A/N: This is going to be loooooooooooong. Really long. I love Gil and this a super AU (yeah, I do that a lot) version of his past. I'm rating this mature because it deals with extremely disturbing content, including but not limited to torture, sexual child abuse, gore, suicide, mental health, sex, burning people alive, skinning people, and other things I can't think of at the moment. This is not for the faint of heart. If these things bother you, do not read. Also, I've been working on this for a while. It's super secret, don't tell anyone.
P.S.- Of course Gil will seem OOC at first, because it's about how he becomes the way he is. Hopefully he'll eventually get to the Gil we all know and love.
He was a perfect son; strong, beautiful, modest, and wise beyond his years. His eyes glowed a crimson that was matched only by the blood of the dying sun as it set on a hot day, and they shimmered in the same way that setting sun shimmered on the horizon. They often looked out beyond the horizon, beyond the sun, beyond to some greatness no one could fathom.
The people of his village praised him as if he were more than man, calling him two thirds god. Promised to the loveliest daughter of his village's leader with the guarantee that he would be the next head, it seemed as if his life's plan was as perfect as him.
And, despite the fact that this type of perfectness often leads to envy, not a single villager had one bad thought about him. He was so perfectly modest that no one could bring themselves to dislike him. He was like a blessing for the village that was often overlooked by traveling merchants; they had never had someone as grand as him in their simple lives.
However, as in all cases, there were things about him that were not quite so 'perfect' as they seemed. The way he acted, the way he walked, the way he spoke, even the way he gazed into the distance with some great wisdom... it was not any form of himself that was put into these actions. No, if you were to look back at that boy today, the one with hair that made gold seem washed out and silk seem like sandpaper, you would not recognize him as what he became though he still held the same startling beauty.
After all, who would think a modest village boy with a pretty face would become the most arrogant king to walk any world in all of history?
"Boy! Boy, you come here right now or you'll regret the day I first kissed your father."
The golden-haired boy moved with the grace of a lion across the sand, so sure-footed that not a grain of the whispering dust beneath his sandals found its way onto the worn leather. His face, which normally held a confident but gentle look, now held one of stony calm, and his scarlet eyes were as hard as the matching ruby sitting heavily at the base of his throat.
"Forgive me for my lateness, Mother. I will not forget my place again."
It was a voice like honey, but instead of its usual lilting charm, it was utterly emotionless as he stared past the small woman in front of him, making it seem as if he were snubbing her but trying to act non-threatening at the same time.
"If you don't look me in the eyes when you're speaking to me, I'll have your father's whip soaked in your blood before this night's over."
His jaw clenched but his eyes flickered to hers and he offered her a tight smile.
"Of course. My insolence should not be tolerated. If you feel that my blood is necessary, I urge you to bathe in it."
The words were utterly sincere in and of themselves; not a hint of mocking traced them. Yet his mother's ears caught a hint of challenge that didn't exist. She often heard things in his voice, saw things in his eyes that didn't truly exist. She let out a hot breath and moved closer to him, her feet kicking up sand that spread throughout her sandals and made her steps feel gritty.
The boy stiffened; his muscles tensing like a coiled spring, and there was a flash of something only his parents ever saw in his eyes; fear. But rather than fear, his mother beheld it as vulnerability. Mustn't every boy still be vulnerable before his mother when he was still only in his twelfth red moon's tide?
"Please, mother, punish me with the whip. I deserve the whip."
Her lips parted and she exhaled noisily, her dark-coloured hands coming up to rest on his light-skinned bare chest. It was strange to have light skin in these parts, not unheard of, but still strange. And hair the colour of the sun; that was odd as well. His considerable height at the age he was along with his hair and skin made him an anomaly, with his only normal feature being his eyes. Irises the colour of blood were not uncommon in those parts.
"You're so beautiful."
Her words came in out in a whisper filled with lust, and the boy's lips curled back in disgust as he turned his head away from her, looking out past the sturdy stone hut to his right and into the sandy wasteland, pretending that out there was where he was. He felt the woman's hands move slowly down his chest until they reached his stomach, where she slowly began to knead.
