Disclaimer: I do not own Berserk though I'd have loved to take credit!
~Author's Note~ My friend was writing a Berserk fanfic so I felt I wanted to as well. However, I have an eternal mental block. Then she said: "I thought of another fanfic idea! The thoughts of the Jailer!" Well... I stole it. She let me though! She gave me no other info than that so the rest is all me!
~God's Eyes Must Be Blue~
By: Kohaku no Ramen
"You! Boy!"
I flinched at the voice of the jailer. It was coarse and it bore at my mind like a chisel. "Y-yes?" I managed to mumble loud enough for him to hear.
"I need you're help with this!"
My body convulsed with the sudden chill. If I didn't need a job to survive, I would have avoided this place with every sinewy strand of my being. It was unavoidable. Perhaps in time I'll grow accustomed to the atmosphere. The stench of death and the groans of men who have far more to tell than they will ever again be allowed... Perhaps I'll be comforted by it someday. Things that are consistent in one's life usually bring comfort, don't they? I bit my tongue at the thought and I felt light headed. Comforted by blood, by dying? How could somebody ever live in that fashion?
"Stop wasting time you coward!"
"Yes!" I yelped, thrust from my thoughts into the real world. This world where I have to draw the blood of men to keep my own flowing within my veins. The veins under this rough, swarthy skin that houses my innards. I wonder if mine look like all the others'?
"You hold down his head." The jailer growled, barely noting my presence.
I nodded solemnly and looked upon the face of the victim. The man wasn't a handsome one. His nose was large and almost flat against his face. His eyes were blue though. Blue eyes have always fascinated me. I'm almost jealous of them. They seem to hold so much life and purity, so much mystery in that color. The color of the sky... God's eyes must be blue. A leather band was already holding his face against the cold slab that had been positioned horizontally. It ran through his open mouth, pinning back his tongue. He moaned pitifully, staring at me with those wonderful eyes. It took a little while, but I managed to wrench my eyes from that stare at length. I could never look at a prisoner as we exacted his punishment.
I put my hands against his round face, pushing them towards each other as to draw a firm grip from my thin, lanky hands. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I could hear the fire burning about 50 feet away. It snapped and crackled as it lapped at the iron. Ah, iron. Our civilization is so dependant on that material. Even steel is born of it, uselessly waiting in limbo to be born as it's drawn from the simple material. It is used for pots, for children's play things... for armor... for war... for the torment of average people. It could very well be I'd fall victim one day to that iron.
I could hear the jailer's heavy footsteps as he went to that furnace. I held fast to the bulging face of the prisoner as he whipped his head like an animal as he tried to free himself. I don't know why they always do that. I'm sure their conscious mind is aware of the bindings, of the guards. I am so very curious as to why they writhe like this, as a spider on its back, only able to wait as it dies slowly, starving. As we evolve, we don't really become more intelligent, we just become able to mask this instinct.
My fingers dug into the flesh of the man as I smelt the burning and I heard his muffled calls. The screams reduced to mutterings. I swallowed as I felt myself beginning to perspire. The large, sickening beads of sweat traced along my face and matted my dark hair. I clenched my jaw shut and my nostrils flared. I really did wish they hadn't. The odor was ghastly.
My mind wandered. It was a pitiful tactic, I'm aware. As a fifteen year old I know I shouldn't be so afraid of the dungeons. These caves that burn with fires not just from the furnaces. The fire of hatred, of that animalistic need to kill, to destroy, to survive. I couldn't take that fire. It burned my eyes and the smoke suffocated me. I dwell on other things, go to another place. Usually they were memories. My imagination wasn't very strong.
I don't know how much time had passed before screams threw a rock into the serene lake of my pensiveness. As I floated from my subconscious mind, I became aware of my hands. They were still pressed against flesh, but it had become slick. Not the sticky wetness from transudation as I was so accustomed to. It was warm and smooth. It was somewhat pleasant as I sifted my fingers, allowing it to trickle between them. It's funny how senses return to you only one at a time. It wasn't until the initial revelry of the feeling that I heard the sounds. The gurgling calls. I've heard it only a few times before. My eyes opened against my will. My hateful black eyes. The man's face was covered in red. Red. Red. That was all I could see. I couldn't even distinguish his ugly nose. I was barely aware of the doctor pronouncing him as he was. I fell away, crawling like a cockroach away from the scene. I put my hands over my mouth and leaned forward. My phalanges were caked with blood and dirt, and now with my own bodily fluids. My shoulders shook and I sent another waterfall of putrid, rotting food and acid into my hands. The other guards laughed at me. My pants were wet. I would have been humiliated if I weren't so distraught.
