written with a pen and paper. Thank you to all the sweet comments, love you guys <3 stay hydrated

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!):

The sound of the Gloriana class plasma engines roaring back to life and the almost musical thrum of the reflex shields coating the ship told Corvus the jump had been a success.

And yet.

"We are in real space, yes?" The primarch asked.

A crewman tapped his auger and turned, bowing.

"Indeed, my lord."

Corvus nodded slowly, glancing around before looking back at the man, still bent double.

"Then tell me, where are the lights?"

The man frowned and straightened up.

"They're...on, my lord?" He said confused.

Corax shook his head.

"Check again"

The command deck came to a standstill as people looked up at the ceiling.

A single, bright emergency light beamed down, illuminating maps and cogitators. The main lights however, remained woefully unlit.

As if on cue, a marine stomped through the main doors, a scowl creasing his otherwise handsome face.

"Report, Alvarex?"

"The entire ship is out, my lord" Alvarex Maun huffed, swiping a pale hand down his face and sighing.

"The Mechanicum reports no damage, but it could be at least an hour before we have any lighting in the shadow"

The marine cast a eye over the baseline staff hurrying around him.

"Your raven guard will have no issues of course, but..." He gestured around the crew.

Corvus nodded.

"Slow the engines for now. We can't risk moving at speed until everyone can see. If we run into trouble, I need all eyes working"

The raven guard captain lent closer.

"There is one other matter. Lord"

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Corvus swept through the dark halls of the ship, the shadows that usually cowered in the crevices now stretching across the metal as the lights remained inactive.

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"What do you mean missing?"

Captain Alvarex shook his head

"We checked your chambers, lord. Gone."

"They can't just be gone. Your in command here, I will look myself."

"my lord you can't"

Maun stared blankly at the spot his genesire had been moments ago and sighed, turning to the crew still milling around

"YOU HEARD HIM, SLOW ENGINES" he roared

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Corax hurried on, melting into the darkness with each long stride. He ghosted past panicked tech priests and fumbling servitors, tracing your familiar routes through the ship; his room, your room, the remembrancers hall, training arena. Each filled with the noise of confused chapter serfs and irritated poets. But not you.

Corvus felt acid rise in his throat, his swallowed and inhaled deeply, calming the hammering of his two hearts.

One more place.

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"You can have a larger space" corvus sighed, combing his fingers through his mop of black hair.

"This is hardly fitting"

You shook your head and beamed up at him.

"No it's perfect, look"

You stepped forward, gesturing ar two of the walls.

"Windows"

Corvus frowned

"I see. You know you cannot open them"

You rolled you're eyes and grabbed his hand, tugging him forward.

"Just wait"

The primarch stood silently, enjoying the warmth of your hand in his and the smell of your hair as he allowed himself a moment to forget what awaited him beyond the walls of this room. He watched the planet they orbited turn slowly, blues and greens stretching across its surface in an unbroken canvas.

Suddenly, a light.

Faint at first, the rays of a young sun began to filter in through the armourglass. Weak at first, it wasn't long before the room was flooded in warmth. The cold metal walls painted a soft bronze in the early morning hue.

"When we left Lycaeus, left those mines..." You paused, stumbling at the memory. Corvus released your hand and placed a heavy palm on your shoulder, you softened and lent into him with a sigh.

"Once we were free I swore I would never be stuck in the dark again"

"I understand"

You looked up at the raven lord, eyes soft, smile even softer.

"I know you do"

He watched as you slipped free from his grip and bathed yourself in the warm sunlight. A pink hue flushed over your cheeks and you closed your eyes and spun, laughing as you basked.

"Isn't it beautiful Corvus?"

Corvus stared, his own lips twitching upwards for a moment.

"Yes, beautiful"

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Corax slammed through the iron door with an echoing rattle that rang in his ears. Your room, once filled with light and laughter was now as dark as the rest of the ship, the gloom condensing where once there had been laughter and warmth.

Your chair was empty, it's pillows still indented from where you liked to sit with your knees pulled to your chest.

He rushed forward, reaching out and picking your personal Comms until from the chairs arm.

You never went far without it.

"Corvus?"

He turned, sighing in relief.

Your head peered out from under your desk, small fingers pulling back a heavy, downy blanket you had used to shelter yourself. Your eyes went wide as you saw him, then began to water.

"Corvus" you said again, voice now breaking.

