legacy // violet vs. aeson - day 7

a e s o n

There are dead stars in your eyes.

Starved by scripture and buried by violence; they yearn for a way to reignite in this moment. When you dare to turn back before you're swallowed by darkness, when you turn back and think to reach out. There's a silent yearning to hear your name dissipate in the space between you. Dead stars in your eyes; they yearn to reignite.

Your name doesn't sound in the silence between you, there's no bargaining, no war cry in an attempt to bury steel into your flesh to speak for your betrayal. You turn and see nothing but the silver in her hair forming a curtain, a veil over her face. You won't look into those eyes ever again.

Dead stars cannot reignite, not for this hollow pulse of yours and certainly not in a place you came to die another death. A better death than you suffered when you were six years old, a suicide pact drenched in hellfire came too late. No one can reignite the dead stars in your eyes, nothing can unveil the violence that marks their final resting place. Yet you half expect to see something behind that silver veil, hear something, anything break the silence between two killers This isn't longing, this is withdrawal. Like a needle through dragon glass skin or chemical rage in your lungs, but you do not succumb to the symptoms. You do not fall victim to human weakness.

You do not hesitate when you're met with a silver veil and silence, you let darkness swallow you and become your new skin.

You do not take note of the footprints you leave behind, the living stars in the sky contrasting with your dead ones, you glare up at the sky and glance at twin moons. Your hand rests against your chest, right where your heart should be. Where the letters you never cared to decipher lay, E+A stitched across the hollow chamber where it is said your heart should be. You feel a pulse, lose a piece of yourself and taste silent cold.

Your ski pole slips through your fingers and you tip your head back to see live stars; you laugh.

You're going to fucking die like this, waiting to pass from a frozen hell to a scorched one. Where you can wear a crown of brimstone and fire once more and be content that you've made your mark upon an infinite expanse. You are Aeson Kight and you will be remembered; for the god you spited, for the atrocities you committed. Nothing good blooms in this temple of yours, you write you own scripture in the blood of many and name it holy.

You don't give a fuck what comes next; you just want to see if there's a special place in hell waiting for you.

Here you stand, laughing at the artificial sky and daring someone to take you to it. You've given yourself in pieces long enough; your heart when you were seven, your humanity when you were seventeen.

Your sanity now that you're eighteen.

Silence takes your tongue and you let yourself collapse, paranoia a weed you never cared to cut at the stem. It takes root in your bones and entangles itself around your core. You watch your footprints, eyes frantically darting side to side for a shade waiting to take you. For Euley Sarasin to break free from the white veil around her face and drive a spike through your heart. A part of you wants her to, to take your death back and give hers back to you; it was nice to have an anchor while it lasted.

You consider bringing that scenario into play yourself. You could trace your footsteps back to where you saw nothing but a white veil, you could circle that tent while they sleep and thrust your spear through the fabric not once but twice. Eliminating a career girl and a Salazar all in one night, leaving you with five more lives to steal. You could do it; give yourself to hatred. That was always the plan, once numbers dwindled enough, you were planning on driving your ski pole through Euley Sarasin's throat, Violetta Salazar's eye and Isaac Jacobi's heart. That's what anchored you to them, the promise of their deaths.

And yet you left Euley with a notation for desperation upon her lips, not one of cruelty to add to your sins. You don't understand what changed.

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, and decide it doesn't matter. Euley tore her death from your hands and threw yours at your feet with toxic love dripping from her tongue, asking you to live for another -- ("I'll do the same for you.")

You flutter in and out of consciousness.You're taken by gospel and scripture, for the first time in three days,you become six years old again.

Sweat soaks into your skin when you bite the sun, yet there are still dead stars in your eyes. "Fuck." You spit, pulling yourself up and taking off your helmet to run a hand through your hair. You look to your footprints, half expecting to find a second pair beside them. You don't.

You remind yourself what you are -- ("You're not a good man, Aeson Kight.")

Not a good man, but certainly a fucking bitter one.

You smile when you pick yourself up and sigh. "I want to be ruination," it's what you've always been. Shadow Svenin was the catalyst but you've always known that you were living on gambled and stolen time and you were bored. Of the routine, the nights of empty sex, needles in your skin and the dead men at your feet. Men like you don't live long, you were waiting for the deceleration of your wheel.

