take a fuckin' bite!

we are ⟐lad you foun⬘ your ♢ay here.

not sure if this idea is too far out there, but I am obsessed with the TMBTE characters/personas (especially the Rain persona). this fic is sort of my condensed interpretation of the ST lore from her (I perceive them as a she/her anyways) perspective.

part one here or on wattpad

He is everything They said he would be.

There was no need to pry from him a conviction. We didn't share a single word, only a handful of glances and nods.

I left him to himself and settled into a vacant room in the quiet manor. I've been waiting carefully to hear him move, to hear a single disruption from his stillness, just to know he's still here. I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, silent and perturbed. But the moon, still cracked like delicate porcelain, had since risen high in the sky and again tucked herself behind the horizon line.

I dug the palms of my hands into my eyes, scratching at them against the fabric of the blindfold. The vision I had been given in the night drudged up this dread. It was unlike even the most unnerving visions ever to plague my mind:

The sound of waves crashing upon a shoreline, the screaming, the pleading, the mask washed ashore, a body floating out to sea like driftwood, my hands clawing into wet sand.

I stretched my palms to the sky, awaiting a sound from Them, trying only to listen, to mediate as I had countless times. But echoing silence drummed through my ears. 

I should have gone to the Garden. I should go now, leave this place behind.

Yet all I itched to do was rise and find him. I wanted, needed, to know he was alive. Then, a delicate sound filled the manor. It wasn't Their whispers, it was singing, him singing. My body jolted, seeming to flinch at the relief flooding me.

It was not a prophecy, but precaution. 

As in the vision of the burning kingdom, I knew every word of the nameless song drifting down the corridors. As if hexed by the sound, I finally rose, heading into the mouth of the room he was settled in. He was rested on his knees, focused intently on his hands. The fairness of his upturn palms told that the mock, ebony flesh he wore was merely paint. Perhaps made of ash. Peculiar, but not entirely unheard of. It was a practice followed only by the most devout.

The melody he sung grew more coherent.

I know, I know, the way that it goes

You get what you give, you reap what you sow

And I can see you in my fate...

His voice trailed off as he sensed my presence in the doorway.

"Rise," I instructed him to stand, as to which he complied. He towered over me, almost fading into the dark cloak enveloping his tall frame. I could not make out his face behind the porcelain mask. However, I knew well this was by design. He must be aware of such a commandment, too, then.

I had heard it time and time again, tirelessly.

The most desirable feature of one's mortal nature is the eyes. They tell all. Cover them.

Since my conception, it were as if the words were inscribed into my being.

You do not want to be one who tells all, for you have dignity and depth, faithful one.

The thought sent my hand thoughtlessly stroking the naked skin of my forearm, awaiting inscription.

A being of depth is worth blindness, for they do not walk without sight.

I knew these commandments, perhaps better than another here. Yet my eyes hungrily traced each of the six slits in the mask, like searching through peepholes. It looks as though the mouth of a six fanged beast had dug its teeth into the mask. The fabric of the blindfold laid against my eyes started to uncomfortably scratch at my brow again, but I left it alone, hoping it would soon subside.

This is what They have been preparing me for all along.

"I can help you understand," I spoke, voice barely a whisper. His lack of reaction aroused something uncertain within me, alas, we traveled to the Garden together.

If nothing, perhaps the Garden would provoke something from him—a curl of the lips, a tilt of the head. This place is far more than rows of flowers or arboretums. It is not an ecosystem, but a heartbeat, a crossroads where the rushing waterfalls pool together and replenish the flora. Here, when you lay upon the plush ground, you may as well be an emperor tucked beneath silk sheets.

My hands brushed past eroding boulders and magenta vines along the path to the Garden, as if attempting to awaken a forbearer. I almost wished another would approach us along the way, and beg to be called upon. Another for a distraction, a hindrance. But not a soul was to be seen.

Of course, I had to take it upon myself. Always.

As he followed silently in tow, my mind reeled. There was no vision, no words, only my shaky breath, which suddenly seemed too loud. I suppose it's within my favor, however, that he doesn't carry the same lush hunger as the others. I don't believe the others of Arcadia find me of much interest unless I am orating to them. They foolishly believe I might call the Gods down if they plea hard enough. Alas, I do not go to Sleep. Sleep comes to me.

As we passed through the threshold into the Garden, surrounded now by rolling hills of magenta leaves and marble ruins, I gave him an amusing glance behind my shoulder. Dreadfully, he didn't seem entirely amused. I led him to sit with me beneath the mighty tree in the center of the Garden. Its delicate, pink leaves were plump and full as ever. I glanced around, an instinctive smile crossing my lip. From a distance, I could make out the figure of a long necked, ebony bird stood like an elegant harlequin in a pool of water. My body relaxed at the sight, often a good omen.

