Bolero De La Muerte
By: Angsty Freedom Fighter
Disclaimer: I don't own Silent Hill, Konami does. Though I wish I did…wistful sigh
A/N: I had an idea that threatened to tear through my head and leave me bleeding if I didn't voice it out or write it down, but I struggled with the title as I always do. This title I stole from an old story of mine, one that was never posted though I am debating on it yet one that had to do with my all-time favorite Silent Hill game—two! Yay for Silent Hill 2! I cannot tell you enough how much I love it for fear of rambling on for several pages, but anyways all this prattle will get you nowhere, so that being said, enjoy the story!
I am the third
A master
A sentinel of awakeness
I hold truth like a torch
Shadows flicker before me
Rapid eye follow the chain of thought
Until the silence ends…
-Rain of Brass Petals SH3
Something about the catacombs left him with a sense of peace, their deathly silence never the cause of a lost train of thought, nor ever the cause of blame. There was something perfect about the silent room, a domed ceiling of moss and ivy the only witness as grave keepers of old and ethereal spirits sent the bodies and souls of the sinful ever downward, deep underground…So far under, no screams of pain nor vain reaching could ever hope to even scrape the surface of their peaceful little town. Their sleepy little town of Silent Hill…
It was silent still, as it had been for so long, age-old feuds and fragments of wars lain to rest in a monstrosity of a labyrinth of floorboard, rock wall and underground, water-filled passageways. So difficult and baffling a puzzle even the dead could find no means of escape, restless and wandering souls yearning for a light, a sign of the outside world.
They would be given none…
To this town, no, to him, there was no such thing as a reprieve from death…no such thing as 'I'll let you go this one time…', or 'I'll let it slide, for now'. There was simply 'This creature had committed a heinous act, for that it must die.' That was the way of his life, the one code that ruled over his very eternal soul, body lain to rest long, long ago and flesh eaten away by living creatures underground, but mind and spirit forever wandering the small, underground tomb. He would lay in wait, silent and unwearied under the depths of mud and dried dirt, bones of foolish stragglers even. Silent Hill was merciful to no wandering idiot or brave soul.
"The time of your calling will come soon…" An unspoken promise filtered through the air, uttered through the droplets of water and whispered through the stray wind that carried off the smell of death and decay, making the dead stir restlessly with anticipation and a strange sort of fright, reaching his dead ears deep underground and fading away. "They will come…and you shall bring unto them the holiest of judgments under the name of our Lord. He will come, and you shall raise the ninth gate of Hell to him, lead him to its threshold under the throes of death and insanity…"
He liked the sound of that, and the unvoiced promise made him stir but a bit. To the realm of silent spirits and monsters, he was nothing short of emotionless, borrowing but a bit from his prey, linking himself in body and mind to the target and effortlessly driving them to the edge of insanity and death sometimes the boring case of fear-driven suicide, but they were no fun. 'Killing machine' the living would call him. 'Demon Master' and 'Red God' his subordinates would call him...
He preferred the title 'Executioner'. The keeper of law and order in the realm of silent spirits, the undying underling of their Lord…Whatever he would be called this time around would matter naught… He could feel the throbbing ache of life seep back into his non-existing heart and veins, the dark energy that coursed through his body in the days of old, the same thrill and rush he would receive before thrusting a brandished glaive into the chest cavity of his prey—no, his prisoner, his reason for life…the sinful ones. He would once again feel the crispness of living air, smell the sent of heated blood on pavement and decide the verdict for the miserable ones. He was ecstatic, he was blood-thirsty, no longer the silent and long-suffering, but the wild and the ruthless set free in a town of fog and loss…He was tearing through the ground—
The grass that had finally settled on the muddied ground parted, letting lose a silent cry as the unspoiled earth spilt wide and birthed a body, grime covered and still festering hands clawing blindly in a struggle against its underground bed, pulling at roots and rocks until the rest of the body was greeted by familiar and yet foreign sights. Blind eyes were restored and senses returned to a once-useless body, a heart of darkness and sorrow feeding him strength and knowledge, the mind of his victim slowly seeping into a liquid-filled and ever forming, ever learning mind. It was birth after centuries of death, centuries of obscurity and absence… It was a never-ending life…
"Welcome back…" The unvoiced whisper returned to his living and functioning ears, echoing in the vast corners of his mind. "He is ready for you…Go to him. Bring to him justice and retribution in the highest." It was time. Time to leave his comforting and quite mausoleum and return to his brutal job, his destiny, his fate… Nodding to the still air, he took his first unwavering steps away from the crypt, knowing by heart the layout of his realm, his home and resting grounds.
