All these books are belong to Scott.
I have to thank nagato chinatsu's "Behemoth Drabbles - Chpt. 3" for being the spark to this idea.
Sorry guys for the crippling indecision - and lack of full updates - but with this whole idea still so raw (and the less than stellar state of mind I began writing in) I find myself constantly picking out 'flaws'. I think I've finally satisfied my OCD (if you wanna call it that) and can now start planning what comes next!
Once again, sorry! XD
In the meantime, read on!
The boy wakes up one day – like any other, he thinks at first.
How wrong he is.
Weakened limbs struggle to lift his aching form as a set of slothful eyes slowly slide open.
Looking around at the pristine but unfamiliar white walls and the matching cloths draped over him only evokes a sense of strangeness in him, one that pulses through his veins and urges him to leave.
An odd beeping noise echoes around him, eerily rising in a gradual crescendo.
His heart begins thumping a frantic beat and his arms start trembling madly. The whining beep is gone now, replaced by a dull roar that pummels at his ear drums, overwhelming all else, and his eyes clench shut as burning points of pain coalesce on his skin.
He thinks he's screaming – lungs tightening, throat raw – but any noise made is lost to the growing storm, swallowed in that raging chaos of sound.
The pain explodes and spider-web cracks of fire lance across his skin, searing through to the bone. One hand clutches desperately at his skull and his jaw snaps open to screa—blackness engulfs him.
The images flash past, blurring together in a too-fast stream of sensations.
Fireonskin—Bodybroken—Liquidcopper—Screaming—PAINPAINPAINPAIN
Then
Nothing.
When he next peels back his stiff eye-lids, he is greeted by a pair of sky blue orbs, bright with surprise. As the eyes ease back, sandy blonde locks of hair fall into place, a golden frame for a perfect portrait.
The girl cups his face in her hands, calloused yet firm fingers brushing over twisted skin. Her face draws nearer, eyes welling with caged hope, and when her lips are just shy of his own she murmurs something.
"Alek?"
A name? The word is unfamiliar, but his heart jolts at its utterance and suddenly the room tilts. Vertigo sweeps him up in a nauseous wave – acidic bile roiling up his raw throat – and for a moment the world spins away into swirling white washed oblivion.
He stands tall in the snapping gale, half-frozen fingers bared to the winds as he clasps hands with the boy before him. The dusty blonde hair, pale and shimmering with half-thawed frost, and the clear sapphire gleam feel faintly familiar. But before he can ponder it further, a foreign urge nudges at his mind and his lips are opening, of their own will. A thickly accented voice spills out, smooth despite the mad chattering of his teeth.
"My name is…"
"…Alek?"
His eyelids flutter, the superimposition still lingering over reality. A note of hesitation creeps into her voice and the gleam of hope in her eyes is fading to something less. His own are still uncomprehending, an emerald mist of self-induced bewilderment.
"Am I...Alek?" He manages to croak into the lingering silence. There is none of the cultured nobility that pulsed within the vision-boy's voice.
Panic and disbelief seep into her faltering gaze and the blood drains from her face, bleaching her sharp features to a chalky white. She latches onto him, shakes him violently, as though the jerking motions might fill the void in his mind
"W-what? Stop messing around, dummkopf!"
He doesn't understand and she must see it in his odd stare because suddenly hot pain crackles across the dry skin of his cheek. Ears ringing with the faded echoes of a thunderclap, he reels back onto the rough pillow – white like everything else – and, despite the smarting sting on his skin, feels nothing but emptiness in his hollow chest. Her next words tumble out, voice broken and pleading like shattered ice melting even as it falls.
"Liebhaber...?"
The word sends a warm tingle slithering up his spine and births an incessant curiosity in his mind.
His tongue darts out to flick over cracked lips and the word falls out in a slow rasp, like crumpling paper.
"...lovers?"
She doesn't answer, only lets out an odd choking cry and buries her moistening cheeks against his chest, trembling. He feels liquid warmth seeping through to spread like frozen fire over his long untouched skin and the rustling of thin cloth as she sobs out whispered denials into the silence.
As he lays there with this woman, wreathed in gold and set with sapphires, weeping over him, he feels a pang of responsibility and the nagging sensation that he should know her. A million different questions boil along his tongue, fighting to escape.
Who am I?
Who are you?
But still there are no answers, save the keening echoes of her grief.
I'll be continuing with this as my main focus but the schedule is stacking up and the story-idea is still fresh so bear with me :)
Feedback/critique is appreciated as always :D
Thanks for reading!