Title: The Ravings of a Madwoman
Summary: 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.' [Isaiah 1:18.] Or: a Zelos history, basically.
AN: This was originally intended only to expand on my oneshot Smiles, however, having found inspiration playing with the idea, I've actually decided to use it to explore Zelos' backstory. (Because, seriously, not enough writers have, and even when it remains so depressing. There's potential for theatrical drama, and so few are interested? /: ) Thus, multi-chapter warning.
And probably a definite 'mature' rating eventually. . .
Glory was sinister, and a lie. Her weight was crushing while his chest seized and fought for breath, choking under the sacrificial lamb their church's doctrine created. Zelos was a holy child of the Martelian Order, drawn in all the shades of blood and snowy white, and Mylene a saint in all the ways a mother should never be. Silent, unmoving, with vacant eyes that burned inky black, and were so very deep-- like a chasm to swallow him, where the bottom was a thin shadow in the distance.
Repulsed, he understood her dying image was a painting they framed: crimson on snow to add stark contrast, edged with gore as ink. Her body, objectified and made a secret catalyst for their talk, was cradling a child as a martyr might in her last days before her head rolled on the guillotine or hung from the gallows. The face was alabaster before her Chosen, with skin cold and frozen as life drained from her eyes, yet swelling-- still moving as the soul withered. Her forehead trickled red and it rippled down her face like tears, staining curls as blonde as Tethe'alla's western wheat fields whispering near the cliff sides.
He had his clothes, still soaked in red, removed-- thrown away, far away from his manor looming in the noble quarters' sea of fiery roofs, manicured lawns, and grand mansions. The stains had long since dulled to rusty tints, but they were fresh in his mind as he haunted his own halls, listening as nameless cynics told him different things. Crooned what a poor boy was, and recited their black and white views with hopes his frown would falter beneath their kindness.
It did-- they damn near kissed his feet for agreement and a chance to walk hand-in-hand, and that deserved a smirk. He would break into a wide grin that made theirs ugly in comparison, and coo a gentle, obedient, "Yes, thank you, I am pleased to have your invitations." They had faces painted in grease or wearing a porcelain mold, and he was more than capable of crafting a mask of his own to show the world. He exploited that easy smile, quiet as his thoughts hissed, ''A fool can play a fool's game.' And, even better, there are a million ways to be one.'
It was satisfying as he settled himself into their circles, because he reaped all the benefit, but didn't have to weigh the answers once he called them an ally. People were wary to deal with a child's parents, and they preferred he come naive, restless, and without any answers. It was easier to lead a boy who wouldn't think on his own-- naturally, he made a hundred and one images to meet their expectations, and waited to let his defiance sting when they asked he advocate their laws. The prospect of betraying fools easy enough to rest contently under his thumb, and believe they were truly safe there, tickled the sadist in him.
They would flare, tossed from their rosy realities where he was a victim to be preyed on, and call him pretentious, ignorant, immoral-- two-faced. 'Narcissism,' he'd counter, 'is taught, sir. A punishment from the Summon Spirits, maybe, for forcing your opinion on innocents? Hmm?' Zelos Wilder was not a man of anyone's justice but his own, and did not feel remorse for corrupt souls. They came to him first, after all.
They were sick behind their pretenses of goading condolences and well-wishing as he wrestled with the voice in him screeching, "I'm glad you're dead! 'Kill me, boy, kill me, it's what you wanted'!" No one remembered that the corpse was mutilated in its closed casket, and the web of wounds were a vestige of her hatred for him. They were holed up in their strongholds, and didn't see skin broken and bent where magic tore a hole through her fragile body, with the murderer's mad, barbaric rants a comical bagatelle to her gagged last words. 'Unfortunately, I,' he seethed dryly, 'will always remember.' And Martel, he did want to forget, to be free of it, even as a boy only beginning to grapple with death.
Zelos hated her in those violent moments, and swore an oath to outlive them all. It gave him strength then-- to watch his own blood spew across the pavement as an outsider, and wake in a cold sweat-- and would become his mantra, and his meaning in the world when Seles was locked inside the bowels of her abbey. Waking up to a new sun blazing gold against the sterile city walls was sacred, and not guaranteed. Threats of poison in the food, guards waiting at the doorstep, and his relatives scattered across the countryside were a relic of his new title. He knew it, because mouths kept silent when he asked why there were such measures, and let paranoia follow him like a shadow. 'The world is full of evil things,' was the first lesson they taught him once his mother's ghost finally faded behind the otherworldly veil, but he realized cruelty was not a novelty in his short life. It started with his father, with 'the Chosen' . . .
AN: :D . . . I'm happy now. (Really, Zelos is my favorite character, simply for being so pissed off at the entire world. It makes for an interestingly twisted personality . . .) Read and review, perhaps, despite the heavy content? D: