come_sailaway | (closed.) one nerve remaining

Entry tags:

(closed.) one nerve remaining

Who: Fever and Sheogorath
What: Fever's Sundries gift leads to unpleasant truths.
When: November 4th.
Where: Deck zero.
Warnings: Discussions of gore, violent imagery, lots of blood.
Notes: Major Baldur's Gate 3 spoilers for the Dark Urge storyline.

She opens the box on the deck, the first level. It's heavy, and the shifting weight gives her pause. Far enough away to not be an immediate problem, but close enough that she doesn't have to tote it far. When she cracks the seal, sees the color - smells it, really, a scent she'll never forget - she has enough time to realize something is very, very wrong. There's no time to think why, before it erupts at her. All of it, drenching her hair, her skin, her clothes. Warm, fresh, she thinks, taste of iron in her mouth and the scent everywhere. Everything is red, red, red from the blood.

And then it comes to her. A waking dream, leaving her stock still where she stands, as the gravity falls upon her. The images. The names. The all too familiar surrounds, firing connections in her damaged mind.

Lord Bhaal shall have but one Chosen.

Snatches, brief glimpses, last breathes, torments enacted, slaughter offered up as prayer. Victims, too many to count, names that escape her through the lack of memories, or perhaps she never cared to learn them in the first place. A bloodthirsty congregation of those who bowed to her leadership. A heritage that she never wanted to think of as a possibility, but it always was one, distant as it seemed.

It's inescapable. It makes too much sense. It's always been there, curled in the back of her mind, something the tadpole couldn't eat - because it's her. It's always been her.

The only curse someone like her bears is the curse of being born at all.

She doesn't realize she was walking, until she comes back to herself, standing at the bottom level of the ship. The blood has cooled to her body temperature, laying on her like a benediction, something beloved and welcome, and while her mind is in torment, the comfort of it is so out of place - and what's she going to do about it now? Stay here, until it's dried and caked on her skin, forever? Hope no one comes down here? Use the tiny sink in the infirmary? No, no, there's no good options, and in a flash, Fever sees in her mind's eye the figure of any friends she's made here turning away. Just because no one knows where she's from doesn't mean they wouldn't take the information and run far away from her.

Where are her shoes?

Instead of answering that, one bloodsmeared hand has the capacity to find her phone. She's shaking, so it doesn't work, she can't make it work like this. Finally, she just jams it back in her pocket and tilts her head back.

Gods are supposed to hear prayers wherever you are, right? Even if most of the time, they don't answer.

Sheogorath. Please. If you can hear me...

Whether she's asking for confession or damnation, she doesn't know. But her soul radiates the prayer, her mind a veritable storm, and she'll be as still as a statue down there, drenched in so, so much red.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In the whisper of thousands of wings, a cloud of butterflies descends on her, lapping at the blood with thousands of tiny butterfly kisses.

Let them come. Let her be drowned in the creatures, while the red fog in her mind solidifies, drags her down by the ankles. There is so much confusion. Fear of returning, of no choice at all. Of no control, of being unable to stop. Will those she love turn away, when the truth comes to the other her?

The painful part is that in those memories, there is no horror. There is joy and service and fear and trying, trying, trying. Sinking further into the river of blood until there is no air. Only the desire as the heir to do more, be better, hold onto that throne built of corpses.

I know what I am.

It is no kinder than the unknowing. It is almost worse. It could all happen again, is the very real threat.

Knowing is power, love. Knowing is madness.

Tiny feet, antennae, proboscises tickle her skin, and the combined contact forms a sensation like a hand brushing her cheek.

How shall we face this? What shall we be?

It's gentle, despite the sticky gore on her, and it startles her how much it soothes. The what and how to handle this is all beyond her, because the only thing she wants is to know what to do. Right now, improvising an answer is harder than it's ever been.

(Because she has to tell the truth, even if he can get into her head.)

