This is something I had written a while ago and posted on tumblr for icylook's Dark!Raizel AU in which Raizel is fear driven and sucks as a person. Well, here it is now since I deleted the tumblr posts. (Title is a Gilgamesh allusion because I'm garbage.)

Frankenstein dared to raise his bright, defiant eyes, because for a moment, the fear he felt was not his own. And this time, he would not lower himself, because he saw—he knew—what Raizel did not want, what he was terrified of.

And Raizel

struck

him

down.

Raizel stared down at the blood pooling at his feet. And he stared. And stared. Frankenstein was still. He was still, and for the first time in a while, he admitted he was scared. Of what? He couldn't quite name (perhaps he didn't want to).

Was it death? Looming over his servant's torn, limp body. But was Raizel Frankenstein's master when it was the glorious grave that would claim the human—a human!—last? Was Raizel his own master when…

Raizel knelt down on both knees, gently brushed a lock of hair out of Frankenstein's eyes, eyes that had seen the world far beyond his window. Raizel had seen his memories of colorful markets, smiling children, grand landscapes. Sounds, sights, and people that were so distant from that dim Lukedonian mansion, dusty halls down which only empty ghosts walked. And the world was so…so beautiful…

Just like Frankenstein.

Raizel's eyes widened; his fingers trembled. "Frankenstein," he whispered, he called, but his ser—Frankenstein would not answer this time. Would he ever again? And he was scared. He was scared.

Of being alone. Of everything.

And everthing was wrong. Raizel swallowed, and the scent of blood, he suddenly found repulsive; the color red so filthy. Frankenstein was covered in red, red blood, the color of Raizel's eyes, of his wings, of his fate. "Frankenstein" he called again.

And it was silent.

And red, and red.

And black and purple.

Raizel stood up, backed away as black flames licked at his heels. It was violent electricity in the air, and he sensed the anguish of something ravenous.

Frankenstein—but it wasn't quite him—rose to his feet, a moribund shape darker than the night sky above him. Death beyond death and pitch deep despair, fragmented souls clambering, clawing, into and out of what resembled a man, his hair raised like the necromantic fire around him.

What Raizel saw before him was perdition, souls that were denied the opportunity to die. And Frankenstein bore the weight of all of them, carried them like stones that would only roll downhill. He was, Raizel realized, the only one to listen to their cries and curses, a dutiful servant to humanity, no matter its form.

Frankenstein kept his nightmares in his soul, counted them like failures, and so, he must live. Because his death meant more forsaken souls, more tragedies than Frankenstein or Raizel will ever experience. Frankenstein was a sufferer, and he suffered for his love of humanity.

Raizel was pushed back, Dark Spear's claws burning against his skin, carrying the force of the forsaken, of all that Frankenstein wanted to prevent. He looked into their empty eyes, and saw how small Frankenstein was, because he did not see him at all, trapped beneath a sea of desperate souls. And Raizel saw how small he was, because those souls did not see him.

Like in a dream, Raizel reached forward, touched the blood on Frankenstein's face, and swiped it across his lips. "Awaken, Frankenstein," he said, like a prayer.

Frankenstein woke in his bed, sat up, and looked at the walls. So he was right, and he felt a strange pity for the man who beat him down and yet could not bear to see him go, who pried him back from Dark Spear's claws. From the hands of one tormentor to another.

And, oh, it was time for tea.

He approached Master's room with the cart, the same routine as any other day, the same feeling of dread. "I have brought your tea, Master."

Raizel watched him with wide-eyed concentration as he poured the tea, as if there was something profound in his movements. Frankenstein handed the master his cup. It slipped, it fell, crashed on the floor.

Frankenstein wondered if he would be punished. "My apologies—"

"No."

Frankenstein looked up and noticed how Raizel withdrew a trembling hand, noticed the blood on his lips. "Master?" He blinked. "Did I…"

Raizel shook his head. "No," he repeated. His eyes were concentrated on something distant not in the room. "It's not your fault." He turned away and wiped the blood. "Not your fault…" he murmured mostly to himself. "Nothing is your fault."

And it was silent.

"Frankenstein, tell me of when you were younger."