"Such a delicacy in these parts."
She made him sound like some sort of food she was craving, and he closed his eyes to escape the view of her from his peripheral. It was true that many desired him; he was physically perfect and held a uniqueness that didn't detract from his physique. Though many slave traders sought dark-skinned boys, there were a few that treasured light-skinned above all else; rarer boys brought in larger incomes from those with odd cravings.
"You may have your way with me, boy. I know you've desired me. I can see it in your eyes."
While it was true that his mother was striking for a woman of her age, 'having his way with her' was the last thing the boy wanted. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and pictured himself far away. Far away from this woman, who would defile him as she had done many a time before. Far away from this house, which held the haunted memories of his screams. Far away from this town, where he pretended to be perfect while watching the rot and ruin of secrets behind closed doors creep through the cracks in the pleasant facade. Although overall, he would make a fantastic leader that embodied the town in a way no one could begin guess at; both him and the town were rotting from the inside out.
"Please, Mother."
His voice was a hoarse whisper now, and it was begging for her to whip him and send him limping to his room instead of what she would force him to do. But, as always, she took it the wrong way. She tugged at the silk around his waist with one hand, her other hand coming up to wrap around his head and pull him down.
His eyes flew open as she pressed her lips against his, kissing him messily and wetly. He felt his whole being tremble in disgust as she forced his lips open with her tongue and began sliding the silk cloth from his hips, downwards. He usually simply endured what she forced on him, as his father would do worse if he didn't obey her, but nearing teenage years gave him a rebellious streak that made him just brave enough to shove her from him.
She gaped at him as he tugged the silk back to the proper spot on his hips and spat on the ground, wiping his mouth. He had never once laid a hand to her. He felt fear but also a strange exhilaration from defying her, and a certain morbid curiosity to see what her reaction would be. Her face began turning a strange red colour, blood rising to her face as her muddy eyes darkened.
"Forgive me, Mother, but I honestly do not wish to have my way with you."
His brief spurt of sweet courage left him, replaced by immediate regret as he watched an expression come over her face like a cloud before the mightiest storm. Of course, as if sensing her dark fury from wherever he had been, the boy's father chose to appear exactly at that time.
"My sweet, what is it that darkens your lovely face so?"
The boy began to tremble now as his mother turned to his father, posing to launch into a tirade. It wasn't really his mother he was afraid of; had his father not been there, he would have left her long ago. No, it was his father that made him truly, wretchedly afraid. For where his mother was simply cruel, his father was cruel, sadistic, and brilliant. His father did things to him that made his nightmares seem like welcome dreams.
"This... this... demon! He tried to seduce me! This disgusting thing forced my thoughts to be lustful towards him!"
His father let out a heartfelt sigh as he turned to the boy, but the boy caught a manic glint of glee dancing through those black eyes.
"Trying to seduce women is arrogant, boy, and arrogance is an affront to the gods. Now, being as perfect as you are, with the attention of the gods already on you, do you wish to offend them? If we do not punish you here for your arrogance, surely the gods will punish you for thinking yourself better than them."
The boy's mouth grew dry and he simply bowed his head, knowing better than to even try to speak. His father's lips quirked up slightly as he rested his large, strong hand on the shoulder of the boy's mother before stepping across the dry ground and using that hand to grasp the boy's hair in a fist. The boy's teeth clenched in pain as his father forced him towards the stone house, which still echoed with the screams of the last sadistic game his father had forced on him.
The usually soft, golden hair was now matted with filth and blood as the boy lay on the hard-packed gritty floor inside the generously large hut, staring blankly at cold, tanned walls. Night had fallen and both of his parents had already fallen asleep in the next room, leaving him to lick his wounds in the smallest room of the hut, the only one without a richly woven carpet.
He watched the shadows dance across the walls with empty eyes as children scampered around outside the square opening of the room, laughing. But he wouldn't join them, for he was a 'good' child. Good meaning he had been beaten and defiled to the point where he could no longer move to cause mischief. Where he no longer had any feeling in his heart, so he didn't care enough to drag himself from the floor. What was the point of getting up anymore?
