#oathloathed

Felix staggered out of Clanden’s suite and into the dimly lighted hallway, walled and carpeted in dark red. Eyes downcast, his clothes reduced to tatters, he moved holding the clumps of shredded fabric to his chest, helplessly clinging to his dignity. Or as close to it as he’d ever get. There were no cuts or bruises to couple with the holes on the used-to-be dress. Only smears of something thick, and potent with the smell of wine, that stained and dribbled down the length of his limbs. How wasteful. He pressed a palm over the handrail of the emergency stairs, trembling, knees buckling, and stubbornly descended to where the fluorescent bulbs dissolved into darkness.

At least he hadn’t been filming. The Shadow giggled, bubbling with a kind of dark and saccharine joy. Tonight had been an especially good show, with its doll wrenched and mangled in all the pretty ways a mortal could devise. Clanden was an artist in his own right. A sculptor, or carver, of flesh. With an intimate understanding of anatomy. He might’ve truly been one of the greats if things had gone differently for him. But life had a wicked way of suppressing genius, always branching it to other means and in other ways. Not that Mischief was complaining. It snaked between Felix’s legs, pushing ahead of his steps and blaring a featureless smile.

If only Felix could feel as unmoved as the corpse he was meant to be. He dragged his heels, leaving behind faint scuff-trails along the rug. Despair weighed heavy over his head, stooping his gaze to the fibres on the floor and the subtle glinting of his shoes. It was even difficult for him to breathe, with his heart still pounding hard against his ribs, still full of the instinct to scurry and hide. Though this time, it wasn’t a hole he sought for his refuge, but a person.

He wiped a tear from his cheek and withheld the overwhelming need to sob. His thoughts, as with his body for most of the night, had felt frenzied and fragmented. Stunted by the knowledge that, even in his own secret musings, he was not alone. But he just- he just needed to- he just really needed to see- to smell– He could no longer stave off the want for either his or Adal’s sake, or deny the soft recollections of their presence. Ungraceful, unkind, unpitying, yet honest. Still better than the hands that ripped and the mouths that gnawed, only to turn around and feign friendliness. He liked it better when they hurt him and spoke to him without pretense. When a person had the clarity to do harm and not lie as to why they did it. Just like Adal. They were safer that way.

The labyrinthine turns of the basement seemed to stretch endlessly before him, spiraling as he searched for the other man with his spirit and his nose. Until the next time he opened his eyes, he was already halfway inside the locker room, lightly misted by the vapors that wafted from the shower. Surprised, Felix closed the door behind him and remained perfectly still. He knew what he would find if he dared look. A small part of him started to wise up to the fact that this was, for all intents and purposes, an invasion of privacy. Was this going too far? He questioned whether it was right to cut in on a person bathing, but held no exact frame of reference, no other memory that could solve his query. He’d never been given the courtesy of being left alone, not even in the days before his marriage.

What’s the big deal? You’re both men, aren’t you?

The revenant stepped forward as if agreeing. It wasn’t at all like disrespecting the women of his mother’s coven, or spying on a hunter-goddess for some voyeuristic pleasure. He hadn’t come there thinking they would be naked in the first place. Doubt warred with his other senses, picking apart his and Mischief’s arguments, until it was wrung right out of his mind. Practically flung at the first sign of beautifully scarred meat. Mutilated in ways that made him both balk and lightly gasp with wonder.

Mischief kept watch from behind a pillar, deftly avoiding the moonlight pouring in through the arch of a broken window. Thick as sap, the light oozed from the sharp, cut edges of the glass and glazed the room in its bleary cast, tinting everything in a pale, deceptive calm. It waited, claws at the ready on the cross-brace of its marionette, salivating with the anticipation to lure and to tempt. The smell of wine grew stronger as it smiled from the depths of its facelessness, knowing and liking its chances for entertainment. 

Ignoring the god, Felix furled himself tighter, sitting curled-up over the other man’s lap. Tired of the hours that spooled endlessly into the nothing, and of the odd tensing of muscles, his strings pulled taut along the ends of his joints. If only he could sleep without the burden of always being watched in both worlds. He pressed a cheek against Adal, his guard turning lax while his mind sank under the influence of their scent. Finally, Felix closed his eyes, and dreamt as if he were lost in a cloud of poppy smoke…

Images of war soon drifted through the haze, with red skies stretched over a gnarled, blackened earth, quenched by blood and excrement both. The battlefields were hard to parse this far into the chaos, seemingly interminable while the corpses stacked and fused together, their organs writhing like a tangle of snakes in heat. Yet Felix buried his nose deeper, lured then by the perfume notes of baseless vitriol, which he followed almost restlessly up the piles of flesh and putrescence, knowing exactly what he’d see before ever coming to a full stop. 

