That's right, kids! More installments of Turps coming to you all the way from Atlanta, Georgia! (Yes that's really where I am at the moment. This is a pretty neat area it is. ) There's not so much to say just yet.
Of course, this was beta'd by the amazing Mousewolf, so go give thanks.
Thank you all so much for all your reviews and all the time you've wasted reading this foolishness. I can't tell you how much it means to me!
So, without further a due...
:: House of Wolves ::
Blood.
To break the curse, blood must be drawn from the throat with a needle dipped in the ashes of a rose mingled with holy water. The exorcist must draw this blood with his lips. The blood must then be mingled with fine oil. Inscribe a cross over the heart of the afflicted using this blood and oil. Burn incense and gather the implements of exorcism around the afflicted.
Pray.
Demyx watches the coils of smoke languidly float up to the smooth ceiling. He can't focus though. There's a burning pain in his skull, white-hot fire-fog like a morning-star sunk into his frontal lobe. He can't really bring himself to care, though, because he's so far gone.
To open a window.
Sweet water, catalyst.
Saïx is there. He can tell. It's the way the Berserker's hands are so gentle and smooth when he works, taking a pulse, wiping away another crimson runnel originating from Demyx's nose. He's crying blood but that's not quite as urgent as the nose because he chokes on the latter from time to time.
An ashtray full of rose petals.
Ring-o-ring-o-roses, a pocket full of posies…
The smell of cigarettes and dirt… burning flesh and hair from the singes Saïx received from his carelessness. The sound of holy water being poured into a wineglass, the rose ashes stirred lightly. The clink of the needle being dipped.
Blood of the purest heart.
His fingers press lightly on the readily throbbing carotid, and gently he presses the needle down, breaks the skin and bends to his task. Demyx's corpse-pallor, his coldness is unnerving and he can tell with the way Saïx hesitates, and he wishes disjointedly that he could make the sun come up again. It doesn't take much effort; a delicate suck starts the blood flowing profusely.
Saïx sits up and for the first time, Demyx can see him, lips crimson and shining like they were smeared with rubies. His fingers are pressed tight to the tiny hole.
He grimaces as he releases his mouthful of blood into a second wine glass held out by someone else, and he can't quite move his head to make out who it could possibly be. Someone else's hand replaces Saïx's on his throat, and Demyx moans softly. He's so frustrated, helpless like this with his body not his own.
Oil amber.
Flesh and bone.
Saïx's lips are still sticky with Demyx's life, but he's making no effort to wipe it away, instead focusing on mixing in the warm amber oil with the blood in the wine-glass. It's holy oil. The scent of it is heavenly. As soon as it's in the glass the blood separates. He sets it aside and gently lays his head on Demyx's chest, listens.
"Is he okay?"
Naminé's voice. There's no doubt in Demyx's mind as to who it is. She sounds very worried.
"His heart rate is slow… very slow, but at this point we don't need to worry about it so much… it should pick up soon." The blue haired man leans up again, pinning wild strands of silvery-blue behind his ear like a woman would. His scarred face is so solemn but his gold eyes look haunted, worried.
Crux.
As soon as Saïx draws that strangely mystic symbol, it lights painfully. Demyx gasps and writhes against the agony of its burning.
X marks the spot.
Right between the deadlights.
There are rosaries… an ancient bible… things very personal and dear to Demyx and Axel together. He feels them resonating in him, compelling the thing in his brain to shrink away. Xemnas is not fond of this sort of attention. Emotions repel him due to his lack of a heart. He is stubborn, though, and clings to Demyx's weakening shell.
The parasite will not wish to leave, even if it is killing its host.
"It's not leaving…" Saïx all but moans. His hand is tense on Demyx's belly.
"Xem…nas…" the blond chokes out, curling in upon himself, and Saïx suddenly withdraws, flinches as though hit.
No…
Naminé screams somewhere along the line, shrill and angry like the cry of a sparrow, no doubt being held firmly in place by the ex-Berserker. Lord knows she can't stand seeing her beloved brother in such pain. Saïx is saying something slow, quiet. It takes him a moment to realize, but Demyx almost wants to cry when he figures out that Saïx is praying. "…Gratiam tuam, quaesumus, Domine, mentibus nostris infunde; ut qui, Angelo nuntiante, Christi Filii tui incarnationem cognovimus, per passionem eius et crucem ad resurrectionis gloriam perducamur. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum…"
Get out of my fucking head!
