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gladiolus : describe a moment from your muse’s life that they will never forget ?
Lu will never forget the day she killed her mother! It was a triumphant moment for her in a lot of ways, but a painful one too. She finally had the chance to hold someone accountable for her terrible childhood, and it felt good, but it also wasn't enough to exorcise that terrible childhood. And that moment really emphasized the fact that her mother didn't love her, had never loved her, and would never love her.
In fact, the last thing Lu's mother said to her was that she shouldn't have carried her pregnancy to term. Lu agreed and then killed her.
A sound fills his ears and it is his own screaming. A taste fills his mouth and it is his own blood. A feeling fills his throat and it is the raw, wet raggedness of a voice halfway to breaking.
dark/pain/dark/pain/dark/pain/dark
His heart does not beat. His heart does not beat and though he must draw breath to scream it does nothing to ease his body’s demand for air. He is strangling, suffocating, but with no slow spiral towards unconsciousness, no promise of relief, only a desperate need he cannot satisfy. His heart does not beat and in the pain/dark/pain he screams again, horrified, terrified, what am I/what has been done to me/no/no/no/no/no
Hands fall on his arms, and legs, and ribs, pressing him back against the cold hard surface on which he lies. He thinks there is a voice but he cannot hear for his own screaming and the pain and the dark. The hands try to hold him still and he fights them, lashes out, the hands try to stop him from fighting, he struggles like an animal in a trap, he has to fight, he cannot lie still, he has to fight because — because — his broken ragged voice and his broken ragged mind come together and he screams, a name bursting bloody on his tongue, “MIKAILA — ”
The hands do not let go and he fights them, screaming, Mikaila/Mikaila/Mikaila/Mikaila until he begins to fear that the name will lose meaning with repetition, a thought he cannot bear when the gleam of Gold hair and a bright smile are all that break through the dark/pain/dark/pain/dark. Blood on snow, bright bright red, my little wright and how, how can he have been so selfish to mind his own pain and fear when there is Mikaila — did she live, a blade he was too slow to stop or block or steal the Edge-aspect from, but did she live, an uncertainty he clings to because he cannot accept the certainty that she must have died, his Mikaila, his daughter, his beautiful little spellcaster. No. No. She cannot be dead.
Cold iron clamps around his wrists; he screams and spits and claws — Mikaila — she was (IS) she IS such a gentle child, his Mikaila, mischievous and playful certainly but never with a will to hurt and she will be so afraid, she will be hurt, she will be frightened, he is her father, he must go to her — “Mikaila!" he screams, his voice is going hoarse, but all his fighting goes no good. A body that does not breathe driven by a heart that does not beat, a body blind and half-mad with pain, is weak, and his wrists are forced to the cold stone slab, then his ankles. That does not stop him from fighting.
There is a hand on his forehead, gentle, fingers running through the bloody mass that is his hair, a voice that is familiar and Gold-accented telling him I’m sorry/we must do this/I’m sorry/we have to/I’m sorry. He screams, dark/pain/dark/MIKAILA, he yanks against the restraints (part deliberate, part spasm, his body’s mindless seeking to escape the pain/dark/pain) until his wrists drip with a cold, congealing wetness that must be his blood.
Even a body that does not breathe must tire, it seems, and eventually he can no longer move his limbs, his voice too shattered to scream. His chest still heaves uselessly, sobbing breaths that do him no good, Mikaila, Mikaila, where is his Mikaila? Is she hurt? Does she live? Where is he, he must go to her, but he knows neither his own location nor hers, he must go to her but he is hurt and helpless and bound and he must — he must —
Ssael, he cries, in a voice long since dead, hitting upon the name he should have called first of all, help me; the part of him that fears blasphemy is weak and easily silenced because if ever a prayer were meant wholeheartedly it is this, his, now. Help me, God — help my Mikaila — please —
Time that he has no way of counting in the deafening silence of his dead/living body stretches on, and no help comes. Not even the hands return; he is not sure when they left. His thoughts begin to fragment, words and concepts slipping from him into a vast and bloody night, and though he pleads, begs, in the darkness of his mind, until he is exhausted with grief, he feels no reply, and he does not understand. Has he not been a good Ssaelit? A good man? He has done his faith proud, he thinks, or he had thought, and has asked nothing in return — so why, now, of all times —
It dawns on him slowly, like a creeping sickness.
His heart does not beat. His body does not breathe. His blood is cold and pooling in his veins. He is dead, and will soon begin the slow slide into accursed rot, unless he is burned (no, he thinks, with a stab of desperate terror so sudden and powerful that he manages one more futile jerk against his restraints, not if I must feel it, not if my Mikaila must feel it. His sense takes leave of him and for a moment he thinks it would be better to rot than to feel the burning/boiling of his tissues into ash before he shrinks in horror from the blasphemy). He is dead, and decaying, and Ssael wants nothing to do with him.
Mikaila, he thinks desperately, if his prayers mean nothing then who will help his Mikaila? If God has abandoned him then what of his Mikaila? Will Ssael abandon her, too? Was this — is this his fault, for encouraging her spellcasting, against Ssael’s will?
He wishes for his Mikaila. He wishes for Leysa, for Lemuel, for anyone, even the nameless hands, for just a little bit of warmth and comfort to share. Something to break the cold, the dark, the silence, the pain.