The raven lord fell to his knees, reaching out as you scrambled free from your hiding spot and clawed towards him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he whispered, stroking your head as you fell into his chest with a sob.

"I was so scared" your voice was muffled and broken, face still pressed into him.

"I know. I'm here now, I'm here."

He sat, clutching you in his arms until your trembling finally subsided. He felt you pull away and reluctantly slackened his hold.

"Corvus" you sniffed, leaning back to reach up and cup his face. "My corvus"

He closed his eyes and nuzzled his cheek against your palm.

"My sweet raven"

There was a loud thump, followed by an electrical hum and finally a loud click. Corvus opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling to see the lights flickering back to life.

He looked back down and found you staring up at him, lashes still spiked with tears and cheeks red.

"There you are" your face cracking into a lopsided grin.

"There's my sun"

She looked up at Lady Amelia between shaking thighs and with gasping breaths but the noble custodian woman looking down at her looked at her with a cold calculation that which many might take offense at the seemingly bored look upon the guardian's face. But the way she twisted her fingers inside of her... making her wail in delight... she could see the ghost of a smile upon that noble face. The buzz of the toy that the custodian ground against faded into the background noise of the creak of the bed... oh her poor bed taking this abuse from Lady Amelia.

But she wasn't really in any place to think about anything else then the way Lady Amelia's fingers were inside of her weeping cunt. How her middle finger danced on her clit... gently pressing... swirling around it... oh it was with the same terrifying precision that the Custodian did Everything with.

"Do you hold back your cute little wails to try and curry favor with me? To try and show how strong you can be dearest dove?" Lady Amelia coos down at you with that melting warmth. The musical chuckle that comes from her as you ashamedly look away, "Oh yes how strong you are. But I come here to listen to you sing."

Oh how you moan and cry out as she pinches and plays with one of your nipples causing you to buck into her fingers more. You do not last long underneath her torment.

"Oh there you go singing all pretty for me." She says feeling the way your walls squeeze her fingers as you grind out your orgasm against them.

Getting up to go to work is much harder when your muscles are trying to take you out. You grimace as you stagger out of bed, legs screaming at you as you shuffle to the bathroom. Apparently trying to keep up with Vulkan did more damage than you originally thought.

Getting into your clothes ought to be classified as another Herculean challenge, but you manage. Mercedes is still asleep and you once again envy her as you make your way to your car at the ass-crack of dawn. Piper's in the front yard, and you greet him as you go by— albeit with less enthusiasm than usual. You ponder about going and buying bugs for him as you head to the aquarium, but he looks pretty fat so you probably won't bother.

You get into the pool area easily enough. Michael stops you to ask about some of the sharks that you'd been diving with, leading to some idle chatter for a few minutes before you excuse yourself.

The hum of the machinery around you is in your ears as you start your warmups. Today you've brought your yoga mat, and you're wincing as you begin to stretch out sore muscles. Note to self: when swimming with a merman, don't try so hard. You hiss through your teeth as you go into a lunge, feeling the ligaments in your legs move.

You're counting down from ten when you hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Eyes popping open, you spot Brandy walking towards you. Much to your surprise, Oliver is close behind her. The younger girl's face is neutral, but her eyebrows are drawn together as she enters the pool area. She gives you a wave and goes into the locker room, disappearing around the corner.

You frown, eyes following her movement before Oliver moves into your field of vision to block your view.

"Hello," he says, beaming down at you.

Coming out of the lunge is only slightly less painful, and you let out a deep breath as you lessen the pressure on your muscles. Standing completely up, you respond with a hello back.

Oliver tilts his head, "I didn't think you would be here so early. What're you doing?"

You put your arm across your chest and begin to gently pull on your shoulder muscles. You reply, "I always get here pretty early when it's time for mermaid performances— I like to have the pool to myself for a bit." You tilt your head, "Well, minus Brandy, but she's here to make sure I don't drown."

Not that you can drown currently, but he doesn't need to know that.

He nods, "What stretches do you normally do? I've been looking to add some to my workout routine— I've been working on my swim skills recently and my legs are killing me."

It's not the first time someone has asked you about this particular routine, so you acquiesce and begin explaining your stretching methods. Swimming uses more muscles than most people would think, which leads to beginners often having to learn the hard way that their form is wrong. Oliver nods, and dutifully takes notes on his phone.

