Under the scarlet sky
Chapter One
'Adult's toy'
She wasn't always like this.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago her empty eyes were filled with color. She'd been a normal human then. She'd been a normal girl with hopes and dreams-
But there are no hopes or dreams anymore.
It's been so long since she had hopes she can hardly remember what 'hope' feels like; and if she were to stand under the night sky and see a shooting star, she wouldn't know what to wish for.
She… … wouldn't bother wishing for anything at all.
Wishes are based on miracles; and if the probability of your dream rests at zero then it will never come true. That's not pessimism, that's logic; and logic, unlike emotions, is infallible.
Even so, a heartless girl like her, she'd… had dreams.
A long time ago.
She'd been less intelligent then- and certainly more naïve- but (and she can hardly remember, she's just guessing) she was happier then.
They poked out her old eyes out with something sharp- and with her life-lit eyes they'd taken those hopes and dreams and crushed them between their fingertips.
She had new eyes now- and a new way of looking at things.
She doesn't dream anymore.
She doesn't like doing pointless things.
Her eyes and cold and empty now, like husks, and they're unnerving; people don't look at her in the eye anymore.
… …Her eyes had been pretty once.
Maybe they still were.
Lambda always said they were pretty.
Then again, Lambda said everything about Bern was pretty- and Bernkastel didn't believe a word of it. Lambdadelta was such a liar. Every word that came from her mouth was rotten; a crumbled mass of decay and disease underneath a sugar-coated surface.
'I love you, Bernkastel~' so light and sugary sweet, dripping from Lambda's tongue like thick, saccharine, scalding honey.
Without 'love' it could not be seen, but Lambda had never 'loved' anybody other than herself. When she pressed herself closer to Bernkastel and dragged her pink, cat-like tongue down Bern's neck- leaving trails of saliva and kisses and obvious lies ('I love you, Bernkastel~') that stung like poison against pale skin- it wasn't out of 'love'.
None of it was out of 'love'.
Lambdadelta didn't know how to love.
She knew how to lie instead.
Lambda's affections were a way to stave off boredom. When the two lonely witches, forever trapped in children's bodies, pressed one another close and began to untie ribbons and undo clothes it was easier to convince each other- convince themselves (selfish; they were both so selfish)- that they weren't quite so alone.
They were still alive. The touch of foreign fingertips and lips on lips and purple-black bruises was proof of that.
They were still alive, and they had each other, and everything was fine.
Everything was-
Oh, look.
Another lie.
Every poisonous, playful word that dripped from Lambda's lips was a lie; oozing from her mouth like sewage spewing from an over-full trash can.
'Without love it cannot be seen'.
Perhaps Bern had been able to 'see' once- but her eyes are dead and empty now, and she doesn't think she could even if she tried.
Lambda lies all the time- but that's alright.
Bernkastel doesn't mind.
After all, she never tells the truth either.
Maybe, in another time, another place, another world (another fragment?), Lambda could say 'I love you' to Bernkastel and mean it. But this is not that time, nor that place, nor that world.
Bernkastel has seen more fragments than any human could imagine. If she weren't so very old she would feel overwhelmed; but Bernkastel (despite her unchanging features- stuck in stasis, like a doll) is not a child.
She's not even a human being.
And yet, although Bernkastel picks apart worlds with her fingertips- tearing them at the seams to expose the tender organs nestled inside, as a vulture would tear at dry bone for the dead flesh- Bernkastel has never found a universe where Lambda is able to look her in the eye and says 'I love you', and truly mean it.
Maybe such a world does not exist.
Maybe Lambda is incapable of 'love'.
It doesn't matter though, reasons Bernkastel, as Lambda tears at her dress. The fabric gets caught in Bern's hair and Lambda's not patient- she was never patient. She's so much like a selfish child; her face flushed with some sick, self-satisfied pleasure as she tugs harder and harder at Bern's dress and gets knots in Bern's pretty hair. Lambda doesn't treat Bern lovingly. Lambda isn't gentle, and she doesn't savour the moment.
Sometimes, Bern thinks Lambda treats her favourite strawberry cheesecake with more compassion than she does with her. Bern has seen Lambda on numerous occasions, sat in the sunlight like a cat, with a fork between her lips; a stupid smile on her face as the taste of cake dances across her tongue.
But Lambda is never that patient with Bernkastel.
Lambda doesn't eat Bern like a strawberry cheesecake. Instead, Lambda attacks her- tearing her apart; almost as if she wants to grind down her bones and mix their blood and inhale her into her body.
Lambda is rough and over-hasty and impatient- her fingers clawing lines into Bern's skin until it bleeds, her mouth attacking Bernkastel's in a frantic frenzy.
Bern always remains aloof.
"would you eat cake like that, Lambda? Your table manners sicken me."
But Lambda only grins her small, cat-like grin; lips quirking up, eyes sparkling wickedly, as she bites down against Bern's neck or her shoulder- sometimes even her exposed breasts- and her fingertips trail fire across Bern's too-pale skin.
"I love you. I love you more than cake, Be~rn~ How can I help myself?"
But that's not love.
Lambda's fingers tear at Bern's flesh, tangle in her hair- pressing their lips together greedily as though she wants to eat up every single part of Bernkastel.