But he did get up, ignoring the fact that it was pointless. He held back a whimper, clutching at his bruised stomach as his nails scrabbled along the wall to find a grip with which to pull himself up.
"Gods..."
He glared through the hole in his window, his eyes lighting on the moon. His lips pulled back from his teeth in an animal snarl, warm crimson trailing down his legs from the lacerations on his thighs. It was his father's favourite place to hurt him; no one would see the scars hidden under his clothes.
"You who let this happen to me..."
His voice broke at the end, hoarse with pain. His eyes, which had been so blank for hours as he stared at the lifeless walls, now burned with an anger that turned the crimson to flames.
"You who allowed a sin that I myself would never allow..."
He straightened, a smear of blood from where his hand had scrabbled at the wall running from the ground almost to the opening.
"I will never show modesty again if a so-called god is silent in the face of this sin! I am not equal to a god... I am above a god."
He continued to glare at the moon as long as he could, as if daring it to prove him wrong. The gentle light that fell across his face cast shadows which hid parts of his snarl and eyes, almost making him seem expressionless. Then his legs gave out and he sank to the floor, shooting a nervous glance towards his parent's room. Luckily for him, they were heavy sleepers; they did not awake in the face of his anger. Though the children outside had fallen silent.
He cast his eyes to the moon once more, and now his dark expression faded into a deep sorrow that no child should know.
"I will defy you until the day the sun no longer rises."
Then he bowed his head and wept until dawn came and the sun rose to mark another day.
The children called out 'Brother' and crowded around him as the boy walked slowly through the village, and a lovely smile that seemed to take in each and every child touched his lips.
"What are you going to do today?"
"Will you play with us?"
"Bahja wants to marry you!"
"Don't be stupid, Yusra, he's marrying Azra!"
The children all dissolved into laughter, not noticing the fact that the boy's lips never changed from the ever-present smile, as if it was frozen on his face.
The ever-present sand swirled that day, wind making the loose linen clothes dance and the cloth hung on long lines flutter. Women dressed in their whites, dark skin standing out in stark contrast, waved merrily to the boy and the crowd of children tugging at his clothes, arms, and hands. The boy inclined his head graciously, smile never slipping.
Men preparing for a long day of digging and water-gathering clapped the boy on the shoulder with grins and words of praise. The boy's smile changed to modest, but he still never spoke. As the men passed him, they spoke among themselves of his greatness and modesty, praising him with all of their hearts.
Underneath it all, he was reeling in disgust. How dare these filthy people lay their hands on him. How dare they pretend to be so pure and virtuous, while every one of them was doing horrible things behind closed doors. They were all just as bad as the gods, with their pretending and lies while they allowed sins and committed them.
"My love, my life. How is your health on this fine day?"
He had reached the middle of the town, the wealthiest part where the grey stone huts became glowing white houses. While the rest of the town huts were crowded with little room between them, some even leaning against each other like lovers watching the sunset, these expansive places of living stood stately, independent from one another. Some even had rooms above rooms, the flat roofs made from wooden beams overlaid with stone instead of the usual mats.
This was also the most colourful part of the town; on the outskirts, people dressed in crisp white linen that often faded to a light gray or tan. Here the people dressed in rich, bright colours of silk; emerald veils, sapphire shawls, ruby midsection coverings, and gold, so much gold. Every woman had at least four golden earrings and an abundance of necklaces, while every man had at least one ring per finger. And, standing in the middle of the open square swirling with colours, was the boy's fiancée.
Her hair was like ink, flowing black down her back and curling slightly at her waist, where it was gathered in a golden ringlet matching the one that sat on her brow like a crown. Her eyes were almost the colour of her hair, and they sparkled like great, obsidian jewels. Red silk matching the colour of the boy's eyes hugged her body lightly, with a shimmering veil covering the lower half of her delicate face. Her voice, the one that had spoken, was like music, falling and rising like an ocean tide. She was so stunning she could make sons of lords blush with a simple smile.