Without anchor, you don't give a fuck anymore; if it happens, it happens.

But you'll make these days count, you'll give yourself to seven sins stated in gospel and you will leave more afterimages of your existence on this broken earth. You will be what you always were; ruination. Men like you survive on borrowed and gambled time, that's why the suffering you inflict on others has always been a wonder to see.

It's a good day to die, but it's a better day to kill; that special place in hell can wait another day or two.

(you're so fucking tired, so fucking bored)

So you become vagabond with hunger in your eyes, lust in your step and there's an instinctive twist in your neck and a flicker across your face. This is an extension you will not drop for you see something in a scarlet trail. You smile; your ski pole is buried in the boy from Four's stomach, Violet's neck, Loverboy's eye, Bella's throat, Finley's temple, Stella's back,

Euley's chest.

You trip and stumble onto one knee.

You look up, a strange sort of wooden building stands idle in front of your eyes and a tiredness overtakes you. Your old wounds, buried beneath layers of clothes and armor, begin to flare and you hoist yourself up. You make for shelter and decide you'll calm yourself. Check your wounds and wait for prey to arrive, you want blood on your teeth.

Once you're inside, you begin stripping off the metal. Exposing your wounds and wiping the sweat from the night from your forehead. You throw your spear to the side and now you're already binding the wounds, replacing old dressings set there. You can't distinguish which ones where set there by Euley and which ones by yourself. They simply cross, scars blurring together like a web of imperfection.

You tell yourself you never gave a fuck, this is what you were born for. To fight, lash and die with nothing but solitude at your back to keep you company.

You look up to the sound of footsteps, you quickly stand and kick your discarded armor and bag of supplies out of your way. Pointless now, you've been caught out.

You see the snake and you cannot bring yourself to smile. You're just so fucking tired and if Violetta Salazar makes it a point to get in your way then you'll happily tear her apart and call it ruination.

"Can we just act like you never saw me and move on?" You tilt your head to the side, for you both know the answer to that question. But you're not looking at her, you're staring past her and to your discarded ski pole at her feet. You need it, she won't just let you grab one of your spares.

"Show me your fangs, Salazar."

That's all she was to you, a family name you wanted to watch burn because there's nothing better than the sound of a crumbling dynasty. There's nothing better than the sight of a broken girl; Violetta Salazar has her own kingdom and you want to watch it crumble. They don't name you ruination for nothing.

"No? Okay, let’s test my luck again.”

She's fast, much faster than she showed previously when she's not clad in armor, and you dive forwards and right past her. Yet your right arm flails as your left hand grabs for your ski pole . You cry out, gritting your teeth at the explosion of agony that sends a splash of white across your eyes.

(take me to it)

"You fucking cunt," you curse, gritting your teeth and gripping your ski pole in your hand. You let yourself glance down to skin swollen red and already beginning to seem purple at the edges. A thousand shades of hell swim past your vision and you look up, she embodies an emptiness you only saw in yourself, she's not afraid of you. Good. "I was hoping I'd find Euley or your district partner today, but I suppose I'll be grateful for sloppy seconds." You stand, agony in one hand and an extension of your brutality in the other. Venom drips from your lips, down your chin and touches your feet; it's a partial lie.

You step forwards, ski pole becoming a grotesque extension of your arm, and reach for her kingdom to pull it down piece by piece. You'll watch it burn and piss on the ashes to claim the ruin as yours. You become chaos incarnate.

"I'm going to tear your fucking throat out, Salazar."

Dead stars in your eyes reignite into scarlet light

a e s o n

Your ski pole shoves a seed of agony in her stomach.

Perhaps if you gave a damn about Violet you would let that be the end of it, you would drive the pole deeper until steel tasted stomach acid. You wouldn't smile and twist your unbroken wrist to amplify suffering, you wouldn't look into her eyes and bask in the festering of her agony.