An unusual command. Frankenstein looked at the master for a moment. He had found himself raising his eyes more often after that incident, because they both knew now the name of their personal plague. And that made it less fearsome. Regardless, he should not keep Master waiting, lest he boil over, and so he thought back to his distant past.

He dug up a long buried mother and her warm bread, a long buried father and his callused hands. Long buried but buried too soon, always too soon. He told of his boyish, boisterous ways and his bruised knuckles and bruised knees, of his tender care of animals, because he liked animals and animals seemed to like him. And life was not easy, but it was such a life, a life worth living, and he looked down at himself, in the present, and found himself alive. So, he would grip this servitude with both hands, the same hands with which he dragged the bodies of his parents to a best a grave as he could provide (because he believed in rituals back then), and count each breath with gratitude.

"Do you wish to return? Do you wish to leave?" Raizel asked.

And Frankenstein knew the right answer. "Only if you tire of me; only if it is your will."

Raizel turned to him, a small smile on his lips. "Good."

Again, Master had asked him to tell stories. And this time, he told of trouble he got up to, stealing fruit from markets, stealing knowledge from older people and still older books, stealing life—but it was hardly a life—from those with claws and fangs and red eyes, stealing power from supposed gods.

And again, Master had asked him the same question.

And again, he replied with the same answer.

The third time, Frankenstein recounted the deserts, the glaciers, the forests, the mountains, the oceans. He recounted the hunt. And he remembered, though he never forgot, all that he still had to do. For humanity.

"Do you wish to leave?" Raizel asked.

Frankenstein hesitated. "I—" and he found himself thrown to the floor. When he looked up, it was Master's fearful eyes he saw.

Raizel lifted a foot, and for a moment, he did not know whether to step forward or step back.

He stepped forward.

He kneeled down in front of Frankenstein, leaned towards him and placed his hand on top of Frankenstein's on the floor. "Do not leave me." His gaze fell. "Please…"

Over time, Raizel withdrew from Frankenstein's mind, and he looked out his window with eyes searching for the worlds Frankenstein had described. And he was filled with hunger, with desire, with envy. With guilt. Windows too small, glass too thick, the Lukedonian sky not wide enough for such a golden bird, because, he realized, Frankenstein's wings were far larger than his own.

And he was sorry, for Frankenstein was a bird he could not afford to let go.

He turned around on his heel. He looked at Frankenstein, went up to him, seized him—seized him for himself—cupping Frankenstein's face in his hands. He looked, really looked, at Frankenstein's face, at his eyes. "You're so…beautiful," he said. "So, so beautiful," and there was a desperation in his voice, as if, above all, he must know this, regardless of what Raizel had said, had disparaged, in the past.

The next time Raizel had tea and the times after that, Frankenstein sat down across from him, and Raizel enjoyed it. Then, one day, Raizel reached forward, carefully took the teapot, and refilled Frankenstein's cup.

Frankenstein had noticed a change in Raizel's movements. They were…timid. As if he were rediscovering how to walk, as if the ground itself passed judgement on every one of his steps, and he chose carefully the placement of his heel, the curl of his fingers, the notes of his voice. He spoke slower, softer, all of his concentration on what was to be said, because he had started caring for the listener and wanted his message to be received precisely as it should. Slowly, he had stopped using his weight, his power, to write his message in red raised flesh and blood. For this, Frankenstein was grateful.

"Frankenstein, do you wish to leave?"

Frankenstein remained silent.

Raizel breathed in deeply the air of rainfall. "You may, if that is your will."

Frankenstein's eyes snapped to the back of Raizel's head. "Master?"

"I am not your master." He turned to Frankenstein with a strange, gentle smile. "I never was." He faced the window again. "Do what you will; I will not stop you."

Frankenstein stood silently for a while. Perhaps this was a dream, a game, or some cruel joke. But Raizel said nothing when he left the room, nothing when he left the mansion, and nothing when he looked back once more at Raizel's window before he left his sight.

Frankenstein's knees were weak for fear that perhaps freedom really was not in reach, not really as close as a few more steps. But he took a step. And another. And another. And he left.

And Raizel looked at the sky.

And Raizel was alone.

And he was alone.

And he was alone.

Eight centuries later, Frankenstein opened the doors to a dusty mansion, opened the doors to a dusty room, and he saw that lonely silhouette and that lonely back against a window.