In the spirit of properly showing someone how they should be stretching (a lesson learned from your summers of coaching teens during swim lessons), you offer to guide him through a few poses. You tend to combine some yoga poses along with the regular warm ups just to make sure you're getting as many muscle groups as possible.

Oliver accepts, and seems to realize his mistake about two minutes in when he makes a face while holding most of his body off the ground.

"You can relax now," you say casually, putting your own limbs back on the ground.

His face is red from the exertion, and he flops down onto the cold floor. He groans, then states, "How do you do that? You make it look so easy."

You shrug, then get up off the floor to go fetch your water bottle, "It gets easier with time, and it helps that I wear a tail half the time while swimming."

Oliver rises off the floor as well, "I see—you're stronger than you look."

Scowling, you ask, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sputters in response, trying to make a recovery.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, you ask, "Do you not have somewhere you need to be?"

He blinks, and you watch as his ears turn a bright red, "Well, yes, but I-"

You realize that your statement might have came off as rude and you rush to correct yourself, "Not that I mind you being here, it just seems odd that you're here during our warm up time?"

Oliver relaxes a bit at that and says, "I just wanted to see what it looks like when you guys are back here— I usually only see it before we do cleaning dives." He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, "I'll uh, get out of your hair though. Good luck down there."

You wish him well, and he leaves, gently closing the door behind himself. After a few moments, Brandy pokes her head out from the locker room and sighs upon seeing that Oliver was gone. She exits and pads over to the lifeguard station. Your eyebrow bob up in surprise.

"Everything good?" you ask, walking over to lean on the stand.

She grimaces, before she mumbles, "I don't know." Louder, she says, "Oliver just wanted to talk to me. It's not that I don't like him, it's just that I think his vibe is a little weird, you know?"

The interaction you'd just had was odd, to be sure, but it wasn't terribly weird. Although perhaps your definition of 'weird' is a bit skewed from what most people might think.

You frown, "Do I need to beat him up?"

That gets a chuckle out of her, and she shakes her head, "No. I mean, he hasn't done or said anything creepy. It's just… I dunno… a feeling?" She waves a hand dismissively, "Ugh, I'm probably just overreacting. You ready for warmup?"

Placing a hand on her shoulder, you gently say, "Listen, if you need to talk or have someone help you, I'm with you one hundred percent— if something happens, let me know."

She gives a wobbly smile to you, "Thanks, I appreciate it."

You nod, before flexing your arm muscles, "I'll beat his ass for free— I can jump him in the parking lot."

That one gets a bark of laughter (more genuine this time), and Brandy climbs to her position while you slide into the pool. You're properly warmed up now so it's no trouble at all to go into your routine, passing back and forth along the surface. By the time you're practicing breath holds, Rob and Diana join you at the bottom of the shallows.

Your hair feels odd as you sit under the water, creating an odd tingling sensation to your scalp. You idly scratch your head, but don't think too much of it. Then it occurs to you that that might be the signal that you can breath underwater and you wonder how exactly you're going to pass this off to other people.

…maybe you're just really, really good at breath holds. The record is what, ten minutes? You make a face and surface, mind swirling with thoughts.

Other than that though, your performance goes smoothly as always. Your shark friend is still hanging around, and you find yourself wondering about timing of going to take breaths. Has it been too long? Not long enough? You wind up compromising by swimming up to the hose, but not actually breathing from it.

You're still mega sore by the time you make it home, so you stumble into the shower and barely manage to make it to bed before you pass out into sleep. No one said being a mermaid was easy work.

After a couple days, your soreness has worn off. You're absolutely itching to get back into the water. You want to be able to explore underwater now that you're getting used to the whole…breathing thing. It's a Thursday, so not your typical day to get back to the cove, but you can't help the excitement that grows as you close in on the area.

This time you've remembered to bring your fins, and the shell bag is slung across your body, with the knife situated on your waist. The weight of it is familiar, soothing, and you can't help but run your fingers over the handle as you stride into the ocean waves.

You laugh as your fan-club take turns bumping into you, little noses bouncing off your skin. This time you've forgone the rash-guard and are in a two piece bathing suit that has no ties on it. Booties and fins on your feet, you sink in, and begin to belly crawl across the sand like a shark. The tingling begins and you suck in a breath.

