Scars

[Fallon]

87th Winter 514 AV
The bells of the night

Tobacco, she could smell the tobacco again. It always seemed to drift, hovering just there so close but out of reach. Lingering with the narcotic sweetness that lured the senses and tickled teasingly at them. She exhaled, the rippling smoke as gentle wisps, the faint curling as the white edges plucked against the darkness, and then, finally withdrew once more. But beyond that there was nothing more than the low lying gloom, the barest flickering of a light somewhere within the inky blackness. There was sound, of course, the ever clunk and clink of chains and metal. The heavy foot falls somewhere far off in the distance, the faint rumble of a war cry further on - only for it to be snuffed out by the wind and the whispers of torment that came with it. She was tired, she felt that with every foot fall that she took, the increasing dragging of weight as she stepped, her form struggling as she tried to pull on further.

But still Fallon walked on, carry the load of the past upon her shoulders and having it shackle its way to her. There was the mighty clap noise once more, the heavens rolling with the thunder off into the distance. She still marched, not stopping to look up, the torn form barely held together now. A limp hand gripped around the kukri hilt, the edge cracked and splintering, the hilt wrapped tightly in place by an impromptu binding. Upwards, the rough bandaging upon exposed and broken skin - weeping and sweltering, the smoke drifting and hovering across almost in an attempt to mask. The shirt was in tatters, the black, inky, rivulets running down and bringing it to stick. It continued, bare feet caressing stone as she walked, the raw rubbings upon her ankles, the scraped flesh and the more unique exposed to the world - stinging and hurting.

Light flickered in the distance once more. Barely a flame but all so apparent in the darkness - piercing out and giving a flash of illumination before it disappeared once more. Fallon staggered, her other hand yanking upon the scruff of the white fur, torn and ripped, the edges crumbling and degrading with every step. And it was behind her that the shouting taunts came, winds that raced forwards and tried to pull her back, yanking upon the weighted chains, jerking and juddering as she braced against them.

They were coming. She could hear it, niggling in the back of the mind. What reason this time she did not know. The only thing she was certain of was that she needed to escape, break the bonds and get out. Her mind blurred, another pulled step forward, foot arching as she dragged herself, will power being the only thing now to pull her forward. Already she could feel the sensation once more, scratching, the skin prickling, muscle contracting. Dripping sounded, the rhythm growing louder and more sounded with every step, black streaking across the grey, hissing, pouring out into shapes and words, a convoluted reflection of the mind. Knees gave in, a buckle as shins struck against rock and the body throbbed. The kukri gave a clatter to the ground, lost from the hold at last, but the knuckles tightened around the fur, gripping and refusing to let go - defiant or refusal of the truths that had unfolded.

It would stop, eventually, she reasoned as the gloom darkened and closed in. The eyes peered up from her brow, the plume of white smoke once more escaping her lips. It rolled, dissipating into nothing, the tobacco scent being smothered bit by bit, metal, iron, copper, the cold nothing, sterile and without warmth. She had to fight, she had to rise up that one last time. Push them back, rid herself of those that came to harm. It was all she could do now, the last bit of strength she could surrender before it became too much. Her hand patted over the hilt of the kukri, and the form was forced one last time into rising, her chin tilting and gaze looking to the dancing silhouettes.

"Come on then. Bring it."

[Johanne]

Everything was salmon pink.

Johanne looked through eyes that seemed reluctant to open, and simply took it for what it was: even here, in these dark halls, where light barely pierced the gloom, a sense of pinkness surrounded her. She could feel the hue creeping up her arms, staining her skin. She could smell roses, apples, fires. She could taste the pink. She was becoming pink.

All of a sudden, panic. Her footfalls could be heard through the passage ways, beating a frenzied thrum against the cold stone. Where was she, why was she in the gloom? She recognised nothing around her, just dark shadows across stone halls, occasionally a torch flickering around a corner. The pink rose up her throat, she could feel it inching upwards, threatening to reach her nose and mouth and plunge inside of her, staining her. But how does one outrun colour?

As she ran, she dug her fingers into her palm, clenching her little fists tight, leaving half moons in her flesh. But the sting was greater than usual. Hissing, she drew to a sudden halt, looking down at her hands. Her nails had become razor sharp. Almost without feeling the pain, she pressed one fingernail to her flesh, hard and steady, and it sliced deep, deep, deep. She kept pressing, until without feeling any pain, blood dripping endlessly onto the floor, she pushed her nail right through the other side.

Laughing, Johanne began to run again, scraping her fingers up and down her arms, leaving frenzied, deep cuts all down her forearm. Right as she reached her fingernails to her throat, intending to cut the pink from her skin, she turned a corner, and there stood a woman, pale-skinned, dark-haired, obviously in pain, with a weapon drawn.

But before she could say anything, she heard an all-too-familiar voice behind her.

"Oh, Johanne. What on earth has happened to you?" Johanne whirred around, and there, just behind her, standing in her trail of blood, stood Joseph--tall, muscular, dark-haired, and scarred as ever. Though now he possessed one significant addition: scarred carefully across his windpipe were the letters Johanne.

"Pathetic."

And all Johanne could do was bleed. Bleed, and laugh, and become pink.

x

[Fallon]

Noise, she heard the noise of pattering feet, of beating soles and running. Ripping, tripping over edges, the sting and cuts throbbing all too clearly. The words gave a whisper, the darkness juddering and swirling as she watched it. The black flowed, the hissing crackle as she watched the edges thrum in shades, bleeding through into a different colours. Shadows twisted, her feet stepping forward, the eyes darting across as the trail thinned. But still the wind blew, shifting and moving, whispering and clawing upon her as the steps came closer and the laughter echoed through the scene. Closer, encroaching, the kukri was brought back in reflex as the scene seemed to ripple before her eyes and a woman peeled forth into sight.

