09-03-2015, 12:41 AM
If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together
“Seven.” Drow spoke the number, his voice cracking, rough with his usual gravel and the fever that ran through him making everything blurry. He tore another strip of skin off his chest, watching the blood trickle down his chest and fall onto the ground as he chewed up the piece of himself and swallowed it down. Nothing was getting out of here alive. He was Nothing, and he could prove it. He could rip and tear and devour himself until he made it true. He could. He bit deeper, piercing the outer layers of his chest muscles with dull teeth, tearing a chunk free as the world around him blurred.
The blur was different than the fever blur, though. It was as though everything around him were suddenly running at super speed. Trees and shrubs and grasses regrowing, lianas and vines, all manner of jungle plants sprouting and attaining full height almost instantly. Creatures faded into existence, a shuddering staticky sound that soon became birdsong and insects and voices. Oh god, voices he knew too, too well.
The voices of the dead, back to haunt him again.
But the voices were wrong. They didn’t growl and snarl and rage in his head. They didn’t…didn’t really make a lot of sense, actually. Mom, murmuring encouragement. That soft croon of hers that always made it feel like somehow everything was going to be okay. Gendry, using his “oh shit oh shit play it cool in the face of emergencies” voice. Arrya alternately screaming pointed threats about castration and begging something to get out, get out, get out and demanding cuddles. Was…he going crazy? No, it didn’t feel like crazy. The voices were outside his head, and the crazy ones had always been inside. Was he dreaming? But no, the pain in his chest as he tore off another strip of skin suggested he was quite, quite awake.
Hallucinating? Fever and all…but that didn’t feel right either.
…another world about to burn to the ground?
That sounded more likely. And Drow was getting really fucking sick of that game. No, he was done. Fuck it, he had better things to do than watch everyone he loved die again. He looked around, unnerved at finding himself in the familiar circle of trees that was one mother’s sanctuary and the other’s grave. Or had been…oh god.
What if—no. No, it wasn’t possible. Life wouldn’t be that cruel. Would it? No, her bones were still buried in the ground below him, the ground he fed with the blood oozing from the wounds on his chest, his legs, his throat. Self-inflicted, so appropriate too. Maybe he should—no. No, he wasn’t her. He wouldn’t kill himself and leave his family to find him, lying dead on their mother’s grave. Not fair. He hurt them enough alive, he wouldn’t…even if they weren’t really…his family was dead, right? They were. In the…in the other world. Was he…back to the real one? The right one? Or was the burned one real? Were they all real? His head spun, trying to piece together what the fuck had happened, how much of it was a dream, whether it was still a dream. Maybe…maybe he had gotten out alive? Maybe he was right, and because he was Nothing…?
Drow ground his face against the nearest tree, pressing hard, trying to squeeze out the confusing thoughts or shove them back somewhere out of the feverish, drowning, burning, lost part of his mind that was on the verge of making stupid, stupid decisions. Had to try to figure out what the fuck was happening, not do something irreversible. But Arrya bellowed, and things kind of got blurry, and the edges of his vision faded to black. His head lowered of its own volition, resting itself on his legs as his suddenly heavy eyelids drifted closed.
The blur was different than the fever blur, though. It was as though everything around him were suddenly running at super speed. Trees and shrubs and grasses regrowing, lianas and vines, all manner of jungle plants sprouting and attaining full height almost instantly. Creatures faded into existence, a shuddering staticky sound that soon became birdsong and insects and voices. Oh god, voices he knew too, too well.
The voices of the dead, back to haunt him again.
But the voices were wrong. They didn’t growl and snarl and rage in his head. They didn’t…didn’t really make a lot of sense, actually. Mom, murmuring encouragement. That soft croon of hers that always made it feel like somehow everything was going to be okay. Gendry, using his “oh shit oh shit play it cool in the face of emergencies” voice. Arrya alternately screaming pointed threats about castration and begging something to get out, get out, get out and demanding cuddles. Was…he going crazy? No, it didn’t feel like crazy. The voices were outside his head, and the crazy ones had always been inside. Was he dreaming? But no, the pain in his chest as he tore off another strip of skin suggested he was quite, quite awake.
Hallucinating? Fever and all…but that didn’t feel right either.
…another world about to burn to the ground?
That sounded more likely. And Drow was getting really fucking sick of that game. No, he was done. Fuck it, he had better things to do than watch everyone he loved die again. He looked around, unnerved at finding himself in the familiar circle of trees that was one mother’s sanctuary and the other’s grave. Or had been…oh god.
What if—no. No, it wasn’t possible. Life wouldn’t be that cruel. Would it? No, her bones were still buried in the ground below him, the ground he fed with the blood oozing from the wounds on his chest, his legs, his throat. Self-inflicted, so appropriate too. Maybe he should—no. No, he wasn’t her. He wouldn’t kill himself and leave his family to find him, lying dead on their mother’s grave. Not fair. He hurt them enough alive, he wouldn’t…even if they weren’t really…his family was dead, right? They were. In the…in the other world. Was he…back to the real one? The right one? Or was the burned one real? Were they all real? His head spun, trying to piece together what the fuck had happened, how much of it was a dream, whether it was still a dream. Maybe…maybe he had gotten out alive? Maybe he was right, and because he was Nothing…?
Drow ground his face against the nearest tree, pressing hard, trying to squeeze out the confusing thoughts or shove them back somewhere out of the feverish, drowning, burning, lost part of his mind that was on the verge of making stupid, stupid decisions. Had to try to figure out what the fuck was happening, not do something irreversible. But Arrya bellowed, and things kind of got blurry, and the edges of his vision faded to black. His head lowered of its own volition, resting itself on his legs as his suddenly heavy eyelids drifted closed.
Watch the flames climb high into the night
Drow