Ugh, this is so cool. If only you didn't have to almost die to get the ability. You continue along the bottom, checking on plants and noting the fish that are darting around. There's a group of chubs that seem uninterested in you, but you swim up to see what they're looking at anyways, and find a crab staring at you. How delightful!

You're busy checking out the rocky enclave that lines the cove, hoping to spot some puffer fish, when you feel the current direction shift. You turn to see Vulkan a little ways away, tail moving side to side as he cuts through the water in your direction.

You wave at him, and gesture for him to come look with you. With two of you searching, it's not long before you find a puffer. It's hanging back in a rocky crevice, but comes out to see what the two of you are up to. It seemingly decides that neither of you are worth the time, and goes back into the hiding hole it was in.

Vulkan points toward the surface, and you nod, making your way upwards. The merman is waiting for you at the top, and you flip wet hair out of your face.

"Hello!" you greet, beaming at him, "Beautiful weather we're having, isn't it?"

He looks up at the sky, which is dotted with fluffy clouds, before looking back at you. "Indeed."

"How'd you know I was out here?" you ask, spinning in a small circle.

Vulkan hums, "The fish told me."

You eye him, "Can you actually talk to the fish or are you messing with me?"

He shrugs, "I can speak with them. Their language is more limited than say, you and I's."

This peaks your interest, "What about what you said when we met the other day? The sounds underwater, I mean."

"That would be a merfolk specific language. The overall impact of a folk's kiss is… largely undocumented. I was unsure if you would be able to understand."

An entire underwater language! Of course they'd have something— words with the vocal chords couldn't register properly through liquid.

Your eyes practically sparkle as you get closer, "Could you teach me a few?"

Vulkan thinks about it, a webbed hand reaching up to scratch his face, "I can try— I am unsure of which words you may be able to form."

Nodding enthusiastically, you agree, "That's fine! I'll learn whatever you're wiling to teach me."

The two of you spend the next while bobbing in and out of the water while you learn the pronunciations for a few words. Phrases are out of the question, but 'hello' and 'up' are what you manage to figure out. Vulkan chuckles at your pronunciations, and the words stick in your throat a few times, because for the most part the sounds are supposed to come from your chest.

You're 95% sure that you're not doing well with it, but Vulkan assures you that it's very good for a beginner, and to just give it time and practice.

The two of you hit the ocean floor after that, looking around to see what you can find. There's a large funnel of fish swimming around, and you laugh as you swim through it and they simply scatter to form an even larger funnel. Vulkan lurks on the outside edge of it, chuckling at your antics.

You notice that he swims slower than what you assume is his normal pace to let you keep up. The fins help a good bit, but your propulsion simply can't match his speed.

"How fast can you swim?" you wind up asking him once you've gotten to the top of the water.

Vulkan's ears twitch as he thinks, before he shrugs, "I can't say I've ever measured. Would you like to see?"

Boy would you!! You nod, and he allows you to cling onto his neck. It's a little difficult, given the size difference, but you manage to climb on. He's very solid underneath you, and while your initial concern had been bumping his dorsal fin, that winds up not being an issue at all. Your feet don't reach that far.

"You ready?" Vulkan asks, and you give a confirming pat on his shoulder while verbally agreeing.

Going underwater is much smoother than you anticipated— although in hindsight it made sense, given that he was built for the oceans. You can feel his muscles tense, and then suddenly you're shooting through the water.

It's like the wind on your face when you quickly ride your bike, only you can make out the blur of everything around you. The beach comes into view way faster than you expect, and Vulkan slows down. When he breaches the surface you laugh giddily.

"That was so cool! I had no idea anyone could swim that fast."

He grins at you, all teeth, "I can. Few can match my speed."

You smile right back at him, "I would pay to see that race."

Vulkan gives a long, deep laugh, and says, "Maybe one day."

