i will face god and walk backward into hell; round III (closed, edited)

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He watches their fears unfold as a starving man watches a feast be laid out before him. He watches them crumble, watches them wail and gnash their teeth. Watches them fail their parents, their siblings. They dream into being monsters, lurching things with rows of teeth. Failures and murder and death all parade before him, a grand show, and he watches it all.
When the show is done and they are alone again, cowering in their cages, he pauses for a moment, muses on what’s next. There are so many of them! He’s used to having his toys kept individually, where he could spend years making and unmaking them. This is quicker, dirtier, their fears taken in dark alleyways.
He could keep them all forever, of course, but he knows the greater numbers increase the chances of defiance – and though he is a god, he is often a lazy one, and he does not care for defiance.
(Cordis has defied him, escaped him in a way he cannot determine. It still bothers him, an itch under the skin.)

He visits them, then. Each one in turn. To each of them he comes as himself – some of them know him as father, some by name.
They will all know him as a god.
“You may choose,” he tells them, as if he is giving them a great kindness.
“Fire, or ice? Pick now, or I’ll pick for you. And I doubt you’ll like my pick.”
He lets them speak, and then, the games begin.

NOTES:
Yay everyone made it through because I really want to see everyone’s responses to this round <3
This is a “pick your torture” round: pick fire or ice, and then describe the subsequent torture that comes with it. Be creative – you can have fire/ice demons, weapons, transportation to a place where everything is ice/fire, whatever your beautiful minds can create. In this scene you must also describe where/how your character is ‘branded.’ You must also create a defect that occurs at some point in the torture. You can choose the defect (within reason, obviously – blindness, deafness, muteness, some disease, loss of a body part, etc. – if you’re unsure, email me). You can also choose the severity; the only caveat is it must be permanent.
Eliminations will occur next round, and will be judged on style and creativity.
You’re more than welcome to powerplay Carnage in this round.
Replies must be up by 3:00 PM CST on Monday, Sept. 21. Failure to reply results in automatic elimination.
If you have any questions, email me at acmrshll@gmail.com.

EDIT 9/21/15: so I forgot to factor in the fact I'd be doing 5 hours of martial arts Saturday and my body still hurts so next round will be up tomorrow. the 3 PM deadline still stands (stood?) for getting replies in.

c a r n a g e

[Ledger]

