The World Is Ugly Chapter 99, a fairy tail fanfic

Author's Notes:

Trigger warning! There's graphic depictions of violence towards animals in this chapter.

Chapter 99

;

T̶̻́h̶̬́̚e̴͍̓͘ ̶̱̓ E̸̛͉̲q̴̺̔̅ǔ̷̺̓i̷̻͓̓̚n̵̘͇̽o̷̙̮͋͘x̷̩̮̉ ̷͙͂i̸̢̯̚s̷̖͋̌ ̴̠͝ a̶̪͒p̴͈̏ͅp̶͚̽r̸͙̗̿o̷̻͗͜a̵̧̱̅̈́c̸̰̝̓́h̸͙̝̾i̵̭͌͝n̸̯̋͊g̷̺̭̀

;

Room 52. Hallway 11. Hallway 6. Room 46.

Rewind.

Room 52. Hallway 11. Hallway 6. Room 46.

Rewind.

Room 52...

How long had he been staring at these rooms now? Two hours? Three? He could hardly keep track anymore. Davian sighed.

He thought, for the most part, he had the timeline nailed down. On the first day of captivity, activity was rather low, due in part to room 23 being in use - that room being which seemed to be where most of their procedures took place. On the second day, the subject was transferred to room 23 where drugs were administered and samples were – or at least attempted to be – taken. While the results of various tests were being waited on, the subject was kept in a seemingly comatose state and moved to room 46. On day four, the subject was again moved to room 23 where a potion was administered, more than likely to combat the rapid decrease in testosterone and other rut hormones. More tests, and when the subject began to gain cognizance and autonomy, drugs were administered. This cycle of potions, tests, drugs was repeated until day five, when the subject snapped through restraints and was able to cause bodily harm to Bianca. Day six saw the subject's removal to room 46 where the subject remained for three more days.

Or so Davian had thought.

Because, well, where could he have gone?

The subject, of course, was Gajeel Redfox. The types of tests, the reasons for them, the ever elusive why's had given him enough of a headache and so he'd decided to at the very least nail down his timeline of events, so maybe parsing through Bianca's journal would be a little less of a nightmare. Very quickly, that turned out to easier said than done.

He had his interrogation notes beside him, the important details in shorthand. Unaven entered his cell late into the evening of day six. During an attempted assault, the subject broke free and nearly killed him. On day seven, for a reason Davian wasn't even able to find in the journals, a child was brought into the cell. Some sort of strange experiment? If it was, it wasn't in Bianca's notes from what Davian could tell, and that was strange because she made note of everything, including the altercation with Unaven. There were even notes of the quiet day, day eight, a day that made Davian curious as to why Mr. Redfox didn't just tear down the lacrima instead of staying curled up in its blind spot? (And as soon as he thought it, he realized the answer was actually quite simple. Intimidation. He didn't need to blind them to have an edge. If someone looked down on him from that lacrima, the bloodstains would tell anyone looking in what their near fate would be should they try to enter.) And then, of course, there was day nine, when Laxus was escorted down that same hallway 6 and brought to the guarded room 46.

Everything should have been rather cut and dry if it weren't for the child who was not mentioned. It piqued his interest. Maybe Mr. Redfox had been confused while his body worked through the medications and the event hadn't happened at all? He was bound to be exhausted and dehydrated at that point, possibly delirious, and still suffering the effects of the potion that induced his heat, so it was a possibility. It was while Davian was investigating this that he found the discrepancy. There was a block of time, specifically one hour and thirty-three minutes, beginning at 11:30 am, that was missing. Davian would have chalked it up to a glitch in the recording, possibly damage from its acquisition or transportation, if it weren't for the specificity of it. At exactly 11:23, while the subject was still bound to the stretcher, Bianca had approached room 46. An order was given, the subject was extracted and led down hallway 6 to hallway 11 to room 52.

This room wasn't remarkable. In fact, what little there was in it had been removed, save the candles. Seemingly an area for escorts to meet their customer for the first time, or maybe to be examined, it had contained a lounge and a couple of chairs. There had been the most modest of racks with a few outfits, ranging in sizes that made Davian's throat feel twisted and acidic, though he was determined to ignore it. At approximately 11:27, the subject was placed in the middle of the room. Davian could see him wincing and trying to open his eyes, which meant he was, at the very least, aware of his surroundings when Bianca entered the room. That's when the static started, at first a halo around the middle of the image, and then it quickly took over until the feed was disrupted entirely.

And that was what led Davian here, flipping between screens, one after another, to watch that haze fizzle into being for precisely one hour and thirty-three minutes. A soft rap at his door got him to drag his eyes from the images and immediately deactivate the lacrima.

He blinked confusedly at Irena before what she'd just said clicked into place in his mind.

"Not really official..." he cleared his throat, "It's the, ah, the Ulrich case."

She raised a skeptical brow, "An empty hallway?"

"I'm more concerned with what happens after."

"I see," she leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms in a way that should have been relaxed but translated to nervousness when she began fidgeting with her braids, pulling them over her shoulder like the tied-off ends of a macramé scarf, "Do you have a moment?"

"Ah..." he hesitated, glancing around his desk.

"You've been up here for how long? Surely, you can make one," she smirked at him, "Come on. I'll make you some tea."

Was something wrong? He couldn't think of anything off the top of his mind that she might have been offended by, a line he could have crossed, something he'd done wrong. Truly, he'd been trying his best.

In complete honesty, Davian had a first balked at Irena when she'd sat down just a week ago and decided they should set some of what she called boundaries. In her own words, if they were going to make this – whatever this was – work, they needed to make some mutual decisions. Her requirements had been simple enough: do not manipulate her with his mind-bending touch, even if it were for some ridiculous and "chivalrous" reason; do not leave mysteriously in the night without her knowing where he was going unless it were some top-secret, work-related thing which he would disclose later; and be honest about any strange, lizard-person-related things, because how was she supposed to learn how best to be his partner if he weren't honest? Davian, himself, had had little to return with. He had never been asked to set personal boundaries before, so he didn't make any demands at all, really. There were just a few things that Irena needed to understand fully if she were to decide to stay. Those being that firstly, there were things he would not speak of, be it his choice or something a little more compulsory, and she shouldn't press him on it; secondly, he was, by benefit of his physiology, extremely strong and extremely proficient in killing with his bare hands alone, and she should regard those words with the amount of caution they called for; and thirdly, if at any time she felt that her safety were in danger should she stay, or even that she simply no longer wished to stay for any reason at all, that she should do exactly as she wished and leave.

Davian had little claim in the way of integrity, but he did keep his word. He thought that he'd done just that with no issue, but to be fair, many of the things hadn't come up. He worked. A lot. And she did also. Even when their professional lives ended, Davian would still retire to his office to review Bianca's notes and try his best to translate her mediocre shorthand into something he could actually read. Irena, too, had Rameses and Cersei to train and brush and coddle. It took a great deal of work Davian certainly didn't have the patience for, which might have been why neither of them seemed to respect or even like him.

She'd already turned and left by the time he got enough of his mind together to make a reply. He gathered himself and locked up his office before following after her. He heard the tell-tale whistle of the kettle making its way eerily up the stairs, which meant she'd been making his tea before she'd come up to get him. It made his heart beat a little faster.

"I've been wanting to ask you," she was already pouring a cup by the time he'd gotten to the kitchen, "How do you think we're doing?"

Davian stared. Was it that his mind was feeling foggy from staring too long at the file, or was it because of the situation?

"Ah-e-um..." he stumbled over a lack of thought before stating cynically, "It's been eleven days."

"Most people would say that's about two weeks," she chuckled, pushing his cup towards him like a warm invitation, "Would you say things are going... well?"

"Well is a bit subjective, isn't it?"

"Well, I think I'm happy. Are you?" When he didn't immediately answer, a look crossed her face and the mulled over her next words carefully, "You know I missed you while we were separated... a lot."

Davian couldn't do much more than blink. It wasn't that he didn't understand, because he certainly did, but he didn't feel very much himself. The shadows of the room were starker, the light harsher, and it made everything feel flat and foreign. He felt like his ears were about to start ringing, like every second that wasn't filled by sound was astonishingly quiet. Rameses lifted his head and swung it towards him, ears alert.

"Are you alright?"

"I don't... know."

Were his words slurring? He felt like he hardly had any control of his mouth, like maybe he'd just chewed on a handful of ice cubes and his tongue had gone stiff and near numb.

A low rumble shook the doorway. Cersei was poised there, dark eyes flashing as his hackles raised and his mane flared. Irena's eyebrow rose sharply.

"Cersei? What's gotten into you?"