Knowing is madness. Knowing might have driven someone else into shattering. All it does is confirm fears and dreams that are dark and liquid and now just reality. It doesn't make sense. She'll only injure herself trying to understand it on that deeper level.

Whichever, whatever, long as it means that you'll listen.

The one thing that makes it easier is that he has always taken her seriously. It's something she feels to the marrow of her bones. No hapless innocent has to be reduced to so much meat before that. Her bloodlust doesn't need to be wrenched back from his neck to earn it.

I will always listen, love. I cannot help myself. So long as there is a trouble in your mind, I will be there.

Then you'll never be free of me...

Slowly, one of her hands comes up to reach for the butterflies that touch her face, a mortal mimicking, wishing she could take his hand again, use it as an anchor. The vision itself, she's wrapped up tight - pushed it from her immediate mind, but the truth of it still seeps out, taints everything in the vicinity. Reduces it to a wasteland.

...I am a spawn of Bhaal. The Lord of Murder, the god of violence and destruction, dealing death and hatred and unending bloodlust. Reviled for all deeds he has done, and those committed in his name. The one who seeks to ravage all, and will never stop, not until there is not a soul left in the world.

A heartbeat. It's in her. It will always be in her. It's in Fever so deeply it can never be removed. She cannot run away from her own creation. It can reach her, even here.

And my Father.

If Sheogorath reconsiders their association, with the truth in hand, she cannot even blame him. She practically expects it to happen. Even the kindest souls must take pause, when the danger is shown in full.

Edited 2023-11-11 03:32 (UTC)

And I am Sheogorath, Prince of Madness, Fourth Corner of the House of Troubles. I created music. I did so by ripping a woman asunder. I freed a kingdom from a tyrant. I did so by cursing his son with such delusions that he stabbed his father to death, and made a feast of the castle servants, before walling himself away. I am color and song and poetry and inescapable anxiety. I have walked the desolate wastelands of the Prince of Disaster, and I have chastised the Ravager Prince out of my own blood. I have tricked gods into killing their own children, and then stolen away the still-lamenting, lopped-off heads to my realm. I have been unreasonably kind and I have been unimaginably cruel. I have guided heroes and I have birthed murderers.

What does it mean, what does it matter, what does it prove, what does it change, that I can put a name to your father? Would the hand that wields the knife strike with a different passion, knowing its name?

It would know its own flesh.

The sound that falls from her is partway between a laugh and a cry.

His children are feared and loathed, and for good reason. What we've wrought on others and each other. What we do - what I've done. It means that I was born to bear such cruelty and ruination into the world. It matters because I have.

To slaughter and destroy and build her evergrowing castle of bones, as all such spawn are. That she's been trying to control it all - the lust for power, the pull towards sadism and devastation - does not change that she could do so, if she tried. She could do it all again, if she allowed it to take over.

Demiprince.

Sphere of ruin born to grace the world, what mortal can understand the gravity of every celestial form passing overhead? Curse you though they might, they cannot fathom the tides you carry with the words inscribed in your wake. What is more noble? To pass through the heavens along a path ordained, leaving rightful destruction in your wake? Or do you tremble and mock and jeer and twist in your path through the skies, unknowable and unpredictable and just as merciless?

The butterflies refract light as they become more like stained glass, a vision of an alien cosmos spreading out before them. There are planets Fever does not know, stars and nebulas, colors and shapes without a name to put to them. And if she can squint, she can see that it's all words, all written in layer upon layer of overlapping, unfamiliar script.

Tell us more of your story, love. Speak your fears. And we will speak a dream.

It is beautiful, and the view staggers her slightly. Cracks what might have been hysterical self pity if the spiral ran too deep, and asks her to look outwards. Fever looks, and sees how many words make up the universe vision. More than a mortal mind can fathom. More there than she knew of, that make colors and form unknown, beyond the planes she can recollect.

It is so much, and everything feels so vast, and there is a comfort to it - the breadth of things, the still untouched reaches promising that there is more than this or that.