Mud squished underneath bare and bloodied feet, and water sloshed, and cool pavement echoed in a litany of footfalls until the plush carpet of the historical society was met with the long-lost weight of a human body standing overtop, grateful and cheering as decades of dust were disturbed and sent scattering across the small exhibition rooms. He looked languidly from one door to the next, weighing his options and shoving aside a frail mahogany door. It met his hand with no resistance—of course; he'd crushed windpipes with his fingertips alone—and swung open with a high pitched screech that seemed naught to bug him. A huge blade lay resting amidst a pile of filth and bloodied garments, left where he'd last laid them, untouched, its leather-bound hilt pointing to a triangular and rather burdensome piece of headgear. It was his tradition nonetheless, he admonished mutely as he donned his wardrobe and listened to the faint cries of many beasts and tormented souls in the distance—like music to his ears. Another thought struck his still and idly working mind—the face of its victim. Clasping up the last strap of his ebony and gore tipped boots, he wrestled with the tight leather of his gloves and trekked over to the other side of the small showcase room…
The large mirrors tarnished frame was still quite a beauty in its old age, but alas there would be no living being left to admire its lonely and graceful beauty. Dust and flecks of something rustic clung to its reflecting surface and a rough, leather covered hand rubbed aside the troublesome substance, leaving behind streaks of red and brown in its wake, smudging and causing more damage then it did good. A good portion of the mirror was covered in streaks of crimson, tinting the reflection—from his body to the things surrounding the display area—burgundy, swallowed up in an ominous world of red.
The color of blood, the color of rage…his color…
He came to focus on his face, the features of his new target molded onto a once faceless creature of a man. He once had a face of his own; a mark of uniqueness amongst the human race, but, it too, was lost to the many centuries of life underground in the guise of death, rotted and eaten away like the rest of his original form. What he embodied now was a borrowed form created by the darkness lurking within his prey's mind and heart, and by the great force of his Lord… He came to focus on the face that was not his own, the ashen skin beneath the layers of mud and sludge and dried blood…the pursed lips, sorrowful azure eyes and other defined features that did not belong to him. His fingers came to rest on the elegant wooden frame, slowly curling back as his hand took form of a fist and shot straight into the image of his borrowed face, shards of glass raining down on the forest green carpet and cutting through the leather and flesh of his knuckles. There was no pain, only an odd rush of glee as a spurt of blood left a trail from the frame of the mirror to the floor several feet below. Shards cracked under merciless boots as he made his way to his last adornment, the final accessory needed to complete his image… The headpiece was picked up and hefted about for a moment, hesitation fading away as quickly as it had manifested and placed on swiftly, world engulfed in darkness, yet the will of his Lord allowing him to see clearly through the rust and blood covered headgear.
There was a strange sense of comfort nestled within the musty depths of his second face—no, his only face. The helmet stood for everything that he was. It was his face, the only face that he had left to call his own after centuries of taking the faces of his victims. It was his face, just as it was his fate and destiny. The blade on the ground woke from its slumber, beckoning, calling to him with its silent song, a song that sang of bloodshed and vengeance and he nonchalantly slung it over his shoulder, lumbering out of the room and standing at the threshold, as if calculating his next move. He vaguely recalled the blood that trailed down the mirror and trickled onto the floor, and again that odd rush of glee filtered through his usually numb body.
Yes, blood…There would be plenty of it smearing the streets of Silent Hill by the time he was done with his victim. It was time… Silent Hill would have yet another restless soul to contend with…
-owari desu-
A/N: This is amazing for me—a Silent Hill in which James isn't the main character of, gasp! I never thought that I would ever end up writing a decent Pyramid Head fic…ever. That was fun! The ending was a little...ick, but oh well, at least I had fun writing it! Please review and tell me what you think, be it good or bad!