You plant of a seed of agony in her stomach and a crimson flower blooms around the wound. You wonder if this is what it will be like to spill ichor. The sight of a girl stumbling back, pressing her hands to her stomach as her breathing quickens, you don't like the sound. You want to hear what it means to see her structures topple. Your ski pole hangs loosely at your side, blood dripping heavy from the edge and forming droplets at your feet.

Perhaps if she hadn't dared to bury words beneath your skin, you wouldn't have twisted your wrist to drive the point deeper into her flesh -- ("I think Euley would win,") as if you asked for her fucking opinion. As if you gave a damn. You crane your neck and roll your shoulders, it had always struck you as odd. The way Euley brought her into your trio and kept her safe, never cutting her down when you wanted to step on her. It's a fleeting thought, the side effect of paranoid taking root within your bones, but you wonder if she fucked her too.

You don't care.

(your knuckles turn white at your sides)

It's strange, how taunts and words can burrow beneath your skin but nothing can take root in this rocky soil of yours, unless it was Ava calling you weak to see what you would do to the next man they sent you after. Yet here you stand, your smile flickering into a scowl at the mere mention of Euley's name from Violet's lips.

"You missed my throat," she stands stall, a scarlet rose of agony blooming across her stomach and crampons in hand, and barrels towards you. "I’m still breathing.” And once again, you're surprised by her speed with her crampons held tight in her outstretched hands. You sidestep a moment too late and she swings.

You're stumbling, you're screaming.

You shove your ski pole towards the ground, catching you before you can taste dirt and you dare to look at your leg. In a similar state to your wrist, swollen and a shade of red too dark to be anger, and you prop yourself up with your ski pole. You're grinding your teeth, cursing yourself for being too slow, and knowing everything it implies. You always relied on speed and agility, cutting men down before they knew what was happening and then stepping on their throats once their backs hit the ground. Now, you watch your usefulness whither away, your killing potential decays into the wind.

These aren't the first times your bones have broken, you once broke your knuckle across someone's jaw, but this is a broken leg. You can't escape, you can't chase and you'll certainly struggle to dodge.

"Sorry, I'll aim higher next time," your speak through grinding teeth and look up, you catch you reflection in the window.

You dare to see Aeson Kight.

Hair wet, matted with sweat from his dreams. Eyes bloodshot, the ignition of a billion dead stars into scarlet light. Leaning against his ski pole and dragging himself, covered in blood he's been spilling for the last six days and his own blood soaking into his tattered sweater. Everywhere torn and soaked with shades of red, everywhere but the letters sewn across the place where the heart is said to lie.

You never cared to decipher the letters; it's a stupid design.

Seven days and your outward appearance is finally beginning to reflect who you are on the inside; heavy, monstrous and bloodthirsty. You drag yourself forwards, soaked hair falling over your forehead and eyes bloodshot. You would smile if it wasn't for a thousand shades of agony pulsating across your body.

You can't smile.

"One of us is going to die here, Violet," and despite the cracks in your skeletal system, your voice doesn't shatter. "And trust me, if it's you I'm going to look into your fucking eyes."

You do not ask for the same, you owe each other nothing. But you've already marked Violet with an extension of your own sadism, you've left a notation for insanity in her stomach and it blooms scarlet across her skin. The world will know you were there, she won't forget.

You'll live on through afterimages, even when the gates of Hell's kingdom open to meet you.

"I'm going to enjoy this."

Despite your broken leg, you move to the rhythm of blood lust.

("You're not a good man, Aeson Kight.")

Aeson Kight; sadistic, monstrous and cruel.

("But you were worth it.")

Yet so fucking empty.

a e s o n

Another pole to her gut reminds you how caustic you truly are. When you sneer and pull it from her stomach, you are reading a thousand symptoms for agony as she stumbles back. Tears well in her eyes, her fingers desperately clutching at her clothes and shades of pain spilling from the wounds in her stomach. You read a thousand symptoms for agony like scripture written in your own blood; you call it divine. Had it not been for cracks within your frame riddling your body and hindering the turning of your gears, you would smile -- there's nothing that beats the sight of a broken girl.

You stumble back, thrown off balance by the sudden shift in momentum and the loss of mobility, but catch yourself on your bloodied ski pole.

A thousand shades of agony drip through her fingers and soak the ground; you name this red flood holy. You remind yourself that this is a girl with more resilience that you gave her credit for, she took scars in the bloodbath and stayed to claim the wealth, she's struck your wrist and your leg and taken a part of your killing potential with her.

When she speaks, you see a pronged tongue dripping with defiance. "I’ll close my eyes." Defiance buried beneath layers of venom, or perhaps it's acid, she will not surrender to the polarized glare of your gaze. Perhaps she is afraid she'll see a glimpse of the gates of hell behind your cold stare, perhaps she simply doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of seeing the light leave her eyes. You wouldn't blame her, you don't make it any secret the pleasure you derive from maiming her.

You name this red flood holy for a reason.

"You will not be the last thing I see or the last thought in my mind." When she opens her mouth, you see her fangs. You're at stalemate, you're too broken to circle your prey and she's too torn to look for an escape route. You do not recoil at the sight of venom dripping from her fangs, the vigor with which she spits at you or the bitterness that laces every syllable.

An eerie calm takes place of any anger you should feel. This isn't the first time someone's death has been ripped from your fingers, anyway. "My life isn’t about you, and my death won’t be about you either.” Red venom, black fangs and gritted teeth. She lunges with enthusiasm, crampons outstretched and arching towards you in a flash of silver.

Your heart races as you move to the rhythm of this scarlet adrenaline rush.

Despite the shifting of your bones, the grinding of your teeth, you throw yourself the side. She catches nothing but thin air and false promise, an afterimage of where you stood. Through grinding teeth, you glare daggers and speak with an eerie calm to displace the call of anguish. "Fine, have it your way," you pull yourself straight on your ski pole. You leave behind a blood trail in the ground. "You have a sharp tongue, Violet."

Pronged and dripping with scarlet venom; but it doesn't burn because she could never be caustic.

You scan her figure, you wait for the call of opportunity, bloodshot eyes and scarlet stars searching for a moment to tear at her skin and corrode her life at a rate that matches the erosion of your sanity. "But you're talking like you're already dead, I sure hope you won't fight like it." Truth be told, it seems a lot more fun to be poisoned by the fangs of a viper than to skin a dying hatchling. "Or I'm going to pull that sharp tongue from your mouth and feed it to you."

A slight stumble comes with your step, your ski pole drags heavy behind you. No one's death belongs to you, not anymore, but you never cared. You took them anyway and listened to their final words; some of them raved about a hell you'd be sent to and some of them spat blood upon your skin and called you scum. They saw you, the real you and so does Violet. Bloodshot eyes, fading scars, hair tangled with sweat, a bloodied weapon an extension of your hand; you finally reflect the monstrosity that's been festering since you lost your sanity to a house you named holy.

You smile through agony because this is what it means to be caustic; you allow insanity fester.

Opportunity calls and you answer in silence, ski pole arcing through the air towards her neck and leaving behind a trail.

A silver, scarlet, caustic trail.

a e s o n

Your caustic trail ends in her forearm, a flash of scarlet and silver tearing away at her arm and leaving your gnarled signature behind once again but Violetta Salazar doesn't fall, she stumbles beneath the weight of sadistic tendencies. She turns away from you; the boy who slept with wolves, the man with enough blood on his hands to turn a river red. You almost stumble too, but you catch yourself upon your bloodied ski pole before you can be taken by your lack of balance again.

A scarlet nebula falls down her arm, dripping down her fingertips and soaking into her clothes; you recognize the smell of iron. It drips from your ski pole, peels from your hands, stains your teeth.

Blood lust becomes your galaxy.

In this place, you have found that your bodies are not your own. Violet offers up her flesh and blood, her skin and bone, and you've taken to tearing away at everything she dares to leave exposed. Two wounds sunken into her torso and a gorge across her forearm spell out that sentiment loud and clear. Yet she's taken the mantle of opportunity too, your swollen wrist and loss of mobility are evidence enough of this, and she doesn't back down. She doesn't break down, she doesn't sit you down with the thought of compromise, she lets venom drop from her forked tongue and dare to bury her words beneath your skin.

Your body is not yours, you gave yourself away in pieces a long time ago. Before you gave yourself to this valley of broken things, before any moral compass you may have had shattered at your feet. She shakes her head, she calls your words empty. You almost laugh and remind her that you don't make threats, you deliver promises.

You watch her closely, scanning for any signs of aggression but she pauses your clash of steel. She resumes the war of words. ”If you do kill me, the only thing you’re going to do is nurse that broken leg.” You scowl, attention drawn to the slight shake in your femur. You grimace, because if she knows and you know then the whole world knows, it's definitely broken.

"Because you know you’re going to face Euley next." You tear your gaze up, your skin goes numb to the name that sounds in the space between you and you narrow your eyes at her bleeding form. ”You won’t stand a chance, and it’s all because of the little Salazar who got lucky.”

A flicker in your chest and you lose sight of your orbit, you lose your composure for just a minute.

Her crampons come sailing down and you catch them on the point of your ski pole with an instinctive raise of your arm. You listen to a steel song. You do not break the deadlock, your dead eyes meet hers and you sneer. "You fucking bitch," the sound comes out chocked, dead even, and you press against her force "You think I give a fuck?" You ask her, your eyes locking with her in a similar manner to your weapons. Your composure flickers.

A shade of red follows and it isn't from blood lust; anger becomes your new galaxy.

"I'll get her too, even if you break every bone in my fucking body," a crimson blaze displaces the eerie calm before the storm. "And if I can't? Then I suppose being known as the one who murdered Jacinta Salazar's sister isn't the worst thing to find myself burning in hell for."

She'll only ever be Jacinta Salazar's sister. Just as you'll only ever be the man who murdered. You decide you like it.

You break the deadlock and with a scream you lash out, spear point scarlet and arcing down towards her bleeding form.

a e s o n

You taste ruby when your ski pole opens a new gorge across her thigh, a spray of blood spatters the ground as you stumble and catch yourself on the point of your spear.

You've bitten your tongue, and the sting feels insignificant; the taste of your own blood against your tongue drowns out any apparent pain you must feel. This isn't ichor, you remind yourself, such a taste doesn't belong with a monsters and demons. If it hadn't been for the pain pulsating through your wrist and leg and the sting of her tongue making its way beneath your skin, you might've smiled. At the sight of true ichor spilling down your spear, forming an iron valley of shattering lifelines along the ground. Instead you've bitten your tongue, you're chewing on the inside of your cheek and grinding your teeth.

”I didn’t think you were the type to believe in fairy tales,” she clicks her forked tongue, her breathing labored and ragged. She's lost her bite. "You’re not going to hell when you die. You’re going to disappear." You don't turn to look at her, you just stare at the crimson valley forming at your feet, you ignore the dull pain pulsating through your wrist and leg.

("You will never be eternal, Aeson.")

You never wanted to be, for it was never the concept of a blank gravestone never drove you the edge of madness. You've always been another rusty cog, grinding at the to function the power of a crime ring and become an embodiment of chaos; once you faded they would simply crown another. You never wanted to be eternal, you never cared if you would disappear. You didn't want an eternity, there is no forever for you.

Six years old; you almost died for that fairy tale.

You remember counting your protruding ribs, eyes staring at the stars and wondering if one would fall for you -- you remember what it meant to see hell. Torn scripture told you there was a hell, you read words you never had the privilege of believing. You just wanted to break bread; let me be a glutton, then.

There could be a special place in hell waiting for you; but everyone you've silenced never tells you if it exists or not.

Her words sound before you've heard her footsteps.

"I’d love to be the girl who made you disappear."

You silence your own scream, even through the intruding metal tearing your flesh and spilling shades of torment across your eyes. You let out a harsh grunt, the wind knocked from your lungs and your composure shaken at the touch of your life's blood soaking into your skin. It spills down your back, forming a crimson vale against your skin and soaking into your sweat. You're seeing double when you look down, two ski poles, two Es and two As.

A stupid design stitched over where your heart should be.

When you turn to face her, bloodshot eyes and all, you do not see ichor dripping from her crampons.

Just a bittersweet shade of agony.