It was so difficult to tell time underground. Spirited away from sunlight, down in the open spaces far beneath the foot of the mountain, where their cities were burrowed from the guts of red stone, where in beauty it often became difficult to discern cavern from cave and tool-made from timeworn, they were undistracted, they were together, they were safe. It was a content life tucked into limestone like one sprawling amethyst squirrelled away from the rest of the world, a life full of catching geckos in the reflection pools and wrestling with brothers and cousins in the residence alcoves. One where he'd stare in those same reflection pools and wonder why he looked so different from the others, when he coveted brighter eyes and sharper teeth. He'd rub his nails in wet ash and call them claws and tug at his ears wondering why they weren't longer, more angular. Why did he look different? Other? And why did his family treat him differently for it?

And then, he'd met Aeleora. A strange girl, she was, and five years his senior which meant he couldn't call her sister anymore. She was damá, and they weren't supposed to be around each other unless another damá or maāko were there. She was off-putting, her large brown eyes and light brown skin when he was used to flashing yellow and shades of blue but she looked like him and she looked like -̸̠̮̑ ̴̢̪̑-̴͎̐ ̴̨̾-̷͙̳͌-̸̲̀͐ ̴̤̩̃̓-̶͍́;̶̪̯̆̈;̵̘͈́̕ ̵̣͕͗̒.̶̧̹̂͠ ̷̜̠̾̚,̶̩̻̉ ̷̲̀,̴̙̅'̸̨̳̆, and that made him feel less alone. She said things that he didn't understand with a glint in her eye and a twist to her lips that made her look sinister, even if she was dappled with bruises, which she often was. If he repeated her words to his mother, she'd purse her lips and her eyes would turn hard. Her voice would waver when she looked like that. He wished he remembered what her voice sounded like, but he couldn't. All he could remember anymore was the... the...

"Well, it... it was sort of like a seizure..."

"A seizure?"

"His eyes got distant, like he was zoning out. I think maybe it would have been fine if I hadn't touched him."

He could hear Serrill and Irena talking and each word felt like a nail being pressed into his skin. He wasn't sure if it had been the racket to drag him out of it or the shock of being wrenched down to the ground by a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound dog, but he'd come back to his wits with a dog's muzzle around his ankle and Irena yelling for Cersei to heel. Rameses was short behind, herding Cersei away with hackles raised.

Davian's leg didn't hurt anymore, at least. He was fortunate in his ability to heal so quickly.

"Well, the stress from work has been... I'm sure he's told you about the prison. Has he done this before?"

Davian stood abruptly, walked over to his office door, and slammed it shut. He glared down at his hand, at the blue hue that hadn't quite faded. His synthetical mind was too compromised for his glamour to take affect, and he was just left staring at himself and all of his shortcomings. He felt hungry, he felt empty, he felt cold.

His feet were heavy as he walked over to a seldom-regarded drawer and rummaged through its abandoned contents. For the first time in a long, long time, Davian lit a white candle and sat it at the edge of his desk. Flipping between feeds from the lacrima, he pretended the smoke actually did something to quell the growing restlessness inside.

It was so difficult to tell time underground, and that was where he usually was.

That was where they all were. Always. Down where prying human eyes couldn't see, or maybe didn't wish to see. Down where the ground swallowed you up and you feel like you're stuck right there in the gullet of the earth, that's where they liked to reside. But that wasn't to say things were simple. They didn't scratch holes in the rock to huddle into like a bunch of rabbits desperate to escape the icy touch of winter. These were made by the first generations that hid underground, and they had far more craftsmanship and talent than the likes of these numbers that dithered and slithered throughout these underground now. They who remembered but were too scared to tell the tales to their children. It was better to think that this was all, that they weren't missing anything, that the underground was enough.

But Davian knew better, because he could read. Maybe he still hadn't quite gotten the balance of syllables on his tongue, and perhaps he had to sound things out and ask the elders what certain things meant, but he was still better than the most of them. And then the time came when even the eldest of them, the ones that had lived with the first of the generations, could no longer tell him the phrases he asked about. Then, he had only one left to turn to, Father.

Father was, in Its way, overjoyed. That is to say, if overjoyed was a thing that turned thick and oppressive as a bee drowning in its own honey. Davian had at first liked Father's attention. He liked bringing It things and listening to the explanation, the stories that were felt more and heard less, the words that were spoken in several languages and yet all of which he could understand. He'd spend hours in chambers only he was allowed in, listening, absorbing, believing. He was hungry and Father was a thing that filled him up to bursting all the while his stomach still pitched with questions. But those days were short and quickly sullied and blackened like flesh roasted and agonized on the spit.

