cause and effect

𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘸,   searching, teeth itching—other times, he is the jackrabbit, in desperation hiding the imprints of its paws.   in times of tenderness—in times of peace—he can never be truly sure where he could place his soul on the scale.   cannot remember, really. 

it’s been a while, he thinks to himself, staring forward with eyes that blur whatever they see—unfocused, uncaring, he ignores the world and all its razor-toothed cruelty, for a moment capable of living for himself, in his own body, without concerning himself with his visceral desire to martyrize himself into a thing that knows nothing of life but all too much of death. 

it’s cathartic.   and repulsive.   and terrifying, to extents only he could possibly comprehend.   it’s been a while since he was anything other than desver:   the wraith, the mastermind behind all that is evil, the bastard scrapped off the bottom of the underworld, the creature willing to wear whatever mask it finds to protect what he loves.   now, he is just a man, like any other. 

according to misha, a man in possession of a heartbeat, no less.   the surprise nearly wrings a chuckle out of his halfburnt throat.   instead, he lets out a strangled groan, in his wolflike manner choosing to stare anywhere but there.

naming it is difficult.   giving it a name—him a name, he corrects himself as his insides tear into themselves—that is anything but mocking, or hateful, or denying.   he needs to be anywhere but there.   to stare at something else.   to never have to look at his face again. 

( desver isn’t sure which part of him wants to leave, but deep down, he knows that it is not the offspring of his soul residing anywhere near his overwrought heart. ) 

something within feels to be on the verge of snapping.   it is a lock’s mouth, hit and hit and hit—a string, thin as needle in its middle, a few torn threads accompanying it to the sides in sad little show of resilience.   desver is a man on the verge of a cliff, testing the pull of water waiting underneath.   then, the taste of smoke, an acrid cloud smothering his lungs;   the man steps back, the thread relaxes into inert idleness, the lock falls flat and silent against what it protects.   he exhales and the room darkens: its thick air decays into a thing pungent and tasting of death.

𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴,   desver has licked plenty of wounds closed;   blood a taste he knows better than water, better than bread.   inside this battered, cornered animal he can see a wet, weeping wound, a man broken beyond all means of recognition;   there he stands, soul trembling and in disarray, while his countenance remains still as a lake untouched.   what a great liar.   desver can smell it;   the stench of regret.   the odor of yearning, and yearning so profoundly it’s unbearable, for something one cannot grasp—that’s been there, once, but had been since torn away, replaced with a rot-strewn, rancorous sense of failure.

briefly, he alows himself to ponder: peace? safety? love?   then, with more rage, more envy, thinks:   haven’t you had enough?

desver moves like a wraith; a prophet speaking of an abominable end.   within these walls he’s a pariah, harbinger of death and all things putrid and corrupt.

you need to terrify to be remembered.   you need to terrify to be heard.   do i terrify you? 

“   i’m afraid you have been directionless for a time much longer than you have it in you to admit.   ”

to kill would be such an easy feat.   the beast doesn’t grin;   its eyes remain a vast field barren and vacant.   to seize back what’s never been his.   the beast doesn’t bare its teeth.   there is rage in him that’s red as blood and pungent as vomit, but for now, it scurries away, hissing at something else, something bigger.   he levels his gaze with ironwood’s.   do you fear the vice grip of my jaw?   “   and what will you do now…   now, that there’s no one left to clean up the mess?   i am not your hound, general, and i will not eat the bodies you failed to bury.   pull at the leash and it’ll slither towards you like a snake.   ”   desver tilts his head, mocking.   for a handful of seconds he pauses, basking in the silence.   “   you are not atlas.   you’re a man so desperate to become something more he wrought and usurped it until it was forced to become a part of you.   ”

beauty in ruin.   beauty in destruction.   here, he finds none.   all his life’s work—all his protection—unmade.   seize it back. 

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧’𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.   it’s an old story;   that of slip-up and failure and bloodbath, the hunger of the beast battling with the prey’s worth and winning.   the ending never changes.   the story is stagnant as any other unsayable thing.   he has killed many, seen plenty bleed; yet, somehow, the despair of a man on the verge of death is no match to odet’s own.   desver thinks, in a way, that odet’s face has frozen in a display of utter hopelessness, forlorn as it is lucid; something within her is changing.   something within her that has been sleeping dormant has begun to grow.

a horrific thing, sharp-toothed and repulsive in all its forgotten idle hatred.   a thing born out of sorrow and only silenced through years.   inside her there is a garden, blooming, but not all gardens are meant to stun with their beauty;   here, there is a body, half-rotten and grotesque.   here, there is something incomprehensible.   it longs.   it smiles.   

yes, the bird is trapped within the wolf’s mouth and desver isn’t sure whose teeth they are.   not his own, surely.   he isn’t sure if they were ever his own. 

𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘵𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵,   planning out in his head a way for his escape.   would a drought of attention, sudden and strategically idiotic, make him run…   or retaliate?   the sting of indecisiveness tastes acrid in on his wretched tongue, a mouthful of something pungent dripping further into his throat.   no, desver is not a good man:   no, desver is not a whole man, and as such, with all his profound hatred and intricate shades of decrepit rage, not one to forgive.   yet, cruel and monstrous as he is—as he thinks himself to be—his teeth would never tear into the flesh of a child.   not then, not now, not ever.

it lasts a while too long.   the hesitation.   anyone else would’ve been taken aback, forced out of this immense focus into disarray—instead, he vacillates, dodges the charge and surges forward, knocking him down and onto the filthied floor.

above him, desver hangs like a morbid angel of death.   there’s blood on the door; a lamb’s worthy sacrifice—

he’s a defanged wolf testing its claws;   a beast with a soul, granting the deer a way out and beyond—

the fingers wrapped around his dagger, although gloved, feel cold. if only i could save you.   it presses against his throat enough to threaten, but not nearly to hurt, much less pierce.   desver stares at him for a while too long, his all too benevolent soul yet again uttering something so puerile:   if only i could save you!   he steadies his voice to a half-growl, teeth gritted.   “   leave.   before i change my mind.   ”    what brought him here?   what horrible wretches dragged a child on the battlefield?   desver’s bones itch with bloodlust.   he’ll hunt them down for sport.   he’ll find them and wrest a revenge that’s never been his.   “   i could kill you now—i could kill you again, if i so desired.   but this is my gift for you:   a second chance.   get up and run, far as your legs can take you.   ”