"No one truly disappears," you manage standing up straight. You let the pain seep into your voice, you do not hide that you feel. "And trust me, with everything I've done over my lifetime, I'm definitely haunting someone's dreams. I've definitely left scars on someone's skin. People have suffered, are suffering, and it's all thanks to me. It feels good, to have all this blood on my hands."

Despite the pain tearing through your body, you force yourself to smile. Dead stars in your eyes reignite to scarlet light. You've left a blood trail worth seeing on this infinite expanse.

"Not even you'll disappear, because I'm going to feel this until someone drags themselves over to me and tries to finish me off." You focus on the swelling in your wrist, the pulsating pain in your left leg. Anything to distract yourself from the tear in your flesh.

You spit, a mixture of green and red spatters the space between you. Your forced grin turns into a sneer.

"But if you want to make me disappear so bad, then you're going to have to try a lot harder than that." Held by agony, yet driven by blood lust, your spear moves to tear a dynasty down, something eternal.

"Now look into my eyes and fucking fight."

You come for this hollow kingdom of hers.

a e s o n

You leave another signature along her skin and the silence that follows is deafening. You expect to see a forked tongue again, for venom laced in her words to tear at your loose skin and another scarlet trail to leave broken bones in its wake. Balancing on your ski pole, you tend a precious line between death and limbo; you wait to see Violet's fangs. Dive into your skin like they had a moment prior and they drew a scarlet galaxy from your back.

You listen for the deceleration of your wheel.

For the taste of hellfire and brimstone, for blank irises and scarlet pain to bloom from your skin. You told her how you wanted it -- (look into my eyes and fucking fight) because there's nothing more beautiful than the red vines wrapping around your skin. Nothing better than the flicker that passes through someone's eyes; defiance, fear and agony. Violetta Salazar is a beautiful thing and you want to see her wilt. Yet her words don't tear at loose skin, her crampon's don't shatter bone. "Why does it feel good?"

No forked tongue, no venom tearing at your skin. You stop, silence broken by your labored breathing and your mind is plagued by contemplation. The malice in your eyes flicker for a second and your mind drift to Euley. Just for a moment.

"I--"

you

"It just--"

you stop yourself; this isn't a redemption story. But the sneer across your lips fades, her words stop tearing at your skin and you're left biting at an agony beneath the surface of your flesh. You stare down the bleeding form and Violetta Salazar and balance yourself steady. These words are not acidic, yet they find a way to burn all the same.

"There’s so much to live for, and you picked all of this. Does it really make you happy?"

So much to live for, and you chose to die for a hell you don't know even exists.

You don't cry out when her torture device connects with your collar bone, but you catch yourself in the face of death's defiance. Her fangs don't sink into your skin, but you suspect a shade of black and blue blooms from the spot she kissed with her fangs. You balance yourself, biting the inside of your cheek and pulling your spear and aiming the point towards Violet's bleeding form.

You don't see a forked tongue, you don't see a pair of fangs; you just see a girl. Like Euley, like Aeryn. Her grimace flickers, every wound tearing itself open at every labored breath and movement. You don't feel the pull to justify yourself, to question the blood on your hands but she sees you. As if she sees all the ts left uncrossed, all the loose ends left and the scripture burned beneath your skin. A suicide pact drenched in hellfire stole your chance for vengeance.

You suffered for something you couldn't see, now you hold the threads of fate in your hands. Death becomes your sword and broken screams are the center of your orbit; you never questioned why something so vile drove your heliocentric movement.

This isn't a redemption story, but you limp towards Violet anyway. Willing her words to pull at loose skin, you don't see a broken kingdom in this moment, you don't hear a dynasty shattering. "I've suffered Violet," you died for a fairy tale when you were six years old. You run on gears and rusty cogs now, you move to the burn of hellfire. This isn't a redemption story. "But I put myself back together," you put yourself back together into whatever this is. "I think it's only fair that everyone gets a glimpse of what it means to break."

Spear in hand, time rewind; you're six years old again.

("You're not a good man, Aeson Kight.")

"I enjoy it because that's just who I am."

She doesn't kick and she doesn't scream and yet she refuses to throw her death at your feet. Because no one's death is yours to hold, not anymore.

"I don't expect you to understand."

You'll try to take it anyway.