faint blood suffused through the air, pervasive as light particles and shadow, coasts along strands of scent and sound and adrenaline roar. freshly spilled, too sweet and raw for carrion-eaters. all places in hokuei are slaughterhouse places. charnel houses for the meat and feasting of the food chain â a thing no more pragmatic or mundane than a fact of basic ecology.Â
valentine has been so long a vampire that he no longer needs to close his eyes and tongue for the sight. he sees it omniscient, ubiquitous.Â
the little deviant of firefly house toys with predatory instinct, steps into valentineâs own abattoir a creature as if presumption alone absolves him of becoming prey. he observes him drink, mouth pressing to the rim of the glass, irreverent. crave. a note of disdain colours the word in valentineâs consciousness, souring the metallic saccharine of first blood. his gaze diverts, an eye cast towards the battle unfolding amidst the grandstands below.Â
âyou would do well to temper those instincts.â axiomatic, edifying. this is not a game for children, as much as the boy still reeks of fledgling hunger and the insatiable grasping at want that stains all immortals of his youth. letting a shade of disapproval dip into the surface of measured voice, valentine levels the full brunt of scrutiny upon him. âespecially when one possessing such a utilitarian gift against an opponent elected not to enter the games. did the good doctor not see fit to name you a champion?â
the point, dear student, is that you see me as whatever you want to see me:Â the unyielding teacher. the master with the velvet-gloved fist. the god you desire so desperately to go your knees for. the leviathan sleeping beneath your bed and your bones that holds you captive and prey, the one that reminds you of scalpel tenderness and the caress of being dissected by the one who knows each organ of you by name.
valentine leaves the question unanswered, rhetorical as perhaps intended. Â
âwhen you are as ancient as me, little one, you will find that godhood is a transient hunger.â opiate of the masses, anaesthetising to those unwilling to open their minds to the true and unbearable meaninglessness of existence. and gods are easy to kill. âonly a fool would desire to be something so fallible and arbitrary. a god is worshipped with prayer and incense; a wolf is hungry and kills to eat its prey. which is the one in control, and which is the one given power by the weaker?â power lies in the undeniable. no deity has ever existed without doubt.
kisa goes still, their incessant, humming energy tapering to a finite point of concentration. watching someone slip into the reaches of their power has always been fascinating; valentine has observed lightly with the sight enough to anticipate the locking of his ribs, mid-breath and part-bloodshot. in the beginning, he braced for it, closing his mind into a still, equanimous pool, infinity stretching in all directions.Â
ever since he learned kisa only listens to the screaming, he hasnât bothered to expend so much as an afterthought to stillness. what would you hear, little monster, if you knew how to discern me from the rest?
âyes. you can.â valentine commands.  âlisten deeper. you are treading water on the surface, do not linger in it. submerge yourself. are the things you hear any more terrifying than what you have tasted yourself?â tybault, valentine concedes, because the small-minded populace of hokuei could not fathom a house leader falling in the first round. and yet⌠a baser inclination. the yearning for blood on the colosseum floor, ichor spilling from olympusâ summit. besides, he knows tybaultâs opposition. knows the unholy blaze of the destroyer within him.
âthey are animals, nothing more than beast or cattle. listen for the instinct that we all harbour in our veins. the braying of livestock hungry to be fed. the cry for a killing.â
the thing with drowning is that it is a choice â your lungs will crave the surface but you will force your body to grow gills, to dissipate into the still blue that surrounds you. this is what he asks of you, cradling your jawline gently before lowering you under the water. fingers moving down to throats, closing your airways, feeling how you try to shapeshift into another being for him. one he can love, or at least use. to you, there is no difference.Â
it hurts to become, doesnât it? but youâve spent your whole life telling yourself that you like the pain and what would you be if you didnât? what would all of it have been for if you let it hurt the way itâs supposed to?Â
you turn to valentine, find a grounding in his eyes. take a deep breath and let the void of his gaze swallow you as you allow the floodgates of silent screams open in your mind, trying to turn your fear into a welcoming. letting them feast on it.Â
time is not well kept when they are under, seconds or minutes they stand too still, corpse held up by marionette strings. watch as glazed eyes go from bloodshot to bleeding, a horrible red bubbling over corneas before it overflows, streaming down cheeks. stillness shattered by shaking, stumbling towards the man who sits patiently in waiting, nearly falling onto his lap as they struggle for purchase, for grounding â you. never looking away, never blinking; tethering themselves to something they can hold onto to come back again even as red fills their vision.Â
you may not want to be a god, but they still look at you like one; crying blood at your altar, at your command. thereâs fear, then panic, when they try return and see only crimson, blinking rapidly until the colour smears into the familiar shadows of you.Â
âdivina and ilyas. then â then, oseye and... and rakshasa for the other semifinals. i donât â i canât see, canât hear the â the finals, i donât know who makes it to the finals, who wins, iâm â âÂ
voices are raspy, cracked, words tripping over one another too quickly in an attempt to hand him the fruits of your self-harvesting, blood dripping down your chin and staining his lap. you donât remember when you were gripping his wrist like a lifeline but you know youâre afraid to let go of it.Â
you let tears mix with the blood as the hurt starts violently in the base of your skull, refusing to close your eyes even to soothe the ache, refusing to look away from the dark familiarity of his gaze. you curl up closer instead, taking up as little space as you can while emulating the nearness you crave.Â
ââm not good for the ring. i donât know how to fight. ând iâm too volatile, i think. might crack and take myself out instead of the opponent.â said quietly once breaths even again, bloodstains drying slowly as tear tracks now, answers to rhetoricals. a need to explain.Â
 you think when you closed the gates, you didnât do so properly. something â or multiple somethings â in you are still screaming.Â
âeverything was howling. everything was loud.â said almost childishly, hurt. âwhere were you? why arenât you ever there?âÂ