He’s not sure yet if what has happened is real or fake. Trapped in a dream or nightmare? Trapped in a different dimension? Or is this reality? It’s all too confusing, making his mind spin. His head remains pressed against the rough iron bars before he finally looks up, seeing others huddled against their cells much like himself. What have we all done to deserve this? ”You simply exist. Is that not reason enough?” A velvety voice says behind him and he turns slowly to see the gray stallion, eyes as black as night swirling with stars where his pupils should be. ”Welcome to my lair… Do you like it?” He asks with a cold laugh, gesturing about Ledger’s iron cell. Now he knows that this stallion is the reason why he is trapped here. A dark magical entity who wants to harm him. ”Let me go.” He responds flatly, wary and cautious as he backs as far away from the other as possible till his hindquarters press against the rough metal. ”Oh no worries Ledger, you’ll go home soon enough. All in one piece? That I can’t promise you.” Sharp cackling from his open maw as Ledger whinnies with frustration and fear. Ears flat against his skull and hidden beneath the masses of tangled flaxen hair, now is when he should have a backbone. Should fight for his freedom. Magnus’s words float around him, the angry words of hate and how he is worth nothing, that he deserves all this. Instantly his courage is lost and he closes his eyes, shaking his head, ”Go away.” He pleads quietly. The velvet voice answering, ”As you wish. But first… You must choose. Fire or Ice.” Ledger refuses to answer, refuses to give into his games. Another bark of laughter. ”Fine. Have it your way.” The air is suddenly freezing cold and he opens his eyes to see himself in an arctic wilderness. An icy ocean to his left, everything else is an open frozen wasteland. The cell has disappeared again but he wishes he was back in it, it felt much safer than this. Dread sprawls along his breast as he merely stands there, taking in this new situation and shivering with the cold. It seems the Dark God had chosen for him and he has a feeling that the outcome will not be in his favor since he refused to choose. Before he can move, something quickly spikes out of the ground. Manacles made of ice that clamp around his four legs and hold him into place. Their cold touch burns where they are closed about his pasterns, an agonizing pain that he can’t escape no matter how much he dances in place, trying to shake them off. Surely ice would shatter but of course these are born of magic. The gray stallion is back, circling him. ”This is better no?” Ledger merely glares at him, trying to look braver than he felt. ”You can’t fool me Ledger. I can hear your heart beating, trying to escape out of your chest.” It’s true, his heart is racing so fast he thinks it might explode. ”It’s quite distracting isn’t it? Very annoying actually. But I’ll put an end to that.” Without warning, a large icicle comes catapulting towards him out of nowhere and before he can even blink, it’s plunged into his chest. Piercing his heart. Blood bubbles out of his mouth as he falls to his knees, unable to speak as it pours out of the wound in his chest. The Icicle melts into the open hole, disappearing from sight. Wild eyed, gold flecked pupils stare up at Carnage. They are pleading, speaking for him as he is unable to talk. Asking why? And then they stare into nothing as the rest of his body collapses lifelessly against the ground. For a moment he is nothing. He doesn’t exist. He is dead. But then slowly his gold flecked eyes change to a startling blue. His chestnut body changes from it’s reddish hue to that of pure white, flecked with snow and ice and frost that clings to his nostrils and his mane and tail. A sharpness fills his lungs and he inhales with a cry of alarm, quickly scrambling to his hooves. Revived. Looking down at his chest, he sees his been made whole once more. But he can’t feel his heart beating. It’s not alive, still lying dead and dormant within him. Taking in his new form, he looks to Carnage questioningly. ”I wanted to see what you would do without that pesky nuisance trying to guide you, slowing you down. Let’s see how badly you want to live, heartless Ledger.” The manacles spring open and he is free. Yet he stands there, having no idea what is expected of him. A loud roar echoes around him and suddenly a mutant polar bear is charging across the tundra. It’s ginormous, larger than any bear he’s ever seen. It’s coat is a dull shade of white, it’s fur dirty and falling off in patches. The bear is large but skinny, winter has been unkind. It’s obviously hungry and heading straight for him. Ledger with a heart would run. He would care about his life. This time, he stands his ground. He cares about nothing and although his memories remain (his father telling him how worthless he is) it doesn’t bother him as badly as it use to. In fact it makes him angry. I’ll show him, he thinks. I’ll show that bastard whose worthless. And with a snarl on his lips, he leaps forward to meet the bear. A foolish decision. Some would say it’s courageous but when you have no heart it’s simply selfishness. Stupid false bravado. A sudden wall of ice builds up before him and the bear. The predator doesn’t see it in time and collides into it with a howling wail of agony. Momentarily surprised, Ledger wonders… Did I do that? He doesn’t notice that the fur around his hooves have turned black along with the tip of his muzzle and the tips of his ears. Frostbite. The ice wraith Ledger grins with glee as the wall begins to come apart and the polar bear slowly gathers it’s bearing. Frozen particles of sharp ice form in the air, hovering as they gather and collect themselves. As his cold frozen eyes narrow, they shoot like arrows towards the bear and land in it’s flesh. It roars with anger and pain and Ledger is laughing. How great this powerful feeling is, one he’s never felt before! He still doesn’t notice that the blackening is spreading up his legs, his muzzle, his ears, and darkening his pupils. A few more ice sprays towards the bear and the blackness has reached up his cheeks, along his hindquarters. Mane and tail frozen in place. He suddenly feels a burning sensation of unbearable cold along his body. Every power comes with a price and this is a lesson he is just now learning. The frostbite doing it’s work. How is that possible?  He shouldn’t feel anything! Distracted, the bear makes it’s move. Sharp onyx talons slice across his neck and Ledger screams in pain. It feels as if a thousand cold knives are stabbing into his flesh. The claws come again, this time they strike against his face. Over his right eye. Ledger screams in agony, his ice body shattering and falling to pieces. No blood comes from the wounds, not yet. He tries to use the powers he had before but they have left him, leaking from his open wounds. Suddenly he can feel the full force of the frostbite and finds he can’t move his legs. The bear’s fangs are about to rip him to shreds and he falls back onto his side, screaming as it sinks into his teeth. Screaming as he dies once more. This time when he awakens he is himself again. His heart is beating in his chest, he is his reddish color once more. He is whole again. Almost. Pain throbs along his neck and face where the bear had tore at him. Not phantom wounds but real wounds that now bleed freely. Blood thickens as it hits the cold air, dripping slowly down from the three slashes across his neck. Slick as it falls over his right eye. Funny that he can’t see the redness. A slow realization dawns on him as he tries to look out his right eye but all he sees is blackness. On the outside, the mutilated skin would eventually heal and scar. But the eye was lost, gone forever.  Hyperventilating from fear and pain, Carnage appears before him again. If he had been human, he would have been clapping slowly with a sneer on his face. ”Good try old sport but you lost yet again. You’re dear old dad was right about you. Even with my help you failed miserably.” Shuddering breaths turn into shuddering tears, Ledger can’t help but cry. Broken physically and mentally, crumpled on the frozen ground like a discarded tissue. He’s not sure if he can take much more. ”Put me back in my cell.” He whispers, not having the strength to argue or fight. The pain growing with each second, vomit rising in his throat.  ”Just leave me alone.” He moans. ”In a moment but first…. Something to remember me by.” The velvet whisper as new pain burns against his left hindquarter. He tries to scream but nothing comes out, tries to struggle to his hooves but he can’t. It feels like a cold knife is carving into his side haunch, Carnage wielding his magic to burn his brand into the writhing chestnut stallion. When he is done, the gray stallion steps back to admire his handiwork. A bloody Ursa Major constellation traced ever so perfectly into his flesh. A permanent mark of the Dark Star God, something to make sure he never forgot what had happened here. As if he could forget.  L E D G E R

[Bly]

She loved the night. Perhaps she always would. It is hard to say though, what may or may not be. Bly is learning this now, as she turns about her empty cell. What she had expected to find there, she does not. Instead, before her comes a stallion, grey but not flat. His color was full of depth unlike many others she had seen. It frightened her, that profoundly deep lack of an end. As if he held his own spectrum of light, and the hues forever fell into each other.