"I remember this place," he finally spoke, a pensive tone in his voice. My skin chilled at the sound of his voice, smooth and silky. It was certainly him, the same voice from the visions, the man in the mask amongst the flame, drifting off to sea. His head tilted upward as he followed the long, black branches of the mighty tree we were sat beneath.

"It's lovely," I said faintly. Yet as I spoke, no familiar hum elated from beneath my skin, only the echoing of own voice. I once again ran my hands across the runes etched into my flesh, like rubbing a good luck charm.

Anxiously, I fixed my gaze upon him, and started with the typical opener I used on the others, "Your offerings have been recognized. The Gods endow Their good will within you. They wish to offer you Their love and guidance. They give purpose to your suffering, form to your shapelessness, and sight in your blindness. Their love gives you permission to ache..."

I stumbled over my words as his mask tilted, the six hollow slits now lingering over the markings upon my body. The look in his demeanor was heavy, as if dissatisfied, still awaiting something awe inspiring. I faltered under his attention, suddenly feeling exposed.

"I have seen you," I said. There were words left unsaid, a silence desperate for speech, yet pauper in prose. He did not look away this time, but still withheld his amusement. "I think I know you," my voice trembled, "I had a vision of you in the night."

He straighten his posture at this, finally versed in my words.

"You walked out into the sea, calmly, reverently. The water takes you slowly. Strangely, I am on the shore," my voice faltered, "I am screaming for you." The silence that followed was far from divine. I hesitated again, unsure if I should press on, but dreadfully gave into the aching desire, "You didn't look like this, though, and neither did I. You, we, looked human. Not partially, as we do now, but entirely human."

For the first time, I had no interpretation. I was never meant to occupy the role of the observed.

"This is what Sleep has shown me," I finished, though the words left space for more unease than closure.

"Sleep?" He spoke, his voice carrying something tiresome.

"Yes," I answered, shaking myself from my wandering. I stared helplessly into the crimson symbol that bejeweled his mask.

"Sleep gave you a vision of me drowning?" His words escaped through gritted teeth.

"All I see is directed from Them," I was silently grateful for the cloth shielding the worried expression held in my eyes.

He suddenly rose, agitation clear in his swift movements. I also stood, quickly following after him as he strode away, deeper into the Garden.

"I don't control these visions, I didn't mean to upset you-"

"You haven't," he stopped in place, voice wavering. I stood staring at the back of his silky black cloak, as he refused to face me. "I've been brought back here by my own will, not Theirs," he trailed off again, this time trying to avoid the pain welling in his voice. "I haven't forgotten," He huffed heavily before again cutting through the waves of soft grass.

I bit against my tongue as all the words bubbling within me grew more blasphemous. Yet the further he strutted away, the wearier I grew.

I caught up to him with quickened steps, rounding him and coming to face him. I grabbed his forearms, causing him to freeze in place. I froze, too, leaching onto the warmth of his skin. It felt like something bitter and delicious, all at once. I didn't let go of him, even with the electrifying feeling shaking deep within my chest. It was unlike anything that had ever been delivered to me.

"You have traveled long and far, grown weary and worn. You have been promised many things and presented to Them many offerings," his attention met mine, as though fully entranced by my words, "You're afraid, Vessel."

"I am no longer afraid," he quickly denied, shaking his head so firmly that it slightly shifted the mask shielding him.

"You're right," was all I could say. For once, I believed him more than I believed my own words.

His head dropped, gazing at my hand, still grasping at his arm. His own hands, silky and dark as a moonless night, grabbed hold of mine.

In his touch, a message finally revealed itself within the depths of my mind. I nearly chuckled at the words, "The truth is, I am due a harsh lesson."

We stood beneath the shade of magenta leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, neither daring to say a word, yet hungry to swim into the void of each other. Then I heard it, hushed and muzzled:

Rain, child.

My hands drew away from him hastily, my entire body rocking off balance from the quick moment. He caught me before I could fall over entirely, but I again distanced myself from his touch. I had suddenly become prey in the range of a predator.

They had finally spoken again.

"I must go," I turned from him at once, eager to abandon the Garden and whatever ritual was upon the horizon. I flinched beneath his gentle grasp placed upon my shoulder. The corners of his mouth drooped into a frown as I shrugged his broad hand off of me.

"I will find you again, I promise." I reassured him before finally leaving him alone beneath the magenta canopy.

I believed it to be a dream.

It is, after all, how Sleep approaches me. I hear Their muttering when I lay my head in rest. Their words keep me entranced, flooding me with prose not meant to be kept to myself. For Them, I am a trinity. Something between ancient wisdom, steadfast faith, and sensual fervor. I speak to the others, my fellow worshipers, when Their omens are whispered to me. Those who listen say I cleanse them, thus they call me Rain.

