#ruby mellowcut

(visuals: who I imagine ruby to be: bailey bass)

“Well, it’s nice to see you again, sir... You say you’re not alone? But you’re the only person I see here—there’s even one chair. What do you mean?”

A small, sad grin spreads across his face and he gazes down on the ring on his hand—during their conversation, he’d periodically caress it or glance at it before answering. It’s a gorgeous piece of jewelry, ancient and worn from years of wear. On it are two large jewels, one blue and the other red.

“Yes,” he starts slowly, sounding almost pensive. “Here... Here is my precious wife, Sapphire, and my darling daughter, Ruby...”

The man who asked rubs it off to being the years of age and loneliness taking its toll. “Oh, those are mementos?”

“Mementos?”

“Yes—blue for Sapphire and red for Ruby. Their names—it fits.”

“Oh, mementos. Sure...” He doesn’t argue or tell the truth that the two aforementioned are actually trapped inside their corresponding jewels. It’s not like anyone would believe him if he were to say, anyway. “You know,” he continues, unprovoked, “it was my idea to name her Ruby—because of this very ring. Her mother wasn’t fond of it at first, but I made her come around to it eventually.”

None the wiser, the host smiles. “That sounds like a heartwarming story.”

“You tell me...”

* * * * * *

Young and innocent, Ruby is strapped to a long, flat surface, bound by her wrists and ankles, spread out preventing any possibility that her desperate scratching at the ropes would help free herself.

She’s spread vulnerable, captured, and afraid. Her chest heaves rapidly, the sobs she tries to stop are only softened, fat tears rolling down from the corners of her eyes into her hairline and her ears.

Standing at her side is her father wearing a turbulent mixture of opposing, complicated emotions on his face. In his raised hand is a black, sharpened blade.

Ruby looks from the blade to his face again. “Please don’t do this,” her lip quivers.

He doesn’t change positions; he inhales and exhales shakily, cheeks puffing. He’s hesitating.

Ruby pulls at her restraints once more, wriggling across the flat surface, feeling exposed and like a helpless worm as a human foot lowers overhead.

His eyes travel over her once again. She’s so young, hardly even a teenager yet, and here she is about to die. But she has to—it’s either her or him. And since before her conception, he planned for her to take his place—that was what he conceived her for, it was her sole purpose. But since he’s gotten to know her...

Since he’s gotten to know her, against his better judgment and despite his plans...

“Please, dad,” she sobs as more tears fall.

He swallows thickly, justles the blade in his hand. After all the years, after chasing her mother who hid Ruby from him, and getting to this point, he finds he’s having a difficult time enacting his final plan.

“I...”

He always thought her eyes looked just like her mother’s as they share the same color, but now... He feels like he’s looking in a mirror—Ruby has her mother’s color but his eyes’ shape. It sends something strong and terrifying through him.

“I don’t like... Killing,” which is true. “I’m not a murderer,” is whispered, it convincing himself more than for her comfort.

Ruby openly sobs now, finally breaking down, her small body wracking violently with it.

“I’m not a murderer,” he repeats.

Ruby was meant to be a sacrifice, and already he can sense his magic, the malevolent presence, that hungers calling for him to give it a soul—her soul. His daughter’s

He adjusts the blade in his loose fist, still hesitant to enact what he’d been planning for years.

But why? And why now?

For the first time in what feels like to him in years, a pain strums and pulls within his chest, its sharpness rivaling the blade’s. He’s ventured and traveled for years, been bitten, and experienced close calls of being nearly poisoned, drowned, and murdered on numerous occasions, and yet this hurts just as badly if not more.

But why, he wonders, perplexed.

Before him, Ruby wails, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Every so often, she flinches, anticipating the killing blow. Her father only watches... Then begins lowering his hand.

“I can’t do it,” he admits, too quiet for her to hear.

But giving up isn’t what he was supposed to do, and because that dark presence isn’t satisfied, it grabs a hold of his arm, wanting to drive the blade through Ruby’s chest.

Startled by this additional change of coarse, he grabs his arm with his other, free hand to prevent it from acting. With eyes still closed, Ruby bawls as her father fights against his own hand.

And with that pain in his chest, his vision begins to blur due to tears that confuse him.

He stumbles back, attempting to put space between himself and his daughter, but the malevolent magic—the same magic he’s used all his life to create happiness and goodness—grabs him and pulls him back, his shoes slide across the floor like ice.

“No!” It draws his arm back—and he tries to simply drop the blade but it keeps his fingers tight around its handle—it forces him to prepare the killing blow. He fights it with all his strength, continuously stepping back only to have himself be dragged back, gripping his own sleeve, his own wrist to stop his own hand.

Hearing his scrambling, Ruby opens her eyes to see her father, who has hardly felt strong emotions towards others for years, is crying. “I can’t!” he announces to open air. “Stop!”