This is an old character study. This is a fanfiction that's been on my computer since middle school. It's traveled from laptop to laptop and seen a few revisions. It was originally posted and and got some good reviews.
I regret ever taking it down because those reviews were so long and detailed and I loved little miss Phoenix for writing them. I would go through and reread those reviews on bad days when I was looking for a pick me up. I know I will never get to see them again but I am posting them here again in hopes of...I don't know, nostalgia?
I'm going to warn you. Some of these chapters are going to be rather...poetic. Because this is Albedo. I don't claim to understand the ramblings of a madman but he's fun to write.
They were his angels.
Their glass faces; forever captured in a still and unfeeling expression, staring at them pushed acid up his throat in disgust. These unmoving creations, these dolls, mocked him with just their stare. Whether his touch is soft or cruel, it easily shatters their porcelain visages.
They loved him.
Their fleeting touches of want and attention are unfeeling against his skin. It taunts him when they approach, seeking to quench his thirst for companionship. He did not deny them the close proximity; they knew in fact how unpredictable his mood could be, death could be awaiting them and yet they flourished around him.
They worshiped him.
Their father would be ashamed of them. All that hard work, blood, sweat, and tears that went into their being, he considered it such a shame for them to be wasted on him. Their featherless and skeletal wings of metal and wires were only plucked by his hands. Then again, daddy wasn't here for them, daddy had thrown them away; and when daddy was away, let the mad man play.
He didn't claim to be God but to them, he may as well be.
Their numbers were almost infinite; like little ants on their hill. He had both hate and boredom in his hands, and shined light on what they truly were; insects. He burned them, sliced them, and melted into their faux skin what they really were. They did not question, they did not run; they were not able to deny him.
They: his servants.
Their cherry, almost bitter-almond taste was the brandy on his lips; sour with a sweet copper sensation. He bit into the seeds and ground the pulp with his cravings. With silver stems, and blue sheen, their dark skins made them his black and succulent fruits of temptation. Their honey gold's glistening at his every movement and action, never once over spilling from their spoons, even as he broke them.
He couldn't let sleeping cat's lie.
Fragile like glass, they cracked underneath the softest of feather light touches; slamming their heads into the walls and floors, cupping their faces so hard their cheekbones snap. He would laugh during their games and toss the abuse behind him, moving on to his next little butterfly with a sneer. Death, such a sweet reaper he was; plaguing them at night and after the deeds only he is left standing.
They are far too peaceful.
Everyone says that they're mute, like the ghost of the daughter they were made after. He would slide his nails across their lips and pierce the subtle skin as they breathed their moans. They screamed when he roared, they cried when he snarled, they cooed when he was still and relished in his silence.
He chokes them as they purr.
Krishwassers.
Darling little dolls that were made for the sake of seeing and dying, their only purpose was to gather information for the birth of their little sister. They were almost like gods, it was because of them the little peach had been born; his Peche'. It was not Mizrahi who was god; no human could be god. It had to be them; little sins of purity, born as fresh as snow and melded into his demonic angels.
Like his villain.
His darling little Peche; a double bladed sword in her own way, dearly he wished he could snap her neck; grind her bones under his fingers and mold that purity like he had her sisters. He wished to be her puppeteer rather than hold the strings of her tainted family. But no, he could only get a taste before she was snatched away by her jealous owner; that soul he called an older brother.
The Red Dragon.
She would drown in the red of Rubedo, the man who shed his skin and blood to hide behind scales. His brother would breathe fire into her like he had her sister, would treasure her like one of the many jewels that made his armor. He would be the creator of his Peche', his sin; his brother would be god.
The real puppet master.
He had moved willingly with his strings, the silver gleaming strands that connected them at the heart; he was him until they had been torn away. They had cut their bonds, they had given him the cross and all he could do was bend unsettled with his elder's commands; his elder, his brother, the other half of his heart.
Up until.
That brown haired liar, then with her breath the pink. Ah, his sweet Peche', she was his sin, and only his sin, the justification, the karma he was held for. She took red away from white. She lead red away from white, since she would never again mix with white, and so did the pink dragon never form.
She pulled his strings.
She took it all away from him. Everything away from him, it was all her fault, all of the sinful fruits fault.
He can never let sleeping cat's lie. They are just too peaceful, having their way, sleeping on their throw, until the dog is to come, and eat what was on his chair.
He would make her pay, and then…he would have his Rubedo, all to himself.
Until, that is to make death sweet life, will come to take his pay.
Once upon a time, black use to mean life, and white used to mean death, when now it's the opposite.