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 goes very still as the door reforms and he's trapped inside with the creature despite his efforts to avoid just that. His fists clench and unclench and he takes a few slow, deep breaths as he fights down the urge to just kick the little thing across the room. He knows duty, and it's not fair to take his rage out on someone else with no more choice or control than he has.

"Nothing," he growls when he finally feels like he can say something without howling in despair. He ignores the pastry and the water and heads straight for the alcove, trying not to limp or let just how worn and damaged he is show. At least it's small enough it might feel like privacy, he hopes, and he crawls awkwardly in and collapses, facing away from the room and trying not to think about the deep, throbbing ache in his ass that seems magnified tenfold without the sharper, more immediate pain of the glass shards to focus on.

Marten gives a small, whistling sigh.

"You and Him both," he mutters, in a very small voice, although it isn't really true, he's sure, of either of them. He doesn't follow Fives inside the alcove, wiggling onto a shelf and curling up there instead, doing his best to wait.

Fives doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't come out, though his labored breathing makes it clear he's not resting either. Certainly not sleeping.

Before Krell locked him in solitary he'd hardly been alone in his life, even as a cadet they'd often courted disciplinary action to share their sleeping tubes, and since then he's shared massive barracks quarters with anywhere from a dozen to a hundred of his brothers. Being cut off like this, alone and abandoned and disgraced, is more than he thinks he can bear. At least before he'd expected it to be short-lived, even if the end he'd expected had been his death, but now it appears he's meant to go on like this endlessly, existing for the pleasure of the monster he's been threatened with his entire short life, and the only defiance he seems able to offer is to refuse to cooperate in any way.

He's dehydrated enough he doesn't have to piss, and he's been fed little enough the last few weeks, and even that just their standard field rations that they process nearly one hundred percent without waste, so he doesn't have to deal with the added humiliation of soiling himself as he simply lies there, refusing to engage. Refusing to eat or drink or do anything to help prolong his existence. Maybe he can't hurt himself, but he won't do anything to sustain his life either.

After a few hours, there's a soft rustling and a dimming of the light as Marten unties the little bows holding up the curtain. Then he slips inside and curls up on the same pillow as Fives' head. By combination of coincidence, gravity, and Fives' adamant choice to keep his back turned, the warm little lump of Marten's body slides down a bit so that he's nestled against the back of Fives' neck.

Edited 2019-09-22 07:48 (UTC)

He goes stiff at the intrusion, not that he'd been relaxed before.

When he tries to speak, at first all that comes out is a croaking rasp, and he swallows twice and licks dry lips with a not much moister tongue before trying again. "Go away," he manages, his voice cracked and unsteady and barely audible.

"Please at least have some water?" Marten begs, uncurling and scooting a little on the pillow so they aren't touching, although the pillow itself jiggles slightly as he wiggles fretfully.

"No. Leave me alone," is his only response. That and a hand reaching behind Fives' head to try and push him off the pillow and out of the alcove entirely, despite the faint, betraying feeling of comfort at having the little creature's warmth close by, as proof that he's not completely alone.

Marten is just as soft as Fives wondered; there's a tiny thump as he slides out of the alcove and lands on the floor, followed after a moment by the almost-inaudible skittering of his paws.

Fives' breath shudders unevenly for a while after that, as he fights back a panic attack. He's alone. Alone and abandoned, dishonored and soiled and imprisoned, and he can't even claim it's not true anymore. Not after he gave himself to that thing.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself despite the way it makes the ache in his ass go sharp, and the fresh trickle of what he hopes is blood down his thighs. He just thanks the Lady for how dehydrated he is, or he thinks he might humiliate himself further with tears.

It's a long time before anything happens; for a little while, there's a soft wheezy sound of Marten snoring somewhere nearby, and then in fades again.

Finally, the dim light trickling through the curtain dims again sinks over the space of several seconds into total darkness once again.

"My Lord! I'm so sorry, but he wouldn't -" squeaks the little voice; the God only says "Out, Marten." He scampers as fast as Fives has heard so far, and there's the sound of the door closing after him.

Fives is mostly quiet and still as time passes, though every so often, as he starts to drift toward actual sleep, he'll shudder and jerk almost upright, any sounds quickly stifled before he lays back down in tense silence. It's when he falls towards sleep that the memory of cold and darkness seems to envelop him and become real and terrifying, so when the darkness initially falls again he tells himself that it's all in his mind, his own weakness preying on him. And then the voice comes in the darkness and his breath stutters and stops and a chill of terror runs down his spine. He's not proud of how he scrambles to face the room, as if that will let him see the terror looming there on the darkness, as if that will somehow make him safer.

He tries to speak, but all he can manage is a dry, rasping croak, his voice stolen by some combination of fear, strain and dehydration. All he can seem to do is think very pointedly at the thing, his thoughts colored by terror, despair and conviction in almost equal measure: I didn't fucking promise you anything!

"I asked you to promise me, and you agreed, however grudging and insincere. And I held up my end."

Taking off the manacles.

Weight dips the nest of cushions, and strong, wiry arms pull Fives against a human-like chest, warm and sturdy, even breathing in a familiar rhythm. "But you wouldn't be so wonderful if you weren't stubborn. It's alright."

No, is all he can think at first, in response to both the words and the touch as he struggles to pull away. He strikes instinctively for pressure points that he knows can't really exist in what's probably just a nightmare simulacrum of a body, embarrassed at how weak he is as he struggles to escape the things embrace.

Just for then, his mind supplies, even as his breath hitches and stutters with the beginnings of mindless panic. Not for always, it was just for then! Let me go! Let me die!