"My health is wonderful, as are your eyes."
He often offered her such compliments, but his heart was never in them. Who knew what this girl did or allowed behind closed doors?
Her laugh was like the tinkle of a bell as she grinned up at him lovingly.
"My love, I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you without troubling you too much?"
Ah, of course. Another woman trying to use her loveliness for favours.
"Of course. Ask anything of me, Azra."
She inclined her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Had she simply asked him to toy with him? Her veil fluttered, making it seem like droplets of blood were scattering about her head as the rubies adorning it glinted in the light.
"I would ask you to pick me a flower to match the colour of your eyes."
Matching. Always matching things to his eyes, as if his eyes were her favourite thing in the world. He nodded with a knowing smile.
"I will do as you ask, then."
He could barely stomach staying in this area of rot for another minute—every official was corrupt. He gave a small bow, seeing yet not seeing the colours dancing through the air about him, and slipped into the crowd to escape the children around him.
There were many paths out of the village and into the sand, and many places that were not paths that led out of the village. The boy chose one of these not-paths behind a great house and trotted with the confidence of a predatory cat, abandoning his meek, modest stroll for a quick, hard pace filled with grace. There were things the villagers didn't know about him that made him even greater than they imagined; he just downplayed himself so as not to give anyone more incentive to hate him.
When he reached the edge of the village, the sand underfoot shifted so much it was impossible not to allow it to sift onto his shoes. So he removed them, dropped them by the side of the road, and fled to the desert on feet quick as starlight, not knowing exactly where he was going and not sure if he would come back.
He did, of course, come back. When his throat was parched and his muscles ached in that tingling, good way muscles do from a particularly satisfying workout, he turned towards the village and made his way back with an uncanny sense of direction. Slower this time, scanning the dunes for any sign of life.
He hadn't managed to find flowers the colour of his eyes, but it mattered not as his fiancée always forgave him. No one had ever found flowers that colour; the only flowers remotely near the village were a lovely shade of white. Much more white than the plume of dark smoke rising from the direction of the village.
His eyes widened a fraction and too many questions to count flashed through his mind, but he left them all behind as he ran with a speed greater than ever before, his feet eating the distance between him and the village with a rapid ferociousness.
He remained silent, not calling out, wary with a feeling of unease he couldn't explain. As he reached the village, he slowed and squinted to see if he could see any signs of life.
Certainly there were signs of death, but he couldn't make out a single live person. An image of him cursing the gods the night before rose to his mind, but he shoved it down with a thick swallow, stepping into the wide alley which he'd ran through to escape the village.
The previously white house on the right side smoldered, the walls now tinged with an ashy grey, while the largest house in the village—the one on the left—was completely black with tongues of fire still coming from the windows. The boy covered his mouth and nose as a gut-wrenching stench assaulted him, one he'd never smelled before. Even a child as unfortunate as him had never had the smell of burning flesh and hair defile his senses.
He continued making his way down the alley, glancing cautiously behind him, forgetting his shoes as he pressed himself close to the sooty wall on the right, edging his way down the alley stealthily as if expecting someone to jump out and make an attempt on his life. No one did, but when he came to the end of the alley and stepped out, he saw hell.
The colours that had swirled through the square mere hours before were now replaced with black; the black of ash coating the shining houses, the black of soot mixing with the sand on the ground, and the black of the charred bodies piled in heaps around the square.
His mouth hung open uselessly as he stumbled a step back, bile rising to his throat and spilling to the ground as he crouched over and retched, the image of the bodies burned into his eyes. From their positions, they had been alive when they were burned; people were twisted in agony, some with the soft pink of their mouths gaping out from their darkened skin in an O of horror.
"H-hey..."
His voice was high-pitched, frightened and childish, and it cracked to become even higher at the end. Tears welled up and turned the entire scene wobbly, like some sort of sick nightmare. They weren't people he had loved, or even liked really, but it was something that had become familiar over the years. To see them defecated beyond recognition like this churned his insides and he retched again, scrunching his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to continue looking at the charred remains.