Rage coalesced to fists, to fingers which tensed around the hilt of a weapon and maimed whatever there was to break. So much like the god that bled, that pussed, that scabbed, and was remade each day through pain. Until the ceaselessness of being, and of being in agony, whirled the grimace of a skull to a warm and welcoming smile. Adal lacked the divinity inherent in the shadow, but moved recklessly as if his name were already written in the stars. Confident in the violence that broke the bed of their own cuticles by the force of their blows alone. It terrified him to the very mettle of his bones, yet he dared not look away, entranced by the horror of sockets popping and gushing like the vesicles of an orange. He felt himself splattered with blood, and the thumping of his prey animal heart climbed up his throat, while another animal, pitted deep in his lower abdomen, stirred in confused excitement. 

A small noise escaped him, noticing he’d unfurled and wandered up their chest to smell the crook of their neck. The moment he came to, he realized they were practically face to face. Felix discerned little as he stared into those dual-colored eyes, half-vacant in their own dreaming. Yet the further he searched, the further he sifted through the vast emptiness where remorse should have been. The depth of such an absence, a fissure which whistled with a lost, crying wind, sent shivers of fear, of thrill, up his spine. There was something about this, about Adal, that had long started to wind him up. Igniting in him a warmth he’d had to stamp out at every turn, avoiding the arousal of interest and suspicion from the artist in its haunt. Only for their sake. And yet- And yet- 

Closer and closer still, strung himself close enough to breathe words over the pad of their tongue. He resisted that strange urge one last time, before he slowly, and gently, licked a line over the purse of their lips. Barely hard enough to leave traces of his saliva, though it carried with it the feeling of a trap sprung shut. 

Blood might as well be wine. How it makes one feel so nice.  

A mist of dew clung soft and gentle over the fields beyond the ruins, shimmering wherever slivers of sunlight pierced the grey veil overhead. The quiet wasn’t as somber then, tickled with the rustling of the lush and tangled overgrowth that’d crept in-between the stones. Felix peeked through the nearest opening, or fallen window, with wonder, following the midday winds as they brushed past the ivy and shrubs. Far past the rim of the world to places unknown. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of the sky through a needleprick in the clouds, bare and glisteningly blue, before it was all shrouded in darkness, and his eyes were pulled back to the movement at his side.

Terror gripped his chest. The revenant watched as the beast drew out a dagger from his belt, expecting the thing to find its purchase in the tender seams of his flesh. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor was he foolish enough to believe in whatever mercy both time and company could have afforded him. Adal would do as he pleased, like a prince spoiled by the sweet exaltations of their court, having mistaken praise for that which was true, religious worship. Perhaps that had been the case. Long ago, when there were enough men to rally behind them and crash against the forces of some hated ‘other’. When their armor was worn with purpose and not hung over their body like a husk. Like a mindless habit. His gaze softened as, even in the midst of his fear, he felt compassion swell in his dead heart. We have all abandoned something, and have been ourselves abandoned. How could I ever judge you? When you are so near to me…

The blade smiled as it neared, glinting with malicious intent. Felix braced himself the best he could, breath hitching in his throat as hands seemingly reached for him. Only for him to gasp a second time, stricken by the sight of their split-open skin, and doubly confused as to how and why it had been done. Blood gushed from the cut, threatening to spill over the ground.

He neither saw the cast of Adal’s gaze nor its warning, but quickly leaned over to suck upon the red and splintered stream. Something had spurred him in that instance. A strange, manifold emotion which coursed through him as naturally as an instinct. His tongue swiped along the deep creases of their hand, trailing a path straight to the center of their palm. The taste of their blood- The taste, the taste. Anyone else would have been repulsed by it, put off by the overwhelming flavor and fragrance of iron. Yet every part of him thrilled as it coated his face. There were sparks of pleasure up along the points of his spine and a hot broiling in his lower half, causing other, more animal places to stir. Soft lips caressed and suckled the open wound, the way a lover graces another’s mouth, and just as lovingly.

There were no other thoughts as he kissed and licked, but dim recollections of the past. Moments of dark revelry as the women danced and sang before the altar, a curtain of smoke softening the scene as it spouted out from the cauldron he stirred. He’d almost heard the noise of his ladle sharply tapping against the bones thrown into the stew, skulls, femurs and tibias swirling listlessly– When a moan, his own, broke through the stupor.

Careful, my love. You’re starting to show.

Rest you then, rest, sad eyes, 

Melt not in weeping, 

Bats circled over the wild, open valleys, fluttering across the full face of the moon in black wisps. The revenant counted them carefully from his spot in the grass, distracting himself from the cold winds, and the wound which poured gushingly from his waist. He’d been left there to die, surely, though the thought struggled to find its way to him and justly rattle his nerves. As if covered in a thick, honey glaze, the certainty of his end slid over him so slowly. Drawn out with an almost dogged sense of mischief. 

Softly, now softly lies,

Sleeping.

The night air quivered with the flapping of membranous wings, which multiplied as the numbers kept falling from his lips. Was he counting those which had already been there, or were the creatures brought forth with the tolling of his voice? Lured then by the beautiful tune, circling, descending, almost falling on the field to meet him like a veil cast over the dead. All of them with teeth, with claws, to rend him the rest of the way to oblivion. 