She turned her head, listening to his words but wishing to no longer see him. She was trembling now, her thin legs quaking, exposing her fear. Then he speaks, he tells her to choose and she can choose only one. Fire or Ice? Her voice halts as she begins to use it, "I p-pi-pick i-.” She doesn’t finish, not before he is demanding from her once more, You will look at me, he says, and she knows she must.

It’s almost too hard to turn her head, to make her neck follow the instructions from her brain. With one last terrified internal scream, she jerks her head back to the man, her crystal eyes pooling with tears. ”I choose ice,” she responds, a tiny, practically obsolete hint of hope in her decision. The hope that shines from her is snuffed out, smothered before it becomes much more than a pipe dream. He is laughing, laughing as though he knows why she had chosen ice-and he does. She doesn’t know it, not yet at least, but he knows so very much about her. He knows when she was born, where she was born. He knows the fears of her heart and its desires too. He knows all things, has taken this information from her, but he is not done taking. He was not quite satisfied yet. Very well. Enjoy my little stargazer.

Somehow, she knows now. In the way he says it enjoy, she knows he does not mean it, doesn’t mean it at all. Screams fill her lungs as she plummets, falls for what seems forever.
Down, 
       down,
                 down. Always down. She lands in a drift, up to her ribs in freshly fallen snow. The landscape is bland, a never ending expanse of white, not a tree or shrub to disturb it. The temperature is cold, to be sure, but it is a tolerable cool. For a moment, she forgets, where she is, where she had been. Not for long, never for long. You love the snow? The cold? You do not know of cold. His voice falls over the frozen wasteland, though his body is not to be seen. She pulls at the soft ground-covering, struggling to drag herself on top of it, only to sink again in the drifts. ”I do. I do love the snow!” Her statement is defiant, in all the ways a child could be so, but it lacks conviction. You know nothing, his voice tells her as the winds began to stir.

Bly has never seen or known a snow storm, never experienced the howling gales that plagued the far south. She did not know these things, but she would.

It starts as a trickle of frosty air, the flurries go tumbling across her path before a few crash against her face. Very soon they would be plastered there, inches thick and burning her skin until it went numb altogether. Slowly the air gains momentum, until the white tosses eagerly over itself, climbing into the air and blocking the world from view. The filly is scrambling now, frantically trying to dig herself from the hill of snow, she does not know how much energy she expends. Breaths come in longer, rattling pulls as the oxygen is stolen, as it was stripped from the air. He was changing the landscape, the altitude, giving the girl a taste of the Everest peak. And do you love it now, the cold? He questions her and she knows there is no right answer, but she responds anyways. "I don’t. I don’t love it, you are right. Please, please make it stop. It’s so cold. Please, I cant breathe.” Words burst from her, strained in their very making, but he is not a creature of mercy. He is a God, and she will learn. No, my dear, you do. You love the cold, I know this, your heart knows this. Let me show you what it is to love the ice. A growl, hungry and wild before she is sent somewhere new.

She falls headlong into the atmosphere, into deep space. For a time she cartwheels among the cosmos, spins in the gases  Everything is vibrant, is full of wonderful colorful depth, overfilling her senses. Perhaps it was a dream she thinks, the cold that fills her forgotten. It had to be a dream right? Everything she loved was here, the stars burning against the dark skies. She could breathe too, here in space, and that just wasn’t right. Tell me Bly, do you love the night? His words slam into her core, each one drawing a jerking response from her spotted form. A whimper passes her lips, she knows that there are no dreams for her here. A pair of blue eyes roll, finding the whites as they return to look forward, to see what they are meant to see. A racing heart, pangs to a standstill, the galaxy now devoid of all color.

It was gone, all of it. Everything she so loved taken, no more glittering pretties for her to behold. Without color the world fell flat, the stars no longer burned or twinkled, and the moon no longer cast its shining halo. The galaxy swirled dull against the heavens, a monochromatic world was nothing to love, nothing to be awed by. So it was and so it would be, from her he took all color. His first trinket.

Bly falls again, sinking through the snow and plunging into something much colder. Just when she had become numb to the freezing temperatures, she is tossed into the seas. Arctic seas. Her hooves rake at the frozen surface from below, her body is burning, alive with fire it is so cold now. What was the struggle for air against the peaks compared to this? Nothing, it was nothing. You know nothing. He says again. He is right, so very right, and she was learning. The frozen fire spreads, encasing first her hooves in cold blue ice, a solid formation to take over her form.. As they knock against the ice floes they stick, cementing her to the ocean drifts as her tomb slips steadily over her body, replacing everything she is, was. Everything she was. "Let me go!” she screams, she cries. The noises were all the same now, but they would do her no good. She was not done giving, and he was not done taking.

The ice surrounds her, seeping into her very core, hardening her sweet disposition. Making cold her emotions, chilling her outlook on life, on love. What was love? She did not remember, she did not know. She knew nothing. So it was and so it would be he took her warmth, and with it, her heart. His second trinket.