"Hey!"
His voice trembled and he clapped a hand over his mouth to hold in a whimper. He opened his eyes slowly, as if they'd been crusted shut, placing his hands on the ground and taking deep breaths. He let out a long breath shakily and forced his quivering legs to hold his weight as he stood. He gave up breathing through his nose and forced calming puffs of air from his mouth.
Search for survivors. That was the first step. He moved stiffly, jerkily, capping his emotions, bottling them, compartmentalizing them. His lovely, slim fingers which had never seen a day's work shoved charred bodies to the side as he dug for survivors, or even a face that wasn't beyond knowing. Bits of burned skin clung to his hands but he barely noticed; he focused his entire soul on the job at hand, pretending that he wasn't shifting through people he'd known his entire life.
He found nothing. No one he could recognize, no one who would ever move again. He rose to his feet and glanced down the streets, knowing somewhere in his heart that it would be ridiculous to dig through every pile; they were all dead. In a daze, he let his feet carry him wherever they wanted to go. It didn't matter; his head was detached from his body.
He began to shiver as he walked, and he wrapped his arms around himself. The town was flooded in heat but he couldn't keep warm. His lips began to fade to a bluish tinge as he glanced around numbly. Every house had been razed, not a single hut, shack or house left whole. Pieces of ash drifted down gently from the sky like the snow he'd heard so much about. They settled softly in his hair, but he didn't notice. He continued rubbing his hands over his arms.
He passed the house of the village's head; rather than being destroyed, the building had simply ceased to exist. Not even the skeleton of the building remained, only black smudges with charred rocks crumbled about it. Fire could not destroy a building so completely. Only humans could kill something until it ceased to exist.
His feet finally stopped and he looked up sleepily to see where they had brought him. Of course. It was his home. Or rather, the building he'd been living in since his birth. And it was charred as well, charred to its dark bones. It was rather comedic; the outside finally reflected what went on in the inside. He let out a low chuckle.
"Ridiculous."
His own voice made him jump, but only for a moment; his eyelids drooped again and he yawned in fatigue. He was about to turn and walk somewhere else when he heard a noise.
"B...oy..."
The crimson that had been partially eclipsed by thick blond lashes showed itself fully as his eyes widened and he turned to see the man who had raised him lying in a pool of darkening blood mere feet from the burning house. The man lay on crushed white flowers that had been dyed the same crimson as the boy's eyes from his lifeblood.
"Father?"
The boy shook his head roughly, trying to rouse himself from the webs covering his mind. He slipped along the sand and knelt down beside the man, feeling the stickiness soaked into the sand mesh against his knees.
"He...lp... Go... ge...t...hel...p..."
"Father, I..."
What? What would he say? That there was no help to be found? He hadn't searched the town yet, so maybe there were people roaming aimlessly the way he had, but there were so many bodies that he doubted it. And besides...
He ran his eyes over his father. The man's clothes had been dyed a rusty colour by the old blood, originating from a huge lance through his midsection. The shaft was impressively thick and mottled black and grey, and when the boy knelt down to see how deep it had gone, he knew his father would not live much longer; underneath his father's arched back, the shaft continued into the ground to the point where he couldn't even see the head of it. He sat back up and shook his head slowly at his father.
"You're going to die."
He stated it simply, emotionless. He felt nothing saying it, though children were supposed to cry when their parents died.
His father's eyes opened a fraction wider and for the first time, he saw a flicker of fear in the cruel man's eyes.
"Boy, you...d-don't... kn...ow... find... s...ome...one..."
It was true that he had no formal medical knowledge, but his intelligence surpassed all but perhaps his father in this village, so he knew there was no way to save the man. Perhaps... perhaps if he found a healer, they could ease the man's passing. The man was obviously in pain, his breathing laboured and every breath making him wince. Blood bubbled on his lips when he spoke, and his eyes shone with a feverish light. Perhaps the boy could even somehow find a magic user—a magic user strong enough may give his father life.