There's no break in the agony, no letup from this burning all through his body and he tries to call out for someone, anyone to save him from drowning in this insanity looming like a maw in front of him.
I can't… take this any more…
"Axel!" he beseeches in the throes of his agony, "Find me!"
His desperate plea is enough to stir both Saïx and Naminé into frantic action. Saïx leaps to Demyx's side, holds the youth gently as his body quakes, acts of its own accord, and Naminé rockets into the living room, roughly shaking the exhausted redhead awake. He's been up for three days straight looking after his lover and lord knows he's tired but he needs to be there now more than ever.
He needs no urging.
Demyx hands are claws, scrabbling against Saïx's broad chest, over-long nails biting into porcelain white skin easily. The wounds are superficial though, and the older man is more worried about the look of agony and horror on his young friend's face. Fair aqua meets blazing gold.
Tempering is the process of dipping a red-hot metal into chilled water so as to harden said metal.
For a moment, Demyx loses himself and what looks out of those eyes is the very root of all their problems, steel and red-amber and cold bone.
"You're a fool to ever have trusted such frivolous emotions," he says through Demyx's mouth.
"I'm so sorry, lover," Saïx says gently, but there is a note of a wistful whine in there, somewhere. "You were never meant to be here…"
"You are all fools. True strength is the absence of the heart," he taunts, pulling Demyx's face into a smirk so cruel and unfamiliar but strangely resonant at the same time. "I am the embodiment of nothing; the pinnacle of emptiness… it's only a matter of time, Saïx. I'll find one of them who will return to me."
"Kingdom Hearts will never be yours," Axel growls, standing in the door with the most feral gleam in his blazing green eyes.
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn
Burn, motherfucker, burn
The redhead takes a step forward, half-himself and half-not. "What are you trying to accomplish? Why do you want us?"
A derisive snort. "Need to know basis, Number Eight. You're not on the list."
Saïx pulls away from the possessed Demyx's grasp. The monster inside him gives a sharp, indignant sounding gasp. It's false, no doubt, but it feels real enough.
"We can no longer help you," the Berserker says softly, "Return to the darkness from whence you came, Xemnas. Remain nothing but a distant memory."
He hides his face in a fall of hair the silvery-blue of half-forgotten sorrow.
Xemnas decides it's time to use some physical persuasion, grunts in frustration when he realizes his current shell is bound firmly to the bed. "Fine. I'll find the strong heart I need… and with it, I'll finally command the one absolute power in all the worlds."
The maniacal edge. Saïx shudders visibly, but makes himself look up. His gaze is broken, that of a beaten dog, or lonely wolf, but just as direct. "Leave us in peace."
Gone. The ghost cannot tolerate the moonlight's sliver blade.
Axel can't help but notice the desperate sadness on his lover's face, a borrowed emotion, no doubt. Demyx's head falls like this rejection was too much… and suddenly, Demyx is unbound.
"Axel!" the blond cries frantically, reaching out blindly as he drops back to the cool sheets, panting heavily.
The redhead is instantly by his lover's side, calming himself as he waited for the opening. Just as Saïx had fished him out of his own agony, so he did with Demyx, holding the weakened blond close to his chest like a child.
"I knew… you'd come for me," Demyx breathed.
"I had quite a bit of help," Axel informed quietly, "You should be thanking our dear…"
Axel trailed off awkwardly, and Demyx, now interested in exactly what was wrong, peered over his lover's gaunt shoulder.
Saïx was on his knees, hands clutching desperately at the front of Naminé's white dress. The young blond, in return, was cradling the older man's head against her body, running her fingers soothingly through the thick, stiff peaks of short hair on top of his head like a mother would. Silent sobs racked him, and they looked almost painful, so unused to the action he was.
"Saïx…" Demyx moaned softly. His voice was strangely low, sympathetic in the highest degree. He swiveled his head and peered up at Axel with those endearing blue eyes. "I can walk…"
Axel's gut wrenched agonizingly. "No… I'll carry you."
Without waiting for any sort of answer, he lifted his lover, traversed the soft white carpet and eased Demyx down to the floor. The blond wasted no time wrapping his arms around his good friend, holding him gently.
"I'm so sorry," Demyx whispered, his bloodstained face hidden in equally bloodstained hair. He looked so tragic and macabre: the beaten woman and the ghost of a stillborn child.