She coughs, sputtering sea water from her gullet and her lungs. Retching upon the floor the frozen pieces that still plagued her insides. She was frozen no more, at least not on the outside, she would not know if her heart had ever beat. Had ever been filled with the warmth of life. With this he smiles, looking down upon her as he did all things. A God never looks up, he does not have to. One last thing he promises, and she shrugs uncaring in return.

The pain is great, far greater than each scenario she had been sentenced to. She freely wails, cries for mercy and mother too. He carves through her flesh with a freezing rod, because he would do nothing half-assed. It was on her face he branded her, a special place for all to see. She would forever face the world with his mark, the first thing to stand out to a stranger, and she would never forget what she had learned.

What do you love Bly?
Nothing

What do you know?
Nothing

She gave and he took. So it was and so it would be. Her beauty, her self worth, her self-his now, his third trinket.

[Raelynx]

i love the way that your heart breaks
with every injustice and deadly fate

He is still undecided when He comes to him, still unsure if this is a dream or reality. Tears have left tracks on his face, cloudy eyes dazed and unfocused. He stares at him unseeing, taking a moment to register his words. But then his drab gaze clears as his mouth opens. But he lingers there in mute indecision, unsure of exactly what He asks.

"Ice," he says finally, just as He says Fire. You are too slow. Raelynx can only stare at him in mute silence, his features unchanging, his expression as insipid as ever.

It does not take the black colt long to realize what He had meant. Between one breath and the next, the walls of his cell have caught on fire. The flames crawl swiftly around the chamber, covering every surface of the prison. Somehow those licking tongues of fire cling to the damp surface, drinking the droplets of brackish water as though they are gasoline. He shivers as his skin warms, his body heating to an uncomfortable degree.

He enjoys that discomfort and heat far more than he should. His lingering gaze finally turns back upon Him, the faintest hint of pleasure visible in Raelynx’s charcoal eyes. The gray god smiles then. A cruel, knowing smile, and a spark of fear runs across the colt’s dark body. The walls begin to fade, replaced by trees, by a small, familiar clearing. He freezes, gaze darting around frantically, looking for his mother. But she is not there, not this time.

It is different though. The branches, the grass, even the sky, it is all ablaze. Everything burns with a supernatural fire. Everything except him and the dark god with the subtle smile. Do you enjoy the flame? He asks, though he does not seem to expect an answer. In any case, he has none to give. The nearness of the inferno is as pleasurable as it is hellish. How can he properly answer?

Let me show you its true beauty. He is there next to him then, brushing a burning muzzle against his exposed neck. His touch stirs memories within him (truth or fiction? He still doesn’t know) of another touch. But where that touch had been so very alive, electric, this one burns, destroys. His skin sizzles and smokes, the flames spreading slowly, searing his body as it goes.

In an almost impossible slowness the fire spreads, burning his hair and scorching his skin. He whimpers, his knees trembling fiercely. The blazing pain is too much, and somehow, still it is not enough. His breath escapes his lips as that fire continues to burn across his body in agonizing slowness. And as everything around him burns, so does he.

Suddenly His voice echoes like a gunshot in his ear. RUN!, He says. And so he does. As wicked tongues of flame descend upon his flank, biting into his flesh and leaving behind fiery gouges, he runs. His course is erratic, frantic, as burning branches lash across his hide and grass made of flame snakes up his legs. His eyes are wide and white as his ragged breath burns his lungs, each inhale ravaging him with heat and smoke.

Each stride fans the flames more, building them, burning his flesh in gruesome waves. His entire body is engulfed in an inferno that scorches him with torturous slowness. He does not slow his headlong sprint until he is near collapse. Even then he continues walking, a shaky, wooden stride on wobbly legs, legs propelled into movement by a force he cannot defy. Finally, when he can continue no more, he simply collapses, limbs giving way beneath him. As he stares up at the burning canopy above, he realizes he has come full circle.

The pleasure of the fire has given way to only suffering. Too much of a good thing, it could be said. It is a concept he had scoffed at before. He hadn’t believed it possible. Oh, but it is.

He wonders then if this is how death comes to him. The gray god had shown him an entirely new meaning to a phrase he has lived by since is birth: pain is life. Indeed it is, and for the first time, the thought of death, of release, is comforting. But pain is life, is it not? On that, he does not believe he was wrong.

And then He appears, a dark wraith from the smoke and flames of perdition. Slowly, slowly, the conflagration dies down, his fiery skin snuffing out. What is left behind is horrendous. He has not a single hair left. In many places the skin has burned away, exposing muscle and sinew and bone. His flank bears three gouges, a remnant of that fiery whipping. His neck and shoulder, where the flame had started, is the worst of all. Some of the muscle had burned away, leaving shallow, raw divots in his flesh.

His laughter echoes in ears half burned away into rounded nubs. Oh, but one more thing. And then the center of his forehead burns fiercely. If ever there was a time he should have screamed, it would have been then. But even had his throat not been raw, he could not have summoned the energy. And then the burning is gone, leaving only a fiery ache that covers his entire body, charred beyond recognition. And though he does not yet know it, a brand has been placed in the very center of his forehead, a bold proclamation for all to see.