Raizel turned around. And for the first time in a long while, he felt joy.

"Frankenstein," Raizel said.

"Cadis Etrama di Raizel," Frankenstein said.

They stared at each other for a moment, for a while. Then, Frankenstein left.

Raizel heard the wheels of the tea cart, and he turned from his window.

"It has been a while," Frankenstein said.

"It has." It has been a long while. Raizel sat down across from Frankenstein.

They silently drank their tea. They filled each other's cups.

"I came here to check on you," Frankenstein finally said. "And, to break the contract."

Oh. "I…do not know if it is possible. A contract is meant to last."

"So you can't do it." Frankenstein let out a sigh, a chuckle. "I suppose binding souls isn't easy to undo." He stood up and gathered the cups and teapot. "Very well," he said, and he whisked the cart away.

When he returned, he looked upon Raizel again, and he felt pity. Pitiful, in this place. How did he stand it?—he didn't, took it out on him, Frankenstein reminded himself—this deserted palace, grand and ugly, like the poison that ate up Raizel's soul and compassion, that made fear fester in Frankenstein. No, he did not like this place at all. He wanted out; he wanted away. "Let's leave." He went up to Raizel's side, looked at him in the eyes, and said, "There are some things I'd like to show you."

And they left.

And Frankenstein brought Raizel to a city, to a rooftop. The buildings and blinking lights as if humans had plucked the stars right out of the sky and put it in their windows and on their streets. "It's been a while," Frankenstein said again, and he smiled down at the city, and Raizel felt Frankenstein's pride. They watched the lights in silence, until the moon rose to it's highest point in the sky. "820 years and I still feel anxious when I look at you," Frankenstein said.

Raizel glanced at him, then away.

"But, I thought, the world had changed so much, so why not you?" And Frankenstein had to chuckle at himself at that statement. When had he gotten so sentimental? So soft? Though at least he had always been foolish.

"It was hell, you know, living with you—under you." His eyes wandered down to an alleyway. "Though it was nothing new."

"I never knew what you were going to do." He sighed. "You were…frightening. You hurt. Then, you were nice, and, god"—Frankenstein ran a hand through his hair—"I really wanted to believe you were nice; for a while, I needed to believe you were nice."

"For the first couple of years after I left, I missed you—really, an almost expected response—there was no one to have tea with, but I never looked in your direction." Frankenstein smiled. "Until today, of course." He shrugged.

"Frankenstein," Raizel called.

Frankenstein blinked, then quickly wiped at his eyes.

Raizel looked at the lights, at his feet, at Frankenstein. "I will not ask for forgiveness—I have no right—but… I am sorry." And he opened up their bond and gave Frankenstein his remorse and with it, his shame. And he regretted everything. But regret always came too late.

"Hm." Frankenstein looked at Raizel. "It was great when I knew you couldn't kill me. You were too scared"—a brief smirk—"of everything, as scared as me. Who would have thought? You, too scared to kill someone. I guess the contract is good for something after all."

"Are you angry?"

"At you? No. Not anymore. At myself? Very much." Dumb decision after dumb decision, and that cost him time. A brief silence. "If I were honest with myself, I'd say I want you to just disappear, but that's not happening."

It can happen.

Frankenstein shook his head. "That's not necessary. I brought you out here, because I don't want you back in that place. It's not good for anybody. I can prepare a separate house for you, and you can go to a school I run, along with a few other nobles. As for my soul…" Frankenstein thought for a moment. "I suppose we can share it for now, since I have plenty of souls already." He looked at Raizel and let his eyes glow purple, and Raizel vaguely sensed in that purple the souls of traitor nobles. And he sensed a bit less vaguely that Frankenstein was powerful, though Frankenstein had always been the stronger one.

Raizel looked to the city then looked to Frankenstein, and he did not know what to say. He was in awe, awestruck. Because how could one person be so wonderful? To give him, someone like him, anything, much less a new life?

Again, Frankenstein shook his head. "It's nothing. I realized we're a lot alike. And I don't want someone to go through another lifetime living like that." After all, it was poison.

Raizel stared. And he stared. And stared. Then, he put a hand over his chest and dropped to a knee, bowed his head. "Frankenstein, to you, I am always grateful," he said. And the world was wide and beautiful.