Sooo...here is my first fanfiction.
I do not own the Requiax, or Rojo Pixler, or Christopher Carrion or Mendellson Shape or Leeman Vol or indeed any Abarat character. (Even though I wish I did.) It all belongs to Clive Barker.
Requiax
We are the Requiax.
Lords of the deep, true rulers of the Abarat. It was the blinding, burning sun that drove us from our kingdom, that oversized ball of flaming gas.
It was the monkey-children who overran our islands, and reshaped them with magic and science into their image. It was the monkey-children who destroyed the world we had known.
And amazingly, it was the monkey-children who forgot us. Few have even heard the term "Requiax"; fewer still believe in our existence.
One such, called Rojo Pixler, built a great, gross city, pervaded by inane creations, ravaging a once-beautiful island perhaps beyond repair. It is this Pixler who comes to treat with us, hoping to use us for his own ends. We shall devour him, slice by slice, and show him what we think of that. The monkey-children will think him lost at sea in a quest for myths. They will sit in the light of their bright sun, and never worry.
But one day, that sun will dim and die. And on that day, we shall rise and reclaim what is ours. That day is millennia from now.
But we are the Requiax. And we can wait.
Sacbrood:
We are the sacbrood, and we hunger.
Years have we languished, imprisoned on this isle populated only by the dead. Long, long years have we fed only on old bones, cold metal, and when that was exhausted, our brothers and sisters.
Years the queens spawned and spawned, bearing more children to replace those consumed. Years we waited, and waited, and waited still more.
And when at last the Prince of Midnight came, two servants at his heels, we learned he meant to use us.
Us! The sacbrood! The Children of Perfection; and this Prince thought we would be his tools!
Not that he said so in so many words, of course; the man was stupid but not that much so. But we are more perceptive than he thought, and discovered far more than he would have wished.
And when he sent that servant of his running into the pyramid—ah, the crack of living bones! The brightness of new blood! That was the tastiest snack—it can hardly be called a meal—we have had for a very long time. (Those born in the wretched Pyramids of course got first choice. Do not say the sacbrood do not care for their own.)
The Prince told us to wait, and locked us away once more. And so we wait. He will come again—this Prince wants power, and he thinks we are a means to that end.
But he cannot control us, and when we are released—well!
We are the sacbrood, and we shall have our fill.
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