Raelynx

khaos x eyrie

html c insane | picture c naelii.deviantart.com

[Minette]

He appears in her cell as if he has always been there, carrying with him the scent of rotted lilies and the bear's rancid breath. She hates him for this, for his blatant mockery and enjoyment of her terror. Minette does not know him, or even of him, for her time in Beqanna has been short. All she knows is the aura of control and power and seduction that are wrapped around him like a cloak as he moves closer to her. Helpless rage floods through her veins.

“You may choose,” he says in a charade of magnanimity, “Fire, or ice? Pick now, or I’ll pick for you. And I doubt you’ll like my pick.”

Her eyes flash. Her ears prick forward. She forgets for a moment that she is captive.

“I choose ice.”

She does not hesitate. She is weary of her decisions being made for her, of her world being controlled by those who are stronger. With her words she fights to take back a small piece of what has been claimed from her.

She will not be allowed even this.

“No, little plaything.” the stallion purrs,  circling her with cat-like grace.  “I think fire would suit you better.”

Minette blanches, her illusion vanishing, all color rushing from her features. She has a deep dread of fire, of the crackling screams with which it purifies the earth. But he cannot know this. He cannot.

“But-” And here Minette tries to gather her courage, although the battle is already lost . “-you said for me to choose.”

“Ah, yes my pet, but I never said that the final decision would be yours.” His fathomless eyes meet hers, promising a world much deeper and darker than the one she has known. “Come now, don't you trust me?”

She bows her head and staggers forward, although she does not have any faith in him. What choice does she have? Like a lamb to slaughter she follows her captor. While others are dragged or tricked or spirited away, she finds that her hooves willingly betray her with each step they take.

Run, run, she thinks.

Wait, wait, says the darker, shadowy parts of her soul. Let us see what he will make of you.

She follows him through the darkness until he commands her to stop. Slithering, clanking things rush across the floor and caress her body. They move swiftly, tightening, wrapping, tripping her and dragging her to her side. She cannot get up, bound by living chains. Her cheek is pressed against a pile of cool, rough wood.

Her breath comes suddenly in short, quick gasps as she realizes where she is, the sacrilegious tableau in which she appears. She is a victim bound on the altar to the dark god. She knows with sudden clarity that she will live or die as it pleases him. Her life means nothing. So why is her terror mixed with unholy desire?

The flames begin slowly, with dancing embers blooming into crackling flames around her feet. The wood combusts with agonizing slowness, the flickering lights reflected in her horrified eyes.

Her hair burns first, a sickening sulfuric smell. Her skin peels away like the bark on a tree, revealing the fatty layer below. The flames feast on this eagerly. The grease from her body sizzles and pops, transforming her into a living candle. Her muscles dry out and contract, curling her body into unnatural shapes. Nothing is left untouched. Even her bones gain a patina of char.

She discovers that fire is torment but smoke is the killer. While her body screams in desperation, her eyes and throat are being ruined beyond reckoning by the toxic gas. She learns that agony is a word too small to describe her burning world. She finds that she has never before appreciated the absence of pain. She is gaining this knowledge too late.

Minette cannot understand why her life is not over., why this torture continues. She begs for death. She pleads with him for the end.

But death does not come to her because it is not His will. As the flames reluctantly retreat from their victim, she is little more than a living skeleton.

His voice comes to her then, softly, lover-like.

“Let us remake you, my pet.”

Her muscles regrow, stretching over her blackened bones. Her organs begin to knit themselves back together, covered by healthy tissue and a tributary of veins. Slowly her sight returns to her, and this too, is a kind of pain, as melted flesh heals and stretches to hide the damage that has been wrought at the command of the dark god. The agony of rebirth washes over her in waves.

She has surrendered, conquered and mastered. She is remade, unmarked, bearing no trace of her agony. But it will never truly leave her. With every step she takes and every intake of breath, the pieces of her body will feel as if they are burning.

He decides she is worthy, then, to carry his brand. He calls for his knife and a shadowy figure whose form is unknowable appears. It bears a jagged instrument dark with poison that keeps flesh from healing.

It is unaffected by her distress and carves her skin relentlessly. And oh, but it is exquisite torture, an almost unbearable pleasure after the extreme suffering of the altar. The knife edge digs deep into her skin, cutting jaggedly, tearing the newly made muscles apart and leaving behind a story. And always he is there, whispering wickedness into her ear and mocking her pain. She begs, but he only grins with a slow and lazy wickedness.

Finally the mark of the dark god is revealed, gracing her left haunch. It is an upward pointing triangle, the ancient alchemical sign for fire, wrapped around a single star.

“To remember me by, if you survive.” he says.

The chains release her. Minette staggers back to her cell, but she does not collapse. She stands, her body trembling, and hangs her head, shamed. For in her pain she has found the barest hint of pleasure and wonder and she prays that no one will know.

"I hate you." she dares to say. It feels childish, insignificant.

“No,” he says aloud, satisfied. “You don't.”

He speaks as if he knows her, as if her soul has been bared before his hungry gaze by the work of the fire. His eyes flash and his mouth curves into a smile as he leaves the cell of thorn and iron.

[Wayra]

If Wayra had the heart to make the sound, even ironically, she would have laughed. She could have laughed forever at her hubris. She had thought she was capable of fighting back, of doing something other than sobbing on the floor. A fool, she was a damn fool.