I find Their sanctity in rest. Alas, I find myself only just realizing I was lying with my eyes wide open, awake all night long.

A trembling rushed through my body, as though I had been jolted by another's hands. My mouth soaked in the sour taste of nausea from the horrid vision I'd seen.

Our kingdom of rolling hills and marble citadels, crumbled and set ablaze. And standing amongst the flames is the man in the mask, again.

He is always there, with his ebony body cloaked in darkness, and his face hidden beneath a porcelain mask. The mask, stamped with the crimson sigil, the ancient motif of an offering, is never missing. Peculiarly, he never appears panicked while standing amongst the flames. He stands amidst the pandemonium as if the chaos is delightful, singing softly to himself as though praising such a sight. Somehow, perhaps miraculous, I always know what prose will roll off his tongue before he does. Cast within his presence, I find myself erringly calm amongst the flames, too, as I mouth each line to him like a voiceless puppet.

There's a faction of us, 12 to be exact, meant to defend our sacred Garden. We are not the only ones in this kingdom, however. Our cities are filled with the faithful. I find myself most acquainted with the three ladies who pay me visits. Their songs keep us harmonized and in sisterhood. There are also the three archivists who make an appearance at their whim. Not even I am certain of who they are or where they reside. Upon our meetings, we've never exchanged as much as a few glances, at least as much as their long golden masks allow for.

But he, the man in the porcelain mask, is not one of us.

Sleep seems well acquainted with him, howbeit. They act displeased when I ask for insight or relay these unsettling visions to Them. So, I carry the silence upon myself when I cannot leave them at the altar. I am never truly alone, however, my thoughts are inseparable from Theirs. Although, I cannot deny that as of late, something has seem perturbed, like an anxious silence waiting to be spoken.

Despite my silence, rumors of such an anomaly have spread throughout the kingdom. I warn the others to hush, to understand that our idle talk is always being skimming through. The others take heed to my token, knowing it is not my frustration, yet rather Theirs. Alas, the quiet never lasts long.

I am the conduit. And for my faithfulness, Sleep has blessed me with both this kingdom and a beautiful figure. Upon my head stands a pair of sable horns facing in either direction. They mark me as the godhead, a direct path to Them. My eyes remain covered by a blindfold out of modesty. They told me the eyes are the pathway to the soul, of which I believe. We all remain masked or eyeless for the sake of this proverb.

My eyes may remained covered out of reverence. Alas, I see the man in the flames, and he sees me.

The three archivists are on their way to carve the final runes into my flesh. My body, from shoulder to toe, neck to navel, is lined with sacred runes only a few remember the tongue of:

I am hunting something and in turn, that same thing is hunting me. The beholder, the void beyond. I am the line between...

I ran my hand across the naked skin of my left forearm. I couldn't help but to wonder what will be carved into the blank space.

I know I am meant to travel to the Garden today to meditate. However, across the way from where I reside stands a beckoning manor. We are instructed not to enter this place, for They have prepared it for someone: Their vessel. The curling of magenta vines invading the fractured stained glass charms me with every glances. A whisper echos within me when my eyes caress the dull building. It's the same line I am given when meant to render one's fate: They are waiting and willing to listen.

As my feet eased onto the cold, cracked steps leading into the abandoned structure, I thought for certain I was misinterpreting some prudent message. Uncertainty is a matter of selfish inhibitions, They had taught me. I tried to turn away, to tear myself from the temptation, yet the restlessness stirred like a current threatening to drag me under.

I must consider that I am the exception. If I am of the Gods and Guardians, then surely I am permitted to trespass. Surely, They have granted me this one sacred permission.

The heavy door gave way with a creak. Settled dust stirred into the stale air as the day's gray light and fresh draft filled the space. The building was silent, stiff, and in pitiful shape. Nature had reclaimed its domain, sending thick black vines through the windows and twisting along the banister of a once-grand staircase. One of the vines followed in a path along the floor, then slivered up the walls of ripped wallpaper and cracking foundation. Candles had been lit and left to drip wax on the shelves near a neglected piano, like offerings left at an altar.

They are waiting and willing to listen...

I crept up the stairs as though sneaking through a slumbering house. The thick magenta leaves arched into a doorway that had been left ajar down the long hall. A faint glow painted the concrete floor beyond. Someone was most certainly waiting, perhaps even willing.

I quietly stepped into the frame of the room, chest raised and demanding reverence. Entangled in vines, there he sat: the man in the mask. Their vessel.

___________________________ᛑᛗᛛ______________________________