He was taken to one of the forbidden rooms, the ones that always smelled foul and were only lit by the sacred fires that burned cerulean and cast wide and abyssal shadows onto the walls. He remembered the motifs of Oros, with mouth open, forked tongue lashing, feathers binding the three worlds together, flying across the hall and into the grand place. It wasn't carved stone here, no. These walls were pressed with brick and fortified with bones. A sacred place, a place that filled Davian with dread and exhilaration from toes to crown, and he didn't know if that was good or bad. He was shaking when he stood before Father and what remained of the council, when the words had been issued in a way that sounded like a blessing but he now regarded as a curse.

Orthinos, the son of the Aurincarae, would be the one to take the Rite of Service.

"The Favorite Son," Father's voice had echoed throughout the chamber and he'd felt it into every aching piece of himself that had ever felt lonely, "You will be a god among insects."

Oh, how he wished he'd known what that had meant...

"Major!"

"What?" he was cold. Frigid, in fact, and he realized he was shivering.

"You're going to catch something standing out here like that," Serrill was fussing with something before he heard the fwoosh of the umbrella opening. Davian blinked confusedly, glancing around.

He was in the middle of the deserted courtyard. The place had been off limits since the parapet was still dangerous. They hadn't quite gotten to fixing that, especially with the mists that often swept in from the bay without warning.

When had he gotten out here? How long had he just been standing, staring?

"Your, um..." Serrill cleared his throat nervously, "Your hair..."

Davian's hand flew up to his temples. He gritted his teeth and yanked out the feathers that he could find, his eyes twitching with each sharp pain that flashed as he plucked. Serrill flinched with each one, opening his mouth like he'd try to dissuade him, before dropping it to stare at him with a look nearly piteous.

It took Davian a moment before he could catch his breath as he flicked the wad of half-grown feathers into the mud and destroyed them under his heel.

"I don't have time for this," he snarled, "I'll have to get a dry cloak."

It was so difficult to tell time underground, so it really wasn't his fault. He didn't have a watch, not back then.

"What happened?"

Orotrushit had turned completely in order to look at him, one golden eye cut with black, the other cut out entirely. He was holding something white between his fingers, sopping up the blood, but it didn't quite work and the blood was running in thin rivulets down his palm and arm. His lip twitched slightly, like he might hiss.

"What do you want?"

"You're... you're hurt. I'll go get mother. She'll help..."

"I don't want her help," he snarled.

Davian tried again, "Where's mother? If you tell me where she is, I'll get her. She won't get mad..."

"Father took her."

"What?" Davian had demanded as best he could, "Why would he take mother?"

"Do I know the will of the divine?" he snapped, making Davian flinch.

"I'll... I'll be right back. I promise."

He'd taken off as fast as he could, running down through the corridors and towards the sacred halls. He knew he wasn't supposed to be there without invitation, but he had to find her. He'd flashed out his tongue to catch her scent and found it, still somewhat fresh in the stifling air. He sprinted past the tall columns of the underground temples, passed the elders who turned with worried eyes to watch him as he ran. One of them even yelled his name but he was in too much of a hurry. He passed one of the council, slumped on the dias with golden eyes alight and staring out into the distance blindly as he sought illumination. No one yelled at him when he wasn't silent and reverent by the tapestries. They all just turned their eyes to their own paths, to their own doings, and ignored the child that was frantically searching through each of the hallowed places, desperately trying to find the hulking figure of Father anywhere, anywhere.

He came to a halt at the end of the hall, breathing heavily as he cast his eyes about him. He could only see one way left to go, but the mere idea of it made his stomach roll down into his feet. There was a stairway leading down to the deepest sanctums and The Golden Chamber, but he wasn't allowed to go down there. No one was. Only Father could retreat to this most hallowed of places and take offerings behind the curtain.

He flicked out his tongue and there, distinct to him and warm and comforting, was the smell of his mother. He could trace it like a trail leading down into the depths. He very much felt like he wanted to cry.

"Mother?" shaking, he stepped down onto the top stair, "Mother? Something's happened..."

He took another step, and another, trying to see anything down in the dim light. All he could see were the pillars of blue fire and the striking shadows they cast.

"Mother, please..." his voice got caught in his throat, as if even it was afraid to travel down into that place. The darkness yawned and stirred, and he felt like everything inside was watching him as he came down to stand at the landing. The writing along the doorway proclaimed this a holy place, and only for the few called to commune with Oros himself, of which there was only one.

Shivering, quaking, he stepped across the threshold and went inside.