But Saïx won't speak, can't speak. He can't even speak until a month wastes away.
--- ---
In this place so unused to silence, a heaviness falls around even the strongest of them, robbing them of the merry voices that would otherwise have echoed off of white plaster. Saïx is silent as the grave, languishing on the couch whenever he decides to show up, and lately it's been a regular thing. Axel doesn't turn him away.
Demyx is silent too, his head aching constantly, his mind still shattered. He likes it quiet while he tries to put the pieces of himself back into their proper order. Naminé and Roxas visit, but they mostly keep to themselves, curled up together in the big armchair by the big, plate glass living room window. Just there for the sake of being there.
Axel smokes like a chimney, drinks—though much more reservedly than in previous years—and he paints. He finishes off three packs of cloves on his own in less than a week and he shakes and he's dizzy and nauseous in intervals. Even with his tame consumption, he suffers from lack of substance.
Sometimes he hurts so badly that he crawls in bed with Demyx, risking the chance that he might not be recognized by the fairly deranged musician. On the occasions when he is accepted, he lets Demyx hold him until he falls asleep.
His heart beats like rain on a tin roof, and it's nothing short of calming.
Ever since that first time Demyx made him pause and listen, he's taken every opportunity. He hates how sleeping pills make him feel so sick in the morning, and he avoids them like the plague. He just needs something to sooth this burning in his skull, something to keep him warm when he's feeling so cold, and Demyx obliges him without asking anything in return… except maybe some help in rearranging his head a little.
It doesn't take as much effort as Axel would have expected; some of these memories have unconscious timestamps, offhand information buried in the thoughts that were occurring beneath them. Demyx never complained about any sort of privacy either: he just pleaded for Axel to push the fragments into their proper places, hold them down until the glue set. By the time Demyx had found himself they were on a completely new level of intimacy.
This was also close to the time when Saïx said his first words since the whole mess.
Axel had sauntered into the living room to get Demyx some clean clothes, and there, sprawled out magnificently on the couch like a lion laid the older man, his bright golden eyes staring off into the distance. He looked both tired and vaguely upset.
"Hey Saïx," Axel said softly, "You okay?"
The blue haired man shifted lightly, bright burned gold meeting worn-glass green. He smiled, seeing past that dulled façade that hid the demon in Axel's true nature.
"I'm still alive," he said softly, voice strangely low and unfamiliar, "I'll be fine."
Axel wobbled on weak knees.
"He spoke…you spoke…" the redhead breathed.
"It was only temporary," Saïx informed.
That was all it took to fell the reincarnation of the mighty Number VIII, the Flurry of Dancing Flames. Saïx laughed when Demyx's voice called out from the other room.
"Axel! You'd better be getting me some boxers or I'm coming out there naked!"
So Saïx waited patiently. Demyx didn't just make threats and not live up to them, no. Not by any means. Saïx knelt to pick Axel up off the cold wood flooring and the redhead gave a soft moan that no doubt said 'my head fucking hurts.'
Demyx growled loudly from the other room.
"Pants, Axel! Pants!" he roared, "Not that hard to find, 'em!"
Saïx grinned in anticipation. He placed Axel gently on the couch and stalked around to the doorway to the bedroom and pressed himself tight to the wall.
"I'm getting my own damn pants," Demyx grumbled, "I don't care about the windows being open, damn it!"
The blond appeared completely naked, still slightly wet, hair dripping from his recent shower. He shook like a dog as soon as he was out of the bedroom and picked up his characteristic stride. The way he moved made him seem even lankier than he really was to tell the truth. He looked a little gaunter recently, though. No doubt it had to do with the substances he'd consumed earlier and his lack of movement over the past month.
Saïx waited until the blond was only a few feet from his hiding place, pounced like a cat.
"Boo."
"Yeargh! SAIX!!"
--- ---
I guess at this point, life returned to normal.
Well… short a little weirdness on the emotional level. The confrontation with Xemnas clarified one thing for us: we hadn't escaped our pasts. I have a feeling that it might have been Xemnas himself pulling our strings, but at the same time, I think it was just the way it had to be. He merely set the ball in motion.
Pour forth, we beseech Thee, Lord, Thy grace into our hearts; that, as we have known the Incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, by the message of an angel, so by His Passion and Cross we may be brought to the glory of the Resurrection. Through the same Christ our Lord.