At last, a new sound broke through the haze of his nightmare, like the clinking of glass rims, lacquered shoes fretting quickly behind a counter, and the stream of something refreshing swelling to the brim…

Back in the world of the living, he’d already begun to sit up without ever opening his eyes, clearly smelling the glass passed towards the figure beside him. Another twitch of the brow, and his gaze instantly landed on the drink, twinkling beneath the lights of the bar like a precious stone. Felix felt the thirst claw at the back of his throat first, then looked at the strong hand furled around the cool, crystalline surface– and up the arm. Until he was met by that unwavering force of a man head on. Cold, expressionless, a mute and colorless wall which’d barely passed for human. Yet as he quickly looked around the Brimstone lounge, despoiled of its wonders and left an almost barren room, he felt strangely comforted by their presence. Shielded, in a sense, from both an absence and a silence Felix was quick to mistrust. 

He leaned back slowly, stretching his back to an arch, then his arms and legs. Practically making a show of waking up, with a feigned intention of standing, only to slump back down on the counter. 

Felix yelped at the touch of metal around his neck, and again when he was lifted off the ground. The lumbering, iron beast had finally reached his hiding place, and he was too exhausted to make another dash for the ledge. Throwing himself from a broken and crumpled balcony seemed preferable to what he knew the other was capable of. All of his deaths at the hands of this cruel thing, each one more miserable than the last, crashed into his mind like debris then. Made it cave in on itself as the adrenaline surged. He clawed at the gauntlet frantically, as a low, cat’s cry sprung from the back of his throat. 

Obstinately, he tried to kick the other, to muster both courage and force to do some harm. But the second his foot hit its intended mark he found that he’d hurt himself instead. Another yowl, followed by a hiss. Why was this happening? What had he done to this creature? 

🌼🌼🐈‍⬛🌼🌼

Their path crumpled and scattered off into pebbles across the field. Wild and windswept, the grass swallowed their legs the further they tread, sinking into banks that might have once been a lakebed. Felix held the horse, that wasn’t a horse, by the reins, wondering if it wanted to graze where the blades were lush and cool in the shade of their own overgrowth. Instead, it lingered there with a smile, spooling nonsense from its mouth like slow, dribbling threads of spit.

What a terrible voice it had– And what terrible things it said. Incoherent as they were, but colored by tints of ill portent. It reminded him of the witches making poetry in the height of their ecstasies, piecing together their visions of fire and endless tempests into melodies, and later into spells. He shivered despite the warmth of the sun and the barren skies above. Perhaps they were something akin to each other. This horse and his shadow, both masquerading as beings they weren’t, and jubilant in their deception. Perhaps…

Large hands dug into the sides of his waist and swept him off the ground. Surprised, he clung to Adal the moment he was pressed to their armor. He’d almost forgotten the chill of his recollection then, feeling the sunlight wading off their plated gear and pinching his exposed skin. Tension built in all of his joints, shaking with the floundering of his dead heart. Until he heard what sounded like sniffing. Deep whiffs of air, their nose pressed to the crook of his neck.

His fear flowered into kindness. A tenderness which quickly dusted its pollen over his eyes. Gently, he nuzzled their temple with his cheek, perfuming their skin with his own wine scent. Then he traced away long, dark strands of hair from their eyes. This awful man. Damnably guilty of violence and of cruelty beyond imagining. Yet the more he stared and listened, the more he felt the pulsing of their blood and the thrumming of their nerves, and smelled the sharp cologne of their sweat.

Just another creature of flesh and bone. As mortal as the precious hares that ran between the reeds, seeking comfort and space. Away from the nonsense of death. Away from the bearing of wicked smiles. We are not so different either. None of us are. Not really. He pressed a kiss to their brow.

“What a view you have up here! I bet I could hunt birds on this perch…”

Felix squinted against the breeze, staring out to an infinitely green expanse which hiked and fell into hills. Then, he perked up.

Smearing across his face with twitching fingers the red followed from the knuckles up his cheek while they unfurled to let his palm lay across his hairline just above an ear. He seemed to follow it, as if a lover’s hand. Dieter leaned on the same elbow, planted in the armrest of the chair he had found. His blue eyes all but completely deleted, them inhabiting a thin existence around his pupils. This state never failed to give Dieter a rose tinted view of the world. So the ray or ire he draw from the gigantic man staring at him seemed limp in light of his thirst, simultaneously spurred and sated. But it turned his drunken eyes onto the man who held him in within his own like sun through a magnifying glass. A downright microscope with such intensity.

Predator versus predator.

A hulking specimen of a man with hubris enough to think he could intimidate a vampire like Dieter. Was it just the gaze that interested him, or the smell of iron held close to his nose from the palm of his hand that contributed to the whirlwind of thoughts he had. “You seem irritated.” Dieter spoke with cheeriness in his voice. Almost mockingly so, despite that being completely unintentional. He was merely still wrapped up in the ecstasy of a good meal. It’s vapors lying thick in the air even in the aftermath. Was he mad about Dieter swooping up who the vampire assumed was his own? Did he wish to bring the Swede to the same fate?

@oathloathed