Her story. What story, when there are such rents in the tapestry that the picture can only be guessed at. It's a story that she's still trying to read herself. There are parts of it that will never come back. But there are things to say.

I know what I am, but I am not certain who I am. I may yet fall back to my Father's design and be the heir he wishes. I may sink even further and become insensible, to have no more control over my body or my actions, and to slaughter everyone who has shown me kindness to relish in the horror on their faces. I may jeopardize any intentions of saving the world I come from by my own nature and impulses.

I fear him. And I fear myself.

A familiar memory of Sheo's echoes between them: warm fresh blood on his hands, a familiar body lying dismembered on the red-stained bedsheets before them, desperate whispers of I love you, I'm sorry, please, please, please drowning out all outher thought.

That vision gives way to an even more dire and desperate burst of emotions, a vision of the world filtered in a cold and dispassionate grey, while in the background hum of everything there's a continuous, muffled scream. Unfamiliar, armored hands wield an unfamiliar greatsword as if it were a shortblade, cutting down mortals clad in gaudy and fanciful garb as they cry out for Sheogorath's intervention. I'm him, he's me. Everything I've worked to build, he'll destroy. I've tried to stop him, but I always fail. I always fail, but you... Change will preserve us.

Then finally, come words meant for her ears, rather than memories of words for his.

I understand, love.

It's why you're the only person I want to tell.

Unconsciously, her hands are on her arms, gripping - holding herself carefully, like she'll shake apart if she lets go. He understands, in a way that she needs someone to understand if she's ever going to process this in a way that doesn't leave her constantly on edge. Emotions that swirl and howl and rage like the storm in her magic, only far less helpful.

A voice, not hers, reedy and full of veiled joy: Your clever mind is penning tragedy as we speak...It is my duty to make sure you are making the right decisions. And overwhelmingly, agony and illness, vision swamped with bile, a headache as if someone was smashing against the inside of one's skull. Exhausted. So exhausted, but if she fails, they'll die, they'll all die...

Her inheritance is based on this. Is this.

Her own voice.

Don't let me hurt you.

Shall I fight you with all my strength if you try? Shall I bite back, with all my cunning, with everything I have, even if it means I wound you? Would it help you, to spend all that fury and leave yourself exhausted, sedated by the smell of your own blood?

Go beyond wounding. Kill me, if you need. I won't stop unless I'm made to.

It had taken so much strength to fight it back before. She'd needed restraints, a full night of wrestling with it, hours spent shaking and sweating and nearly causing herself injury, and nothing but the single minded determination to kill kill kill kill kill, warring with what remains of her mind. Death here isn't as permanent. It's a solution, if they need it.

But still. A ghost of a presence with green eyes, not fearless but believing in her to keep fighting, a woman's voice murmuring easy now. Keep pushing. It didn't have to win. It doesn't always. Just...if it does.

He doesn't answer directly. Instead, the butterflies let out a measured breath as one, and the whole illusory cosmos around them seems to focus upon keeping itself calm.

I hope you understand and appreciate just how strong you are.

It helps. It helps to have a setting full of the calm she can't find herself. As if somehow, a little could find its way past the gore that coats her and offer some kind of sanctuary. She doesn't feel strong, not right now, but it means so much to have someone whose opinion she's come to look towards and value say that.

What if I get too tired to be strong?

Even as she thinks it, she knows the answer. Whatever's in her that makes her persevere through every attempt to kill her, it has to work for her for this, too. Even if the enemy is so great and terrible.

My dear… there will always be 'what ifs.' Do not indulge me with too many of them. I am a needy and spoiled god, even if I tend to wear the face of a reasonable me around you, and I will always end up asking for more. Do not feed me 'what ifs.' Be strong until you are not able to be strong any longer. From there, we can figure things out.