For the first time in my short life, a man had died in my hands.
~Author's Note~ My friend was writing a Berserk fanfic so I felt I wanted to as well. However, I have an eternal mental block. Then she said: "I thought of another fanfic idea! The thoughts of the Jailer!" Well... I stole it. She let me though! She gave me no other info than that so the rest is all me!
~God's Eyes Must Be Blue~
By: Kohaku no Ramen
"You! Boy!"
I flinched at the voice of the jailer. It was coarse and it bore at my mind like a chisel. "Y-yes?" I managed to mumble loud enough for him to hear.
"I need you're help with this!"
My body convulsed with the sudden chill. If I didn't need a job to survive, I would have avoided this place with every sinewy strand of my being. It was unavoidable. Perhaps in time I'll grow accustomed to the atmosphere. The stench of death and the groans of men who have far more to tell than they will ever again be allowed... Perhaps I'll be comforted by it someday. Things that are consistent in one's life usually bring comfort, don't they? I bit my tongue at the thought and I felt light headed. Comforted by blood, by dying? How could somebody ever live in that fashion?
"Stop wasting time you coward!"
"Yes!" I yelped, thrust from my thoughts into the real world. This world where I have to draw the blood of men to keep my own flowing within my veins. The veins under this rough, swarthy skin that houses my innards. I wonder if mine look like all the others'?
"You hold down his head." The jailer growled, barely noting my presence.
I nodded solemnly and looked upon the face of the victim. The man wasn't a handsome one. His nose was large and almost flat against his face. His eyes were blue though. Blue eyes have always fascinated me. I'm almost jealous of them. They seem to hold so much life and purity, so much mystery in that color. The color of the sky... God's eyes must be blue. A leather band was already holding his face against the cold slab that had been positioned horizontally. It ran through his open mouth, pinning back his tongue. He moaned pitifully, staring at me with those wonderful eyes. It took a little while, but I managed to wrench my eyes from that stare at length. I could never look at a prisoner as we exacted his punishment.
I put my hands against his round face, pushing them towards each other as to draw a firm grip from my thin, lanky hands. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I could hear the fire burning about 50 feet away. It snapped and crackled as it lapped at the iron. Ah, iron. Our civilization is so dependant on that material. Even steel is born of it, uselessly waiting in limbo to be born as it's drawn from the simple material. It is used for pots, for children's play things... for armor... for war... for the torment of average people. It could very well be I'd fall victim one day to that iron.
I could hear the jailer's heavy footsteps as he went to that furnace. I held fast to the bulging face of the prisoner as he whipped his head like an animal as he tried to free himself. I don't know why they always do that. I'm sure their conscious mind is aware of the bindings, of the guards. I am so very curious as to why they writhe like this, as a spider on its back, only able to wait as it dies slowly, starving. As we evolve, we don't really become more intelligent, we just become able to mask this instinct.
My fingers dug into the flesh of the man as I smelt the burning and I heard his muffled calls. The screams reduced to mutterings. I swallowed as I felt myself beginning to perspire. The large, sickening beads of sweat traced along my face and matted my dark hair. I clenched my jaw shut and my nostrils flared. I really did wish they hadn't. The odor was ghastly.
My mind wandered. It was a pitiful tactic, I'm aware. As a fifteen year old I know I shouldn't be so afraid of the dungeons. These caves that burn with fires not just from the furnaces. The fire of hatred, of that animalistic need to kill, to destroy, to survive. I couldn't take that fire. It burned my eyes and the smoke suffocated me. I dwell on other things, go to another place. Usually they were memories. My imagination wasn't very strong.
I don't know how much time had passed before screams threw a rock into the serene lake of my pensiveness. As I floated from my subconscious mind, I became aware of my hands. They were still pressed against flesh, but it had become slick. Not the sticky wetness from transudation as I was so accustomed to. It was warm and smooth. It was somewhat pleasant as I sifted my fingers, allowing it to trickle between them. It's funny how senses return to you only one at a time. It wasn't until the initial revelry of the feeling that I heard the sounds. The gurgling calls. I've heard it only a few times before. My eyes opened against my will. My hateful black eyes. The man's face was covered in red. Red. Red. That was all I could see. I couldn't even distinguish his ugly nose. I was barely aware of the doctor pronouncing him as he was. I fell away, crawling like a cockroach away from the scene. I put my hands over my mouth and leaned forward. My phalanges were caked with blood and dirt, and now with my own bodily fluids. My shoulders shook and I sent another waterfall of putrid, rotting food and acid into my hands. The other guards laughed at me. My pants were wet. I would have been humiliated if I weren't so distraught.
For the first time in my short life, a man had died in my hands.