Skin peeled, flaking as her form shuddered at the sight, the groaning voice of another crawling forth, bleeding and trailing out across the ground. It caused hesitation, striking arm jerking and halting, almost as if something had stopped it. Air was driven from her, the questions resting upon her consciousness, alertness hammering hard and her mind snapping round. Behind her she could see the shadows dripping forth into bodies, lining up, the inky black upon their hands reach ever closer, the darkened sockets where the eyes would lay staring forth. Her fingers tightened around the fur, holding it closer against her, alarm animating as she found herself backing away from the more obvious danger.

"Danger. Danger, Danger!" her voice picked up in loudness, cutting through the laughter as she waved the blade at the approaching shadows. Her enemies, her fears manifesting and returning for her, "We need to leave! We need to leave now!" One of them gave a swipe at her, the rest of her moving back as she stared at it. She needed to run, she needed to hide, she needed to escape. Pulling upon the reserves, the cuts cracking and the bleeding ink dribbling forth, dripping and flowing across the stone. Her form staggered as she tried to lurch away, toes snagging and tripping.

Her back hurt, she could feel the carving sensation once more as one of the shadow hands grasped upon her. Digging ripping into the muscle and focused only at pulling her back into the darkness. Swinging her arm away she shouted, the howling voice rumbling from her throat, "Run! Get out of here!" The would take and break her, they knew no mercy, they would not stop, "Go on! Go! Before it's too late!" She hacked the kukri at one of the shadowy limbs, the mind slowly slipping into a state she knew well, survival, "Save yourself!"

[Johanne]

Johanne was torn between laughing at the man she felt more than love for—devotion, perhaps, or desperation, or even something unnamed—and flinging herself to the ground before him. She was about to do so, to bleed onto his feet, an all-too-literal virgin sacrifice to a man she considered a god, when the woman behind her irritatingly called out, interrupted. She turned back to chastise her, when she noticed something strange.

The woman was brandishing her strange weapon at the shadows, and the shadows were becoming people, and even they, to Johanne, were stained pink. The reddened gloom seemed to drip down from the cracks in the ceiling to the floor, and as the drops touched the floor, they seemed to freeze, becoming people, becoming memories, becoming things. These shadowy-pink shapes kept reaching out for the woman, and to Johanne it seemed loving, sensual. But the pale-skinned bleeding woman was panicked, attacking the shadows, screaming out to run, to save herself.

”Go to her, love,” she heard Joseph whisper behind her. She shuddered in ecstasy as his hands reached out and touched her back, pushing her closer and closer towards the frenzied woman. ”Show her.” She did not question, she simply did as she was told, and she did it in ecstasy. Still, the pink rose up her skin, and now she would feel it lapping at her eyelids, but somehow, with Joseph there with her name scarred across his jugular, she felt warmth, she felt pleasure, almost sexual, at the rising pink.

“Fool,” she said, warmly, gently, to the woman. She reached out her razor-sharp nails, happened to catch on to the woman’s wrist as the other hand brandished the weapon at the pink pink shadows. Dimly, Johanne noted that the woman felt so much more real and alive than Joseph did, but she did not question it. It was not up to her what a god should feel like. “Do not panic. Let the red take you. Here, I will help.”

Johanne took the sword-like nail of her first finger and pressed it almost lovingly to one of the inky cuts already on the woman’s body. The blood welled and flowed further. “What would you like? I can make you into art.”

”Well done, my love,” Joseph’s voice echoed through the caverns, and Johanne flushed pink with pleasure.

x

[Fallon]

Fallon did not hear the hum of conversation that went between the pair. Her attention was focused on hacking away the shadows, her eyes wide with fear. The shadows broke in wisps, a whispered scream of pain ripping into her ears making her only flinch back. They were coming, they were here as a wall of bodies, piling up and staring her down. The rage and hate incarnate, the poisons of the past looking to drag her back down into the depths. The colours bled into each other, those steps away as she held the fur within her dark, slick fingers close. Her gaze turned when she felt the iced, chilling grip tracing across her flesh.

Air was ripped from her, the entire form tensing as she felt the sensation sink in. Grip weakening around the kukri hilt - she could not drop it, could not let it go, not yet. Could she? Her lip gave a tremble, a cruel realisation sinking into her. Her voice spoke, growing fainter as the nails came into display, "You're one of them aren't you? You're going to-"

Fallon howled in pain, the hide lost upon her grasp and fluttering to the floor. It dug deeper, piercing and consuming, filling her veins with something much worse than simple pain. Wrenching agony, flooding up through her as she tried to pull back and fight against it. But the grip was strong, refusing to seemly give or let go. She heard the laughter, the jeering of fool slicing through.

"Let go! Let go!" Fallon cried, trying to pull her arm free. The shadows closed in, her knees beginning to give and sag beneath her and loose strength as it dug in. She could barely think, her breaths gasping as she finally collapsed, arm still held high and within the woman's grasp. There was no tilting up of the head, no looking back up to the woman, just the quiet, gasping beg. Her eyes stung, her voice whimpering, "Please. Stop. Stop. Let me go... Please. No more... No more." The shadows rolled and grasped around her legs, vines growing round and rooting her in place, "I can't do it anymore. It hurts! Stop! Stop!"

A weak tug, the kukri fell from her grasp as turned the hold onto the other arm. Grasping and pulling, she looked only now to release herself no matter what. And so she continued to pull, even with the sickly voice of whoever it was humming behind, digging into her, "No more torture! No more Scars! No more of your perceived and perverse art!" Fallon sobbed, "Just let me go... please."