That's not love.
It's not 'tender'.
It's thick and it's heavy and it's oppressive- and sometimes it hurts.
It's… an obsession.
A sick, unhealthy obsession.
Sometimes Bernkastel thinks Lambda wants to hurt her because Lambda's fingernails dig with just a little too much strength into her scalp, and she crashes their mouths together so their teeth clink together like china, and she attacks Bern's body with her teeth and tongue so forcefully Bern's pale skin bruises dark purple.
Just like her eyes.
Empty bruises in her pale skin; cold and emotionless and dead, like a drowned girls'.
Hurting other people isn't an unnecessary evil, though.
It's a coping mechanism.
A way to forget your own pain.
When cruelty is your only protection against the universe- when drawing blood and eliciting moans from the person in your bed is the only way of reassuring yourself you still and exist and you're still alive and you still matter because, look, you're hurting somebody; somebody's heart is breaking because of you- then you're left with no choice.
You have to be cruel.
Bernkastel knows this better than anyone. Better, even, than Lambda.
Bernkastel hides behind haughty expressions and empty-eyed staring. Her face is absent of childish innocence because she boxed all that clutter up- hid it under the creaking floorboards of her mind- years and years ago.
Lambdadelta is openly cruel, with twisted smiles and eager eyes. Lambda wrenches her fingers in and out of Bern's body, her eyes staring a hole into Bern's face; waiting for the point when Bern's icy façade shatters and she bucks her hips, forgets herself, and moans 'I love you too'.
Lambdadelta can wait until the world ends- but Bern will never comply with her wishes.
Bern will never return her 'love'.
Lambdadelta might be cruel, but Bernkastel is even crueller.
Bernkastel never tries to cause Lambda pain, and she doesn't fight for dominance when Lambda's hands fall upon her exposed skin, and she doesn't push Lambda away when the blonde witch bites down on her tongue.
Bern rarely responds.
Even when Lambda has Bern laid out on their bed (Bernkastel doesn't know when it became 'their' bed- the plural; but Lambda seems to steal everything that belongs to Bern at some point or another), Bern's legs spread wide and her dress kicked off to one corner, her hair fanning out across the pillow with Lambda's fingers pushing in and out of her body in a hazy frenzy of lust, Bernkastel doesn't respond.
She doesn't sigh.
She doesn't moan.
And she never says 'I love you'.
Bernkastel continues to stare up at Lamba with unblinking eyes, the indigo irises glassy.
Lambda is the only person who can stare down Bernkastel without shuddering in fear.
Lambda says 'I love you' all the time; pressing kisses against Bern's temple, cheeks, lips, neck, breasts, as her fingers keep thrusting (in and out and in an out; an all too familiar rhythm; and it would get boring- it should get boring- but, somehow, it never does) and her eyes keep staring for a response that will never come in childish rapture.
But Bernkastel never responds.
Bernkastel has been played with like a porcelain doll- an adult's toy- in the past; and she refuses to be used like that again.
She will not be manipulated so easily.
Bern will not let Lambdadelta, with her cruel eyes and pursed lips, slip under her aloof exterior. Bernkastel is stronger than that. She's not a toy anymore; she's not a cat on a typewriter trying to make a miracle. Bernkastel a powerful witch; and even when Lambda is spreading her legs and impaling her with fingers- the nails too long, drawing blood from the inside in a burning rush of heat and pain- Bernkastel is not spreading her legs wider because she's being manipulated.
She's doing it because she's bored.
Bernkastel will not be played with again.
Bernkastel is cruel too- she has to be- and she will never respond to Lambda's affections with anything other than an emotionless stare.
Lamdba wants to win- Lambda wants to dominate; and Lambda was always childish.
But Bern remains aloof.
Bern will not give her the satisfaction.
And, in that way- even though it's always Bern who gets pushed onto her back, and it's always Bern who gets her clothes ripped off (literally ripped- because Lambda has little patience for buttons and her fingers fumble when she's over-excited), and it's always Bern who gets her body torn up from the inside with Lambda's sharp fingernails and pointed tongue- Bernkastel is always the one in control.
Bernkastel refuses to lose control- and she refuses to indulge in a lie.
Maybe Lambda wants to believe in her own lies.
Maybe, just maybe, Lambda wants somebody to love; and that's why, even though Bern never responds, Lambda always comes back.
Does Lambda want somebody to hold close and comfort her when the nightmares (if only they were nightmares; but they're not- they're memories) of closed rooms and that suffocating loneliness creeps up on her once more?
But Bernkastel- with her dead eyes, her dispassionate face, and her pursed lips- won't Lambda indulge in her own dream; her own delusion.
Bern never lets Lambda forget.
This is not love.
And it never will be.
a/n: This is really /dark/ o_o Why am I writing so many dark fics? ._.
Anyway, I hope it's decent, and I hope everybody's vaguely IC thus far.
This ficlet is going to be ~very~ short (about 5 chapters), dealing w/ Bern & Lambda, because they seem to have a complicated relationship and they're complex characters and there's more stuff I want to write about- and I didn't want to over-saturate all my ideas into a single oneshot (if that makes sense? Eheheh… Basically I just like dragging stuff out XDD;;)
~renahhchen xoxo