They were dead, and she had watched them die.

Wayra couldn’t believe it. Part of her refused to believe it. And yet…she had been there, she had seen it. Her stomach roiled and Wayra kicked her legs against the stone floor of the cell. She hurt, deep in her gut she hurt, as if the hellhounds had torn into her, rather than everyone she loved.

“Mom.” She whispered like a prayer.

“Dad.” Her voice cracked.

“Nebibi.” She didn’t say her sister’s name so much as howl it, scream it, like some deranged, wounded animal. With great, heaving strength Wayra lifted her body from the ground and hurled herself at the bars of her cage. She struck them again and again with her body, screaming and wailing as she did so. The physical pain dulled some of the emotional trauma that stripped her soul bare.

It took her a great while to calm down, and she only managed it because her body was exhausted, bruised from her senseless battering. Her screaming had left her like a balloon devoid of air. It was then that he appeared, when all the strength had left her. She sagged awkwardly against the wall of the her cell.

“You may choose,” he told her, as if it were a great kindness.
“Fire, or ice? Pick now, or I’ll pick for you. And I doubt you’ll like my pick.” Wayra didn’t even consider not picking. It never crossed her mind to defy him. He had done the worst thing she could imagine, worse even than her wildest dreams. He had not batted an eye. No, her spirit was still with the hellhounds, deep within their stomachs. Wayra sniffed. It was not a hard choice. She felt raw, torn apart. The anger and pain boiled her blood and scorched her soul. She was fire. She needed ice. Ice to numb the pain, ice to ease the burning.

“I choose ice.” She whispered. Unbidden, unwanted, a poem rose to her mind.

But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

“It will suffice.” Again, she whispered. The stallion smiled, so slowly that Wayra closed her eyes so she would not see its completion. That smile, it reminded her of the hounds, yet somehow it was worse. It was cold, and cruel, with all the hounds ferocity and none of their frenzy. It was like ice its self.

When Wayra opened her eyes she gasped. She was home! Suddenly, she was aware of spring grass beneath her feet, the smell of pine. Wayra almost sagged to her knees. Silent, hot tears streaked down her cheeks.

She was home.

Suddenly, Wayra realized that she had never considered the Chamber home until this very moment. But, now she knew deep in her soul that it was. The girl closed her eyes. She was so overwhelmed that sight was too stimulating. She couldn’t stand to see the green, green grass or the blue, blue sky. The trees were too beautiful, the Chamber too perfect. Had all this been a dream? Suddenly, hope flared in her breast. Could they be alive? Her eyes flew open, her feet moved to run, when suddenly, she was not alone.

That boy, Erebor was standing before her. Wayra shook her head frantically. How had she missed him? Suddenly, a chill raced up her spine. She had been here before, in this very spot once before. And he, Erebor, had been right there as well, standing just as he was now. Wayra’s breath came faster, she felt as if she would scream, but when she opened her mouth to do so something else fell out. Her own voice, silky, teasing, smooth and a little flirty.

“Is this a private party or can anyone join?” She hadn’t meant to say those words, her brain hadn’t said those words, but her mouth did. Her eyes, the only part of her body she could move, nearly rolled back in her head with fear. He was doing this. He must be, her stallion tormentor. The strange, gray god who knew her thoughts and fears and could extract her memories like marbles from a bag.

Tears slipped out of Wayra’s eyes, but she couldn’t turn away from the young man, from Erebor. She couldn’t take so much as one step away. He turned to her, just as he had then.

“I'm never one to turn down company.” Wayra’s eyes grew pitiful and sad. Dear, sweet boy. She remembered this meeting. How happy she had been then. Of course, she hadn’t known that she was happy. She had her whole life before her then, and she had been too stupid to see the beauty of it. In sheer frustration, Wayra screamed inside her head. RUN! But, of course, she did not.

Before Wayra, or Erebor could say another word an average looking stallion appeared before them. His name was Set, though Wayra hadn’t known it then and didn’t know it now. He smiled cheerily at the pair of them, his happy expression belying his cryptic words.

“It’s funny, how secrets attract one another.” Wayra hadn’t known what he had meant then, and now, as she had then, she shook her head in confusion, though his words had not come as a surprise this time around. She heard her own words float to her ears, and Wayra realized she was speaking again, play acting this scene once more.

“Secrets? I’m sorry, I can’t imagine what you mean —” Wayra knew what was coming, though she hardly had time to prepare for it. The black stallion flung a wave of magic at her, and Wayra was knocked clear off her feet, flinging her towards the frozen lake behind her. The ice in the lake was jagged and thick. Spikes stuck up near the bank where it had cracked and refrozen. The shards pushed up at odd angles, and in some places, were thick as small tree branches. Wayra felt her stomach lurch and drop, and she screamed in surprise though she had been expecting it. In the next instant, Erebor would melt the ice, as he had then. She would crash into a cold, put not frozen lake. She would then splash to the shore, sputtering and cursing, mad as hell but unharmed.

This time, that’s not what happened. Instead of saving her, as he had done, Erebor slipped into the chasm that Set had opened up at his feet. Wayra screamed again, but this time the scream was new, of the present, rather than the past. This time she screamed in fresh fear of the ice that was below her.