Fever absorbs that in silence, just making herself breathe for a while. Looking at the unknown universe, letting herself drift in it, until her lungs can take in as much air as they can, until what's rattled in her head drifts to a low hum instead of a roar. It's going to come back, she knows. Color and twist her dreams, her thoughts. Being rid of one life changing problem only left the door open for another. And with the tadpole dead or dormant, it means all her focus can linger on this. It shouldn't. But it will.

(Later, she'll feel a distant, reluctant admiration as it moves through her. Clearly, the former her knew a thing or two about leadership - the cult may bring ruin, but to rule it was no mean feat, no less to survive what happened to her. And then she'll have to contemplate what it means to find any kind of virtue in a life like that. Dizzying and complex thoughts, and Fever doesn't feel ready or intelligent enough to handle them.)

She has a building headache again, but she'll manage.

Thank you.

For so much. For answering her, for listening, for understanding. For knowing that when she offers out the blade at her own neck, it is not some expression of self-loathing or melancholy but a full admission of her own inability to control it when its claws are sunken into her. She trusts that he can, he will stop her, if she needs to be stopped.

He doesn't say anything more. He flutters there quietly, the shimmering cosmos silvering and growing mirrored, showing endless possibilities. It's an entire world of offered self-reflection.

There are so many possibilities. There are so many avenues to go down, so many things to explore. And Fever stands at the nexus, and does not look at them, because words fall from her - verbally, not just in their mindspeech. Quiet, strained.

"Why are you so nice to me?"

It's a childish question. She knows. But faced with the staggering world of self-reflection, with the amount of acceptance he offers, that he's always offered, even when they barely knew each other - Macaelius's voice softly rings in the back of things, a current under the swell of every influence and presence that's already there. ( By all means, be his friend, but know that that might end in your annihilation. Or your salvation.) It's all a mess, isn't it. Not even the glorious sort to revel in, just...messy.

Just the silence after a kill, when the blood has stopped falling and the roar quiets in one's ears. When the thrill of it settles, and there's flesh and bone to contend with, it beginning the impossible task of rotting away. The sort of mess that she never figured out how to clean up.

My dear Fever, what would be the point of my being unkind to you? Oh, I'll push you if I see fit to, certainly. I'll test you. But think about what you've done here. Think about what I am. Madness incarnate, in all its forms, the good, the bad, the senseless, the wondrous. The struggle within, the metamorphosis of the self. Despite everything you've done, love, despite everything you know you could be and everything you've seen, you've yet to give up on yourself. And the urge is you, and the urge is madness, and the madness is me. So therefore, in some sense, I am you- if you won't give up on yourself, then neither will I. And, well, even if you do... I don't have the best track record of doing what I'm told.

The butterflies chortle.

There's a long silence there again, the mess in her head coalescing, forming into a thunderstorm. Something familiar, something safe. Something where for all the violence that a storm contains, she's never felt distant from herself in. As if it might wash away enough blood for her to take a breath without the scent, without tasting it. As if that force could help somehow, be louder than everything else.

Unconsciously, her hands twitch. And like on the day they met, magic flows through her, pricks at her limbs, until it results in a gentle rainfall overhead. Not the torrential downpour it could be, but something extended. Falling on her like a veil, drops turning red where they meet the blood that got there first. But it is rain, since it never does in this place. Sorrow, tears...release, the clouds slowly relaxing their hold on their cache.

The urge is her, the urge is madness, and the madness is Sheogorath, who fought the gods and the world to shape himself as he would. She wants to ask Macaelius, in the labyrinth of those halls, were you afraid?

Instead, she steps forward, towards the butterflies, extending her hand. To touch even one would be gift.

Gentle hands close around her own, a figment of touch formed by the fluttering cloud. There's someone smiling at her among the eyespots in those wings, an elf whose features are obscured enough that it could certainly be Macaelius, but it could also be herself.

Not a word is said as the rain falls, but somewhere and nowhere there's a distant echoing of music, a tune from out of a dream, played by an idea, on an instrument that never was.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(closed.) one nerve remaining

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: descriptions of violence, cannibalism

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: blood mention

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject