a long way past the past, cachi & will
Jul 28, 2022 11:24:44 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 28, 2022 11:24:44 GMT -5
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The blade cuts to the bone of the boy. He yanks it out, veins in his arms turning bruised tones, and a sword is a sword. A hand cannot lie.
His family needs a victor.
But Inta's dead at the bottom of the sea and Will is –
struck by a sword.
He touches the gash on his arm and it dies too, fist full of rot clenched in his hands. Body of flies and millipedes, body of fish kill on the shore, soft-bellied, milky-eyed omens and he feels so –
so fucking jealous.
She dies and that's a tragedy. That's a girl taken too soon, little myth falling from the sky, and it's fucking sad that he can't even compete with a corpse.
And him –
His family needs a death from him.
And they'll call it duty. And they'll call it honour. And they'll give him all the ceremony in the world and then be done with it, losing his whole life because someone always has to lose in a game.
Soft kid who used to cry on the training floor, cupping baby birds and breaking his own bones so he wouldn't have to hurt someone else, weak, yielding, fragile flower. They could slice him up right now and he'd spill a belly full of wet, hot shame.
And that's the secret, all that wondering what it would be like to be killed. Stupid boy who watched Charlie slice apart those mutts and imagined himself underneath that spear too, a soft red line drawn from chest to throat. Must be gentle because it's Charlie Gallows, butcher of a tender and precise death. Must be nice to be a dead thing in the ocean. What do the fishes care about a name and belonging, swimming through his bones and blowing bubbles.
His mother would kill him first if she knew.
And that's what he's been thinking, what the Vanas name demands from him, ever since his sister died.
Not survival, death.
Should've killed that girl from twelve or died trying. Should've stayed and fought and let Charlie put a spear through his chest and be done with it.
And yet –
halfway to the grave in his head and his body keeps fighting and kicking, clawing its way for another breath as it protects that tender thing in his chest, that fluttering little pulse he's been so curious about putting out since he's come here.
Fine, one last thing for the spectacle, one kill to say he's done it and his body can try all the preservation it wants but this time he's not going to run.
He raises his sword, but Cachi's there first.
Always second, always a little too late.
The silver tip comes out through the boy's neck, a strange noise bubbling from his lips, and when the sword pulls back, he becomes a heap of limbs.
And then, he's a heap of nothing when he lands on the ground. The pool of blood grows, and they stand there, watching him die.
He lowers his own sword.
Another hot pulse in his veins and the wrong thing comes out of his mouth again. It's the fury of losing he can't swallow for once, bruising through his insides, and something is wrong with him. From Charlie to this to the thing that aches like a fever when he says "I had him. You should've stayed out of my way."
And then, eyes back on the dead boy, his face still stamped with the shock from the knife entering his throat and something small and feathery breaks through the bitter anger.
"I didn't even know his name."
His family needs a victor.
But Inta's dead at the bottom of the sea and Will is –
struck by a sword.
He touches the gash on his arm and it dies too, fist full of rot clenched in his hands. Body of flies and millipedes, body of fish kill on the shore, soft-bellied, milky-eyed omens and he feels so –
so fucking jealous.
She dies and that's a tragedy. That's a girl taken too soon, little myth falling from the sky, and it's fucking sad that he can't even compete with a corpse.
And him –
His family needs a death from him.
And they'll call it duty. And they'll call it honour. And they'll give him all the ceremony in the world and then be done with it, losing his whole life because someone always has to lose in a game.
Soft kid who used to cry on the training floor, cupping baby birds and breaking his own bones so he wouldn't have to hurt someone else, weak, yielding, fragile flower. They could slice him up right now and he'd spill a belly full of wet, hot shame.
And that's the secret, all that wondering what it would be like to be killed. Stupid boy who watched Charlie slice apart those mutts and imagined himself underneath that spear too, a soft red line drawn from chest to throat. Must be gentle because it's Charlie Gallows, butcher of a tender and precise death. Must be nice to be a dead thing in the ocean. What do the fishes care about a name and belonging, swimming through his bones and blowing bubbles.
His mother would kill him first if she knew.
And that's what he's been thinking, what the Vanas name demands from him, ever since his sister died.
Not survival, death.
Should've killed that girl from twelve or died trying. Should've stayed and fought and let Charlie put a spear through his chest and be done with it.
And yet –
halfway to the grave in his head and his body keeps fighting and kicking, clawing its way for another breath as it protects that tender thing in his chest, that fluttering little pulse he's been so curious about putting out since he's come here.
Fine, one last thing for the spectacle, one kill to say he's done it and his body can try all the preservation it wants but this time he's not going to run.
He raises his sword, but Cachi's there first.
Always second, always a little too late.
The silver tip comes out through the boy's neck, a strange noise bubbling from his lips, and when the sword pulls back, he becomes a heap of limbs.
And then, he's a heap of nothing when he lands on the ground. The pool of blood grows, and they stand there, watching him die.
He lowers his own sword.
Another hot pulse in his veins and the wrong thing comes out of his mouth again. It's the fury of losing he can't swallow for once, bruising through his insides, and something is wrong with him. From Charlie to this to the thing that aches like a fever when he says "I had him. You should've stayed out of my way."
And then, eyes back on the dead boy, his face still stamped with the shock from the knife entering his throat and something small and feathery breaks through the bitter anger.
"I didn't even know his name."