When she hit it felt like the world shattered around her. She felt like the center of a sphere that had exploded outwards, bits and pieces flying off into the abyss. She moaned, low and long, though she did not hurt. She did not feel anything. Her body felt suspended, though she was aware of the ice beneath her. Her moan was replaced by a gasp, then even that failed her. Her breath hitched and Wayra began suddenly, acutely aware of an unbelievable pain. The pain was too great to scream. She whimpered, and tried to sob, though she couldn’t put the necessary force behind it. Something bubbled at her lips, like hot, metallic spittle. Wayra slowly realized it was blood. Again, bits of that poem floated to her mind.

But if it had to perish twice,
Ice is great, and would suffice.
 
It almost came as a relief, to know that this was the end. With another, barely audible groan, she sagged against the shards of ice that were driven clean through her heart.

It was then, when she was limp and defeated, that he appeared. Her gray god.

“Does it cool your agony, Wayra?” She closed her eyes, but when she did she saw the hounds, and the discarded shells of her family. Her lids fluttered back open, and she looked into his cool, untroubled gaze.

“Is that what your heart needs? Ice to numb its pain?” She tried to nod, but she found she could barely wiggle her head. But yes, he understood none the less. She wanted the ice, wanted to die on it and see her family again. The gray stallion looked down on her with scorn.

“It is time you realized, little girl, that you cannot die of a broken heart.” He laughed then,  maniacally off pitch with the icy mood around them.

“Every winter gives way to spring, and every spring gives way to summer.” He paused then, and it seemed almost instructive, as if he were teaching a young child an important lesson.

“It’s spring now, but the ice will melt, Wayra, come summer.” He laughed again and disappeared without any more fanfare.

Around her, the world began to move again. Erebor argued with Set. Wayra tried in vain to get their attention, yet if they could hear her neither responded. It seemed that they had forgotten the little blue girl. Eventually they left, and that day turned to night. In the beginning, Wayra tried to struggle, tried to rise, but if she moved so much as a muscle the shard through her heart sent shocking pain radiating through her body, as did each breath. She soon lost the energy even to cry.


Around her the world moved, just as it always had. If she didn’t move, and in between breaths, the sharp pain was replaced by a bone numbing ache. That day turned into another, and another, until a week had past.

When Wayra didn’t hurt she hungered, but eventually that pain died away, replaced instead by a gnawing as if ice had pierced her gut as well. Perhaps it had. Around her, enough blood pooled to fill a whole body. But, just as the horses that passed took no notice of her, they noticed the blood not at all.

That week turned into a month, and that month into two. A few passed by her clearing, but never her father. If he was alive he wasn’t coming by. Wayra came to accept that she would stay forever on that frozen lake. She would become as apart of the Chamber as Atrox’s heart, or the burning tree. Except nobody would see Wayra. She would know them all, but none would know her.

She had always wanted to belong, to feel at home, and now she was home, though as nothing more than a silent ghost, run through by the Chamber its self. Finally, though she had given up home that it would, the air around Wayra began to warm. She, herself, never lost the feeling of bone deep chill.  Soon, the days themselves were warm, and the impossibly thick ice of the pond began to crack. The shard that pierced Wayra began to melt.

Finally, under a sky as perfect as a dream, the ice beneath her gave way, and Wayra slipped beneath the water.

The lake was deep, and she drifted to the bottom. Though she had not starved, or bled out, Wayra did drown. She didn’t drown dramatically, with thrashing, kicking and gasping. She hurt too much for that. She took an experimental breath, and as the water rushed in to fill her lungs, she felt a twinge, though it was not like the pain she had come to know these past months.

When her broken heart stilled, Wayra smiled. At last. At last, her frozen heart could rest.

As her vision was going dim, he appeared again, the stallion, at the bottom of her watery grave.

“A gift.” He said.

“For the girl who wanted to die of a broken heart.” Her skin was numb now, but she saw the blaze of light appear on her chest. A circle, pierced through with a stake. His brand for her.

[Cress]

let go and make believe, we’re singing in the streets


Some say the world will end in fire,

The iron bars seem to be pressing closer and closer towards her, trapping her in an ever-shrinking box, but Cress knows that this is all in her imagination. In reality, the cell has not changed shape at all, but there is nothing rational in the golden girl’s mind. It doesn’t even register that her wound has mysteriously vanished, healed of its own accord, but maybe that was her healing powers subconsciously stitching it up. Maybe it was the monster that has trapped her here who healed her, preparing her for some new form of torture that needed her to be well and whole (at least physically). She doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know. She just wants to go home.

some say in ice.

She glances around and sees that everyone else is still nearby; everyone else is still whole too, though most of them have pressed themselves into corners as she had, trying to escape whatever nightmare they have all been subjected to. What did they lose before being brought back to the cells? What did they have to go and face in the real world before he magicked them back to their cells? Cress doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t want to see someone else’s fears as well as her own; she doesn’t want to experience that ever again. No, no, no.

