ninefox | Until We Have Faces

Entry tags:

fives,
psl

Until We Have Faces

Krell had to pin him with the Force to get him on the altar, and not gently. The back of his head might be bleeding, but it's hard to tell: the antechamber already smells of iron. The whole station is a bristling-black hulk of ancient ore, nickel and iron and ice and stone. The lack of anything resembling alloys or right angles makes it feel horribly unreliable, not a machine guaranteed to keep the air in, but an ancient brooding piece of debris untouched by the steadiness of engineers. It did have an airlock, that Krell and a few shame-faced clone guards shuffled him through, and iced-over doors somewhere in the dimness of their crisscrossed headlamps that must lead back into the warren of Ninefox Point.

The benighted promontory did not orbit so much as a brown dwarf or black hole: it was a rogue planetoid, drifting through the ragged stretches of starless, lifeless space. Here, old Strife, the Dark Side of War, had been confined ever since the ascendancy of the Jedi, noble Combat, and the rest of the Light pantheon. But even reviled and relegated Gods were due certain honors, and retained certain powers - and certain appetites. And Krell - who had his own suspicions about the future of that ascendancy - had come to give Strife his due and be rid of his most vexing problem in one blow.

It's pitch-black with him and the others gone. The heavy magnetic manacles embedded in the alter are utterly immovable; the stone beneath him is pitted and rough and cold, almost untouched since the creation of the universe - except, of course, for all the sacrifices that have come before.

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Fives doesn't even rush, he just crouches smoothly down and reaches unerringly for one of the largest, sharpest shards of glass in the wreckage. He picks it up with a kind of automatic care that's ridiculous, given what he means to do with it, but doesn't so much as nick his fingers as he finds a good grip, turns it deftly, then drives it without hesitation for his jugular. His aim is true and he knows exactly how much force such a blow requires, he should bleed out in seconds from the wound.

There's a slam of impact and silence, like being to close to a pressure grenade, although he isn't in pain.

When Fives blinks his eyes open, he's on his back on the floor, cold water seeping around him. A small, dark brindled fox is sitting on his chest; it feels like it weighs as much as a small spaceship. It's teeth are digging into Fives' wrist, which is completely numb. He has pins and needles ricocheting down his arm. He still has the piece of glass in his hand; his neck doesn't even sting.

Somewhere nearby, Marten is muttering, "Oh no, oh no, oh no," over and over.

Fives stares up at the creature and then wrenches at his arm, trying to rip it out of the beast's mouth at the same time that he reaches up with the other hand to try and grab it by the scruff and toss it away. He doesn't care about the numbness or the pins and needles, he doesn't care that the beast feels infinitely heavier than it has any right to be, he just cares about his goal.

"Let me kriffing go," he snarls at it.

It bites down harder; the tingling intensifies, and when the fox opens its mouth, Fives' arm falls away into the water, paralyzed to the shoulder. The hand that reaches into the fox's ruff feels like it's burning, and like it's trying to catch hold of a flame, like there's nothing there to grab at all. The fox puts one coal-black paw on that shoulder, and that arm falls uselessly as well.

It leans forward, so that they're almost nose to nose.

"You promised our Lord on his own altar that you would stop hurting yourself," the Fox murmurs in a low rumble. It's not quite the God's voice, but it resembles it a good deal more than Marten's continuing squeaks of dismay. "That promise will be enforced."

Fives howls in rage as his arms fall useless, blood from where the glass cut deep into his palm spreading and mingling with the water on the ground. He doesn't even remember what the fox is referencing at first, he's exhausted and muddled and focused only on ending this.

"That's a load of osik," he snarls, trying to remember what he could possibly have said that would be taken that way. When he does remember a moment later it doesn't, as far as he's concerned, change anything. "I didn't promise a damn thing to the kriffing demagolka you serve."

"You can lie to yourself about it all you like, but it won't convince anyone, and it won't get you out of it," the Fox tells him, sounding unimpressed.

Marten, meanwhile, has carefully made his way to Fives' bloody hand, and is carefully licking the cut. His tongue feels warm and good, a spot of gentleness among the cold numbness.

"I'm not the one doing the lying," he snarls at it. "Just because I gave up then because there was no point doesn't mean I promised I'd give up forever."

He tries to roll over and toss it off him, indifferent to the dozens of glass splinters embedded in his back, or the still oozing wounds at his wrists and ankles. "And leave me the fuck alone!" he barks, turning to the little ferret. He doesn't want anything to feel good or gentle. He doesn't want anything of this place other than to not be here, by any means necessary.

Marten whimpers and scampers away - up onto Fives' torso, actually, hiding behind the fox.

"You're such a pushover," the fox mutters, and Marten climbs onto its back and peers over the shoulder of one haunch, looking at Fives with wet, beady eyes. "He's so upset, Toast," Marten says softly. "Isn't there some way we could - could go easy on him?"

"You know there isn't," the Fox snaps. "You think I want to be the mean one? I fucking don't. But kits have got to learn."

"I'm not a kriffing kit," he snaps in frustration and rage, trying to thrown the creature off again. He's naked and bleeding and exhausted and imprisoned, and he can't even find the release of death while these strange beings sit there and argue over him like he's not even there.

"Yes, you are," says Toast, but he sounds tired more than anything. He lowers his head, sitting curled up on Fives chest, nose almost at his chin.