"No," it snaps, in a bedraggled half-animal growl, less angry than scared, almost as panicked as Fives, grabbing him tight for a moment before relaxing its hold deliberately, letting Fives squirm most of the way away, with just one hand resting somewhere on his skin, on his ribs or on a hip.

"You're greedy," it accuses, in a miserable hiss. "You're going to die someday, even I can't stop age, but I never will."

And it could almost hate Fives for that, for the fathomless bitter jealousy that fills him up like a body is filled with blood.

Edited 2019-09-22 16:40 (UTC)

Fives scrambles back as far as the narrow shelf will let him, pushing his back into one of the corners and drawing in on himself. The hand on his bare hip makes his skin crawl, and he wishes he'd bothered to dress.

"It's... not... my... fault," he manages to rasp, making himself stare into the darkness where a face that belonged to that hand might reasonably be. "Didn't make... you. Didn't... put you here."

His voice is barely audible by the end, and he gives in to the childlike terror welling up in him and presses his face to his drawn up knees. You're greedy, he thinks, bitter and angry and terrified. You want... you want someone else to suffer just because you do.

"I don't," he insists, voice soft and sulky; he lets his hand slide down until it's just fingertips on Fives' ankle bone. "I just...don't want to be alone for a little while. I want to make you happy here. It's not my fault you hate me too much to let me."

Fives answers with a bitter, strained gasp of unsteady laughter. "Happy?" It's half whisper half croak before his voice fails again.

How am I supposed to be happy, when I've lost everything that matters? He's not sure he's ever been happy, that he even knows what happiness is, but how could he ever experience it without his brothers or his purpose? How could he ever be happy trapped in this strange place with a monstrous god?

You just want... a toy. Entertainment.

"Well I don't know, but at least I haven't given up already," he mutters grumpily. "I'm damn well going to try, anyway."

There's a rustle amid the cushions as it shifts around, but ultimately doesn't come any closer. The hand cups the back of Fives' calf and strokes up and down.

"I'm a soldier too, you know," he adds, so softly that it could almost be a thought like Fives'. "No matter what's been done to me. I remember what it means to love the men beside you."

He thinks he remembers, anyway.

What starts out as another strained, almost silent laugh shifts quickly into a dry, wracking sob, and he tries to pull his leg away from the creature.

"Love," he croaks between heaving breaths. "You love-" You love their blood and their deaths and their dishonor, he thinks bitterly. God of rape and pillage and senseless slaughter. Defiler of the Dead.

"You loved your men more than your orders, and she threw you away for it," he hisses, claws digging into Fives' ankle. "She doesn't love anything but rules and obedience. I love people more than my own precious honor, I love fierce enough to cheat and betray and burn for it. You don't know anything about what I've loved."

The pain of the claws digging in is welcome, and he focuses on the burn and the hot blood coursing down his ankle. "Liar," he hisses, pushing farther, finding enough strength to keep talking in the fierce need to keep needling the creature. "Every... being who ever followed you... died... betrayed and dishonored... filthy and damned. You don't... love... you just use"

He screams, an eerie ear-splitting howl with undertones and overtones, deep vibrations that rattle Fives' ribs and shrill shrieking notes that hurt his ears. He pulls Fives back toward him by his leg, and covers over him, a writhing mass of fur and and claws and slick, smooth, cool skin. He presses a jagged, twisted face into Fives' shoulder, only half muffling the echoing yell that bounces and batters them inside the small bubble of rock.

"And who damned us," he demands, long webbed fingers clutching Fives tight. "Who stripped our banners and buried our cries and named us dishonored, who stamped us into the mud? I failed them and I pay for it every endless moment, but She's the one who uses you. Who made you for nothing but to die, who doesn't even let you have a life first, you think She ever cared about you? She doesn't. She never did, not even when you tried everything to be perfect for her, never."

Edited 2019-09-22 19:37 (UTC)

He's torn between struggling to try and get away and covering his ears against the eerie, painful howling, and in the end he does a bad job of both, finding himself pressed down into the cushions lining the little hollow of rock with the monster writhing over him. He can hardly breathe for the panic at first, as strange hands clutch him close, push him down, and when he does breathe it's in ragged, sobbing breaths. But in the end he can't let the thing's accusations stand.

"She gave us purpose!" For all the rage and pain and fear he feels his voice is still just a rasping croak, but he pushes the words out. "She made us perfect and clean and strong so we could protect those who can't protect themselves! You just destroy! You leave filth and destruction in your wake! You dishonored yourself and your followers, She brought peace and healing where you left rubble and ruin!" The peace of a drawn gun and a strictly enforced orthodoxy, but it's only right and good that anyone who dishonors Her or Her will should be punished. It's the law he's lived his life by.

The yowling whistles slowly out of him, and he's still a sliding bulk on top of Fives, but it's easier to breathe, the silence ringing almost as loudly.

"She made you with nothing else," he breathes, soft and raspy. "So you'd be grateful. So you'd be that much easier to use. Her peace isn't worth what she did to you. I'd rip it apart again no matter how many times she crushes me down."

"And kill and maim and ruin how many billions to serve your own ego?" Fives demands, though his voice is shaking and his face is turned away. "You left the whole galaxy burning in your wake. We keep people safe, we serve. We're... I-" His voice cracks into silence, his whole body quivering- "I served," he whispers brokenly. "I served Her peace. I protected Her people. I was... I was pure." And he's lost his chance to die that way, threw it away in his panic and pain.

"I just... I wanted to die serving Her. I wanted to die pure for Her. I just want to die." I want to die. Please, I just want to die.

Edited 2019-09-22 20:11 (UTC)

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