Wobbling back to dry land, you thank your friend and bid him goodbye. It's the same routine as last time, where you glance back and wave as you depart. He returns it.

~~~

Your weekend brings much of the same. The pair of you find many shells around, and you leave some of the larger ones while your bag gets full from all the little ones. You'll package them up for some of the beach cabanas later— it's a lucrative living to be selling seashells, but some of them accept shells as payment in a pinch. Usually for a Gatorade and chips, but it was better than nothing!

Apparently, your newfound merman friend has an astonishing knowledge of human games. This includes chess, which you'd brought up while telling a story about a club you'd been in while in college. When you'd gotten to explaining the game, Vulkan had waved a hand.

"I know about chess," he had said.

You had blinked in surprise, before responding, "Really? Where did you learn about it?"

The merman's eye membrane had blinked, and he mused, "I am much older than you. I have learned many games."

"Can you play?" you asked.

"I am very good at chess," Vulkan had told you, "I believe I could beat you."

Offended, you told him to just wait until you got your hands on a board, so you two could see who the real champion was.

Which lead you to your current destination— the paddle board shop on the boardwalk. You'd found a magnetized version of chess, but needed something flat to work as a table to play the game. You're staring at the entrance of the store when the clouds open up and begin to dump rain on your head. You sprint inside, and stand at the door while wringing out your hair. For such a short amount of time, the storm sure could soak you to the skin.

Good thing you'd had your suit on under your clothes, but you still weren't a fan of getting cold rainwater on you. Or the feeling of being damp while in the air conditioned store. As luck would have it though, their floors are wooden and made to withstand the wet footsteps of customers coming through.

You move forwards, ogling at the surf memorabilia that lines the walls, along with the many different kinds of boards available. The bell to the shop rings and you pay it no mind. Until you turn slightly, and have to do a double take at the man that now stands at the register.

He has to be a model, and the fact that his shirt is unbuttoned all the way is not helping matters. Hair so blonde it's practically white is pulled back into a ponytail, and you try very, very hard not to stare at the abs that the shirt reveals when it pulls back as he leans on the counter. You need to focus on your task.

So you go back to browsing the paddle boards, and try really, really hard not to stare at the handsome stranger.

It's going really well until you hear, an "excuse me," from behind you. You hope and pray that it's not who you think it is. You turn around and it's the man from the counter. Your ears burn as you fight not to stare directly at the pecs that are in your face.

"Are you looking to buy or to rent?" he asks.

"I- what?" you say, a little confused.

Patiently, he responds with, "Each board is special in its own way. Some are more solid, and some will sink while you're in the water." He pushes past you, and points out an inflatable board that's decorated with a shark. "I think this one would suit you well."

You'd already looked at that one, mostly for the irony of owning a shark board while playing a game with one. Vulkan would find it amusing, you think.

"Uh… thanks," you respond, gingerly taking the board from the wall it's neatly stacked into. You make a mental note of the gear you'll need to grab to help fill out your kit— it's been a while since you've owned one of these, but you remember the gist of it all.

He begins to walk away, before he stops and turns back to you. "By the way," he confides, "I like to give these to all the pretty people I see."

He takes something out of his pocket and you're almost scared until he unfurls his hand and oh! It's a lovely seashell. It's an almost perfect spiral with a pearly white exterior. The only flaw is a small chip off the underside that you can see. Your hand reaches out to take it before your eyes flick back up to look at that man and you swear it looks like he has fangs. Vulkan's teeth flit through your mind and you go to pull your hand back, only for the man to press the shell into your palm and curl your fingers around it. His hands are strangely clammy in comparison to Vulkan's, and his smile stretches a touch wider than it should.

"Keep it."

And with that, he strides out into the rain, leaving you standing in the middle of the shop with a (maybe) magical seashell in your hand, and a paddle board in the other.

Shaken, but not deterred, you pay for your things and leave. Your head is on a swivel when you walk out the door, but the man that spoke to you is nowhere around. You keep glancing behind you though, even as you get into your car and drive home.

You scowl into the rearview mirror as you go. You hate that someone is making you feel this way. This sort of dread hasn't settled in your belly since the final days of your relationship with Dawson. The feeling of looking over your shoulder constantly wasn't a new sensation, but it was an unwelcome one.

You sit in the house a lot longer than intended, irritated. You pace around, debating on going down to the water. The shell weighs like a rock in your pocket. You'd fully intended upon it earlier, but now? Vulkan had told you there were other merpeople, but he hadn't mentioned they could go on land. Could they? Could he?

Mercedes isn't home, so you have no one to vent to other than yourself as you walk around. Eventually though, you decide that maybe getting some answers will help calm you down. Locking the door and shooting a text to Mercedes along with leaving a paper note, you shoot off to the cove.

You put your feet into the water and wait. Soon enough, Vulkan's head pops up out of the waves, and he smiles at you. The tension in your chest worsens when you see his sharp teeth, and it takes a moment to realize that you're shaking.

He appears to notice as he gets closer, and he questions, "Are you alright?"

Gritting your jaw, you spit out, "Why are you fucking with me?"

Red pupils dart to the side, then back to you, "What?"

You snarl, "Why are you fucking with me? I thought we were friends, but then this-" you fumble for words, "this man follows me to a store I'm in and he's got teeth like yours and he gives me a- a shell? With some kind of creepy message I think and I just-"

You take a deep, stuttering breath and step out of the water, sand digging into your toes. Tears sting at the edges of your eyes, but you try to fight them off.

"I don't like to be played with," you end up snapping.

Vulkan can only go so far to reach you without beaching himself, but his eyebrows have drawn together and he says your name very softly in concern. It's the same kind of tone that one might use to call to a scared cat, and it stings something deep in your soul.

You yank the shell out of your pocket and hold it out in front of you like it's a dead mouse, and not a seashell.

"Then what is this?" You hiss, "I know something's wrong with it."

Vulkan's eyes flick down to your hand, then back to your face. He's obviously concentrating on you, but as his gaze goes back to the shell, his pupils shrink to slits, and he growls.

This takes you aback, and you take a step away from him. He seems to realize that you're scared of the sound, and takes a deep breath, before holding out his clawed hand.

"May I take a closer look?"

There's silence between the two of you as your brain battles between retreat, and getting closer to the merman that hasn't shown you any cause for harm so far. (But just because someone's nice now doesn't mean they will be down the road, does it? A voice whispers in your head.) Vulkan's arm droops slightly, and he looks about ready to disappear back into the sea, when you inch forwards a bit, dropping the shell into his palm.

He smiles at you, taking great pains not to show his teeth, and says, "Thank you."

Vulkan lifts the object, and it strikes you just how small it is in comparison to him. He scowls at it, and crushes it in a quick motion.

"It's a shell one of my brothers left with you," he quietly states, staring at the sand, "Harmless. If I had to guess, it's to leave a message for me."

You sniff, "What kind of message?"

"The kind that they can reach you," he laments, running a hand down his face. It's a very human gesture, and you relax just a bit.

"So you… didn't send someone after me?"

Vulkan delicately responds with, "No, I did not." He straightens up, and splays out his webbed fingers over where his heart should be, "I swear on my life that I did not send someone to follow you. But I will find out who it was and give them a piece of my mind."

You lick your lips to try and stave off the dryness of your mouth, "You will?"

He nods, and you take another cautious step forwards. He adds, "You will not come to harm in my waters, I promise."

The earnestness of his words seem to finally shatter whatever was holding back the dam of tears, and they finally begin to stream down your face.

You try to choke down a wail that tries to surge out your throat, but it comes out as a pitiful whimper instead. Vulkan's still stuck in the shallows, but he looks genuinely distressed to watch you sob on the beach.

"I'm sorry," you blubber, "You know, I usually don't cry this fast."

His hands twitch, and he asks gently, "Is there anything I can do?"

What you need is reassurance, and you voice as much to him. He pauses and thinks, before asking, "Would a hug work?"

You think about it for a second, before you stagger forwards, falling into his arms. The warmth of Vulkan's skin seeps into your still damp clothes, and it's like hugging a solid wall of muscle. It takes a few minutes of you crying before you're able to tear yourself away.

"God, I'm sorry," you say, wiping your nose on your shirt. "I got snot all over your chest."

Vulkan pats your shoulder, "It will wash off."

You give a watery chuckle, but the concern is still clear in his eyes.

There's a long pause, then he very carefully asks, "Are you often followed? Not that… this situation isn't upsetting, I simply wish to get a clearer view."

Your muscles stiffen when he asks, and Vulkan immediately backpedals, "You don't have to tell me-"

You interrupt, "No, no it's fine. It's just hard to put into words." You clear your throat, before glancing up at him, "I don't have to talk about it?"

His eyebrows knit together, before he responds, "I would… prefer to know, yes— if only to prevent any other situations of this nature. However, you are entitled to your history and should not feel like you have to share it with me. I have things from my past I have not shared— I would not expect the same from you."

It's a well balanced and easy answer, and it soothes your anxiety. Talking about your previous relationship was never an easy thing for you to do.

You sigh, "I think… I think I won't say anything for now. But maybe in the future?"

Vulkan's ears twitch, and he nods, "Whatever you would like."

The two of you spend a long time on the beach, watching the sun set.

~~~

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