Edd, Tom and Matt had left for their rooms a while ago, disgruntled and hurt because obviously they wouldn't be getting answers any time soon, followed by a slightly hesitant Matthew. And Thomas...
Thomas had started talking, evenly and formally as if giving a report to a superior. He talked about a revolution, about a new world regime and its glorious leader at the very top, reigning over the world he had envisioned and created through pure brute force and cruel charisma, carving paths of blood and viscera in his wake.
He talked about an uprising, about old friends going against the new regime, about winning them over one by one and killing the rest until there was only one left, alone and powerless and hunted like a wild animal.
(He talked about a time travel device, a purposefully suicidal plan and the consequences of a failed retrieval mission.)
And Tord reeled, could barely wrap his head around it all, it was so much to take in. He'd... succeeded... would succeed? This whole time travel business was rather confusing, really.
He should feel... elated. And he was! But hearing about it was one thing and experiencing it a whole other. It felt hollow somehow, but at the same time absolutely thrilling, to have such solid proof of his eventual success.
And Thomas. Thomas seemed to be that proof. A perfect soldier, disciplined, loyal, unquestioning and absolutely effective, sculpted from a lazy drunkard of a man. A former enemy even.
Tom.
Of all people, Thomas Ridge was apparently one of his most loyal and valued soldiers. Of course, he was taking this all with a grain of salt, but he had yet to detect any willful deception in Thomas' tone or body language. It was a bizarre concept, and yet here was the irrefutable evidence quite literally staring him in the eye with his own electric green gaze (cancer, Tom had eye cancer, how the fuck was he even supposed to feel about that?!).
It sent a shiver through Tord, the side of him that screamed and demanded to dominate and control and possess almost purring in languid satisfaction.
(The other part, the part had missed his friends dearly in the past three years, that he'd had to silence because of exactly that, cried and raged and insisted that Thomas was broken and shattered, that Edward hated him, that Matthew wanted nothing to do with him. It wept for friendships lost and cold, lifeless assets gained in their stead. It fought and scratched and raked its broken nails along the walls of his heart.
It hurt, just a bit, to see what he could reduce his closest friends to, given the opportunity.)
"Red Leader."
The title rolled off his tongue smoothly, beautifully. The epitome of what would become his achievements, his ambition, his strength.
Red Leader.
It sounded powerful, fearsome, fitting for a hegemon of military origins. It sounded like the fires that would consume anything in his path, leaving nothing but pitiful ashes behind.
Red Leader.
It made him feel invigorated, inspired. There was power and authority in that title, over others and over himself. Over the whole world.
Red Leader.
It was heavy, bound to the very weight of the world. A dream thought impossible, a merciful tyranny.
Red Leader.
He could feel it in his soul, tugging and tugging and ripping, making itself at home, moving less important things out of the way.
Red Leader.
Pressure and weight and ties and claws under his skin, burrowing in his chest.
Red Leader.
Red Leader.
Red Leader.
Red Leader.
Red Leader.
It made him nauseous.
Distantly he noticed his breathing picking up, coming in short, ragged gasps. His chest felt heavy, weighed down with a future he couldn't begin to process. He couldn't feel his hands but his torso almost burned and he could very clearly feel every excruciating detail of his wounds. Shoulder, side, thigh. Shoulder, side, thigh. Shoulder, side, thigh.
Shouldn't they be hurting?
He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and immediately flinched away from it in an almost violent manner, vaguely feeling something snap in his side.
His wounds should still hurt.
...right?
There was a buzzing in his head and he could barely hear the world around him over it. And his gaze was blank, unfocused, so he strained his ears to catch something, anything over the buzz.
"-ow your breathing, Tord. Breathe with me, come on."
He absently felt one of his numb, numb hands being lifted by the wrist and placed upon something warm and living and smooth. The warmth granted it some feeling back and he realized he was pressing his hand against a chest, rising and falling at a slow, even rhythm. He tried to mimic it. His lungs felt like they were frozen stiff and burned the more deeply he tried to breathe, but slowly, oh so agonizingly, glacially slowly, they thawed and his breathing evened out.
Finally he felt like he could see again, could move again without collapsing like a house of cards. He took another deep breath, just to reassure himself that his lungs were still there. He stared at the hand on his lap, it still felt numb. The fingers curled at his command, but he couldn't feel them.
All of sudden he came to the realization that his other hand was still pressing flat against someone's chest and he snapped it back just as his head whipped up to look into virtually rendered eyes.
"...are you alright?" Thomas almost whispered, and there was something in his voice that felt almost... gentle.
Tord sneered before he even processed the question, "Of course I'm alright! That was... that was nothing. I-" inadvertently his eyes were drawn to his hand, it still felt warm, almost comfortingly so, "...what's wrong with me?"
"Tord...?"
His eyes snapped back to Thomas', barely acknowledging the concerned set of his brows, and looked manically into his artificial gaze, as if desperately searching for something.
"You're from the future and you just told me of my absolute and overwhelming success and I should be celebrating, I should be ecstatic!"
Thomas' lips thinned and his jaw clenched, "...aren't you?"
Tord's eyes held a glint of something complex and incomprehensible, but decidedly frantic. Still, his face twisted with disdain at the question, "I am! Of course I am! I'm elated beyond imagination, excited, fantastic! I- You- I..." he felt his lids blinking quickly, as if trying to stave something off, and his body started leaning forwards, unbalanced and heavy, "...I need to throw up..."
Tord only saw Thomas standing up and leaving out of the corner of his eye, face directed towards the floor as it was. Thomas reemerged from the kitchen soon after with a bucket in his hand which was immediately placed between Tord's legs.
He stared into the gray, spotted depths of the bucket. There was grime in a corner. Except, heh, circles don't have corners.
The most powerful man in the world. That was his fate and he'd do anything to fulfill it. Shove aside anyone, break anything.
The world was broken. His revolution was worth any price, no matter how high.
Carnage, sacrifice, agony, death, torture.
Suffering.
Isolation.
Hatred.
Broken men left at his feet as he razed the world to the ground and built it back up from the ashes. Blood spilled and bonds torn and hearts shattered and people cracked and broken and hollow.
And at the top an unfaltering golden idol bathed in the glorious blood of his victories, so that those unworthy would pave the way to his elevation.
Crimson mist in the air around its head.
Scarlet running in rivers down its base.
A Red Leader.
He threw up.
AN:
IMPORTANT NOTICE
As you've probably noticed I'm not entirely happy with this fic's title and have been meaning to replace it. If you want a say in this please tell me your opinion on the poll in the link below. I'll probably keep it open for about a week, depending on how many react and how fast they do.
forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSe59fvTFY-rpmzwICx-l7GivDR1k-p_YJaUJAJ_RvHMA9EujQ/viewform?usp=sf_link
and now that that's done, lemme tell you about how off the rails tord's characterization went in this chapter and how much im gonna have to adjust after this shit. muffindammit tord.
(i kneel before you, o mighty reader, and beg you for a comment, so that my eternal thrist may be sated but for a moment)
also talk to me .com