"I could."
There was something in his voice that made the man stiffen, that made the fear in his eyes grow deeper. The boy stood up and looked down on the man, his eyes changing from frantic to contemplative. Yes, it was possible to bring his father back from the brink of death, he was sure. But... did he want to?
"Y...ou... bet...ter... li...sten...bo...y..."
The note of threatening in his voice was dimmed by the quaver at the end. The boy watched him a moment longer, and then his mouth curled into a smile—a real, cruel smile.
"Father, you never gave me a name."
The man blinked in confusion as brightness spilled down the sides of his cheeks, dribbled off his chin in bubbles.
"Every single adult calls me 'boy' and the children call me 'Brother.' Why didn't you give me a name?"
His father turned his head slightly, wincing with the action, as if wondering why the boy would even ask at a time like this. The boy let out a sigh and crouched down again. His slender fingers, bits of charred flesh dropping from them, reached out and wrapped around the shaft of the lance.
"You're a fool, Father. I hate you."
The man's eyes bugged as the boy began to twist the shaft, digging it deeper into his skin. He let out a strangled wail of pain, his back arching higher and his mouth flapping soundlessly like a fish out of water. New blood trickled, then streamed from the wound as the scabs covering it were ripped off mercilessly.
The boy watched it all with an expression of extreme satisfaction. Finally, he could inflict a small measure of the pain his father had inflicted on him back on the man himself. Tears streamed from his father's eyes, but they weren't enough to satisfy the boy's desire for revenge. He twisted the shaft further, making his father's wailing cry raise like a tide into a scream.
"If you won't give me a name, I'll give myself a name."
With a sharp tug, the boy pulled the lance from his father's stomach, earning a scream that shook the heavens, filled with an agony that would make demons weep.
"With my new name, I will be reborn."
The scream ended in a gurgling howl, then became a simple gurgle as blood frothed from the man's lips. The boy examined the blood on the end of the war instrument, then flicked his eyes to his father. Now, rather than fear or contemplation, they held a great, terrible hatred. The red was deep, bottomless, and it absorbed all light as if it were the deepest pit of the most agonizing hell. The boy's father trembled as he realized what his son had become; what he had turned the boy into.
"With this, I will be greater than any mortal man. With this, I cut my shackles and free myself from the cage."
He raised the lance high above his head, his burning eyes consuming the man's soul.
"Through your blood, Father, I am born anew."
He brought the spear down with a mighty force that made gods stir nervously and mages from around the world shift uneasily. It wasn't the force of any mortal; there was dark treachery in the thrust, black magic that made the pure of heart flinch though they were leagues away.
"Here I name myself!"
The force of the thrust didn't simply pierce his father's skull; it shattered it so fragments of bone made sickening sounds as they flew from where they were supposed to be. Brain matter scattered about around the man's body, landing with soft sounds hushed by the sand. Blood rained upwards and down, and the boy stood, bathing in the droplets that struck his skin.
A deep silence descended from all around, only the crackling of slowly dying embers making it seem as if something existed. The boy looked down at his father, now no more than a pierced body with a faceless, broken skull.
"My name will be revered by mortals and feared by gods."
His hushed whisper blew away in the wind, and he willed the wind to carry his words to the gods themselves, for surely they were next on his list of bugs to crush. His house slowly crumbled to the ground, the last remnants of his caged life disappearing.
"I here and now name myself a name that will come to be the definition of arrogance and pride."
He turned his back on the broken cage, rolling his shoulders back as a slow smile crawled over his face. It wasn't gentle, generous or kind.
"King among kings."
It was less than outright delight, pure joy, or deep happiness.
"Lord among lords."
But it was more than self-satisfaction, smugness or complacency.
"Greater than any who will ever exist, I name myself the golden king..."
He paused, and it seemed for a second that he would turn and give his crumbling life one last glance before it blew away as ashes in the wind. But he didn't look back; his smile of complete and total arrogance simply grew, and he sauntered down the path alone, bare feet parting hot sand.
"Gilgamesh."