From what I’ve tasted of desire,

She chokes back a sob as she thinks of her parents, murdered and devoured by the shadow-monster that she knows is going to haunt her for the rest of her life until it can devour her too. She thinks of Demian and how he acted—how can she ever return to the Valley when he hates her so much? She is so lost in her misery that she barely notices when Carnage appears before her, the grey magician eying her maliciously. He tells her to pick, fire or ice, and she responds almost before she can wrap her head around the options.

I hold with those who favor…

“Fire,” she whispers, and there is fire in her bloodstream, pounding through her veins. She is the descendent of dragons; she remembers the fire Father used to create to entertain her. She shrieks in pain as her body is torn apart, a dragon emerging from within. It echoes the golden girl in terms of color, but is at least five times her size. It has golden scales and spikes running along its spine that are white-gold and talons that could cut through obsidian. Great, golden, leathery wings explode from the dragon’s back, unfurling as it stretches them with a terrible roar.

With a gasp she realizes that her body has reformed, pulled together by a magic much stronger than her simple heal. She should be dead but the magician wouldn’t let that happen; he wants her alive, to be tortured and, perhaps, to die under his command. She is pressed into the ground behind the terrible beast and her cell has disappeared; instead she is in an unfamiliar meadow and everything is ablaze. The fire blazes higher than should be possible, a monster inferno that reaches several hundred feet in height, smoke spreading like a cloud overhead. It is only a matter of time until the fires die and the so does she as the cloud of ash falls over her, suffocating her.

After a moment to take in her surroundings she stands, trying not to alert the dragon. The golden beast has moved several hundred feet away by now, fire bursting from its maw. It is feeding the flames, creating a barrier of fire that she will be unable to escape through. As terrified as she is, she admires the beast as the fire reflects in its scales, turning it more orange than gold. She should run while she can but it is already too late, there is a ring of fire circumventing the meadow and there’s no way for her to escape the flames without killing herself.

Maybe that’s what he wants.

The dragon turns towards her, a growl growing deep in its throat as it faces Cress. It roars then, a thin tongue of flame swirling in the mare’s direction, and Cress screams as it scorches her face in the same spot that the monster had touched her before. There is no avoiding the flames; they press into her from all sides and the dragon is in front of her, blocking off any (there aren’t any) route of escape she could possibly take. “Kill me,” she whispers and she means it, she wants to die. She wants the flesh ripped from her bones and her entrails scattered across the dungeon floor. The magician should just kill her.

“That would be too easy,” comes the smooth voice, echoing all around her. “I’m going to destroy you first, Cress.”

With a shriek the dragon opens its mouth again, and Cress can see the flames building in its throat. As quickly as she can, she creates a barrier of healing, but Carnage rips it down almost before she can set it up—it was futile, but she had to try. The flames grow in the dragon’s throat until they’re all Cress can see and then they engulf her. Dragon fire burns away all the flesh from her skull and Cress would scream if she still had vocal chords, but she can’t move, can’t scream, can’t die. Soon all that is left is bones and charred flesh.

“Heal yourself,” he orders and she tries, she tries to create muscle and tendons and skin out of nothing. Skin slowly stretches over her bones and she restores the muscle all over her body; the tendons come next and she pants, wondering if she has the energy to complete the process. She starts from her hindquarters and works her way up and slowly she is healed, but she cannot make the fur regrow and she cannot restore the tail that used to be beautiful. She manages to heal herself up to her eyes and her sight and hearing is restored, but she cannot regrow her ears; they just won’t come back. She has healed herself but left herself with scars at the same time; all but her forehead is covered again in skin, and maybe that will heal on its own with time—maybe it won’t. Perhaps her skull will always be exposed, another reminder that she survived what should have killed her many times over.

The lack of ears, though, is the worst part. Can she hear? Sure. Is she hideously scarred for the rest of her life? Yeah.

While she had healed herself, the dragon had been circling above her, roaring ferociously. Now that she has finished it moves into a dive, heading right for Cress, and she braces herself to be eaten whole. Is that why she was healed? So that she could be eaten alive by the dragon that he created? The fires keep her rooted in place and she knows that she is about to die, but she would rather be dinner than sacrifice herself to the flames once more.

The dragon roars again just seconds before collision and Cress cannot force her eyes to close as it draws nearer. It doesn’t open its mouth to eat her but instead pierces her straight through her heart, and she screams again as the dragon makes its home in her chest. Her entire chest cavity feels as though it is burning but she knows that it will pass as the dragon grows comfortable inside of her.

“Why?” she chokes out, not expecting an answer. That would be too much.

“Because,” he replies only seconds later, “the dragon was inside of you the whole time, my pet. I only woke her up.” She can see the bars of her cell as the meadow fades away, and the outline of the magician standing just outside of it. “You should be grateful,” he tells her and she can see that he is enjoying this, enjoying her torment as he enjoys the others’ torment. “I cleansed you and you remade yourself.” He knows that this will not make her stronger, only unstable and delicate, but still he tries to convince her that he was helping, remaking her, remolding her into something of his own creation.

With a groan she realizes that she is still burning, and she glances down to her chest. She is the descendant of dragons and he seems to want her to remember it, remember it for the rest of her life, and fear it as long as she may live. There, on her chest, is the blackened outline of the dragon that remade her, and it is the only thing she sees as her vision goes blurry. What has he done?


cress; salaam of the valley
you’re only happy when you’re making a scene