"You don't get it. His domain is confined to the stone of Ninefox Point now, but it is His domain. He is still a god, no matter what's been done to Him, and His will rules here. He doesn't want you to die, so you won't. All that's going to happen is He decides that giving you a respite from His presence isn't actually something you're enjoying, and then He'll stay with you all the time. Is that what you want?"

The worst part may be that by the end, it sounds like an honest question.

"So that's my choice?" he snarls. "Playacting at being happy to be imprisoned here, soiled and dishonored, or endure being directly under his thumb?"

He huffs out a breath, trying to maintain his anger rather than giving in to despair and fear. "Maybe at least then I could piss him off enough to kill me," he adds, almost under his breath.

"Nah, He likes you feisty," says a new voice, with an amused, squawking tenor, from somewhere Fives can't see.

"Don't be a bitch, Thief," Marten scolds, popping up for a moment before ducking back down behind Toast's protective bulk. "Anyway you don't have to pretend to be happy. You can be mad. You hurt us, if you want to."

"Speak for yourself," Thief interjects.

"...just not yourself," Toast finishes.

"Get the hell off me!" he snaps, his anger crumbling dangerously towards despair. "Get off me and leave me the hell alone." He just wants them to go, doesn't want anyone staring at him and judging him as he falls apart.

"We obviously can't trust you on your own," Toast points out, much too reasonably.

"What about in his quarters?" suggests Marten, tentatively. "It's not like here."

"Bang his head on the walls, probably," Thief puts in. "Wouldn't you, firecracker?"

"You're not helping," Toast growls at him.

He closes his eyes and makes himself breathe, makes himself keep the howl that wants to break free behind his clenched teeth. It's getting harder to ignore all the ways that he hurts, as if the despair of not being able to end his miserable excuse for a life is just magnifying them, and the one that's the worst is from the violation he didn't just endure, but was weak and corrupt enough to welcome last night.

"Go to hell," he finally whispers, without opening his eyes, and turns his head away.

"This is hell, hotshot," says Thief matter-of-factly, and there's a plapping sound of webbed feet in shallow water, and a clink of glass as the gull wades in to clean up the pieces.

"Will you tell us about the outside?" Marten asks in a small voice. "Er....someday?"

His breath shudders out despite his best efforts to keep it steady, but he doesn't open his eyes or look at the creatures. What feels like mockery from the ones called Thief and toast is just what he expects, but something about the way the little one, who's name he hasn't heard yet, keeps trying to be kind, just makes everything worse. They're his jailers, and he owes them nothing. So he keeps his face turned away and stays silent.

They're all quiet for a little while; the chill of the water fades away, and the heat of Toast on his chest seems to radiate through him, easing some of the muscle aches. His hand, though still tingly, seems to be already healed - although the wounds left by the manacles and the God's bites are not.

"Apparently you don't think promises to gods matter, just because you made them during a difficult moment," Toast says eventually. "So I would like you to promise me that I if I let you up and take you to your room and give you privacy there, you won't make me derelict in my duty to look after you by harming yourself, let's say, until the next time He comes to you."

After that they can renegotiate.

He drifts for a while, focusing on the pain to try and keep the despair from welling up too strongly, trying to ignore the creatures' presence even as Toast's warmth soaks into him. He means to keep ignoring them, but at the fox's words his head whips around and his eyes snap open.

"I didn't promise that bastard anything," he snarls. "And I'm not promising you anything either."

"Guess we'll just fucking sit here then," Toast growls back grumpily.

Fives turns his face away again and resumes his silence, there's no point in anything else. He's not promising them anything and he's not begging for anything. He'll rot in place before he gives them that.

"Could we just carry him over?" Marten asks timidly after a little while. "He can't like being exposed out here."

"Could I, you mean," Toast grouses.

"Well, you're clearly having a great time as it is," Marten points out, a little snarkier than he's managed so far.

"Uhg. Fine. But you're staying with him. And I'm staying outside the door. Getting summoned halfway across the Point like that hurt."

It wasn't that he'd been there before, and Fives missed him; the attempt itself brought Toast down on him. The fox pads off him, although the weight and numbness hardly abates. At first it seems like a trick of perspective; the Fox is hug because its footfalls are so close. But then Toast picks Fives up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten, and Fives' whole body dangles, relaxed and utterly limp as Toast moves, smooth and massive as a gliding spaceship, through the open vault of the training ground before wriggling through the door, Marten bounding in a tiny streak below.

He panics a little, then. Or maybe panics more is the right way to put it, because everything since the airlock had closed behind Krell, leaving him in this alien and forbidding place has just been varying flavors of panic. But the feeling of his entire body being beyond his control, dangling in the jaws of the massive creature that had, just moments before, been small enough to perch on his chest, makes him feel almost as helpless and as trapped as he'd been when the monster that rules his place had swallowed him whole. He can't quite bite back a whimper as his eyes snap open again so at least he can confirm he's not surrounded by that endless, blank darkness as he sways in the thing's grip.

"I don't like it when he carries me like that either," Marten says apologetically from below, scurrying along the uneven floor of the cavernous crystal-lit corridors. "But it's not for very long! It's going to be okay, you'll see."

Fives ignores Marten and swallows down bitter bile at being so utterly helpless and vulnerable, at being nothing more than a thing for these creatures to do with as they see fit. He's not going to pretend anything about this will ever be okay, or be lured into trying to reassure the anxious little creature. It's probably just putting on a show anyway, pretending it cares to try and get him to cooperate.

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