He really didn't remember much, and it was the lack of remembrance that chilled his bones down to the marrow every time. In the back of his mind, groggy and fighting through the thick fog that kept him seeing red, he torpidly thought again. Things came to his attention very, very slowly, in order of immediate importance. Pain came first and then discomfort, danger and then a general gage of his surroundings. The smell of blood was everywhere and he couldn't move from the terror that brought all on its own, although he could hardly place why. Blood was blood, after all, nothing more.

He didn't react to hearing his name because it took him a while to realize it was his name at all. When he was finally able to wrap his stiff and disjointed mind around the idea that Davian was indeed his name and someone was calling it, he was quickly overtaken with the sound of dogs. Large, padded feet like bears' massive paws were vaulting towards him, no doubt with teeth bared and ready to rip him limb from limb.

He realized he was holding something in his hand.

Another voice called for him in the forest, and Davian realized he was staring up at trees... and it was twilight. The touch of city lights was poisoning its way into the night, keeping the stars hazy. He ran his thumb over the jagged bumps of what was in his hand, across the ridged smooth, and the memory of grabbing hold and snapping off the offending weapon made his core flare with something violent.

He'd seen a deer from the window... and now he was here.

Rameses found him first, bounding through bushes and coming to a cautious stop near him. He could hear the dog sniffing before it let out a deep and deafening call out into the forest. The patient thing that he was, he paced over to where Davian laid on his back and dropped down beside him, ears alert and trained into the waning night.

"Good dog," Davian wheezed, pushing his arms underneath himself. The grass was slick and his bones were achy from the cool damp seeping into him. He glanced down at his watch and winced. The glass face was shattered, leaving it little more than a twisted bit of metal strung around his wrist. How long had he been out here? Minutes or hours? He could hardly tell...

A low growl reverberated from the bushes as two dark eyes peered at him from the dark. Cersei crept forward, eyes trained to Davian with every step. His mane was nearly covering his face, his hackles raised as he glared and snarled. He stalked with his head low and teeth bared, ready to pounce on him if he moved too fast. Despite his nearly constant aggression, Davian knew that Cersei was actually an incredibly obedient dog. He never attacked unless his master told him to, or if she was in immediate danger, and she was currently nowhere to be found, possibly still making her way towards them.

"Cersei," Davian regarded him. The dog bared his teeth in reply.

Rameses was straight at his side when he finally got himself to standing. Things were slowly coming back, the way these things tended to do, and the parts of him that were unnerved were being placated with each detail that became more and more vivid. It wasn't twilight. It was, in fact, decidedly night, and it had come as a heavy shroud alongside the new moon. The crickets were slowing down their song, and aside from the heavy panting of Rameses, there was little to hear other than the small things that scurried about in the grass, and the not-so-small things that stalked surefootedly after. And all of this, for the most part, was fine.

For the most part.

Because, well, there was still the blood to attend to, and Davian was standing in it. He curled his nose at the sharp end of an antler in his hand and dropped it. Ignoring the dryness of his mouth, he made a long draw of his tongue against the air and grimaced at everything that rushed at him at the same time. Dog, for starters, musky and damp and sour. Trees and grass and freshly upturned dirt from hooves that had dug in during flight. He cast his eyes to the smell of the deer and traced the glistening path that led into the thicket. His stomach churned.

He didn't have his sword. He'd been getting ready for bed when it had happened. It being that he had blacked out, again, and this time with violence it seemed. He was going to take his medicine and had caught the flash of something in his vision and paced to the french doors that had led out to the back deck. He wasn't particularly dressed for midnight exploration, but that point was dismally moot. He was here, and there was a trail of blood disappearing into the night, and he wasn't sure he'd made it. But none of that really mattered because his knife was strapped to his waist, and he hadn't had when he'd been downstairs. And that, if nothing else, meant something and his chest grew tight at the thought of it.

The dogs stuck near to him the entire time, one panting and at ease, and the other silent and on edge. It wasn't very far away, only a couple hundred meters. He was a beautiful prize on the round stone he'd been dragged to. The great stag was taking deep, haggard breaths. Four deep gauges were raked into his side. Frothing slightly at the mouth, it had hardly the strength to lift its head and watched with panic as he approached.

T̶̫̟̲͚̓̅̄̍ḩ̸̳̽̀́e̵̢̙̜̹͌̔̕ ̶̙͆͘͝Ë̶͈̹̻́͗̔͝q̴̬̠͓̀ụ̸͚̱̙͒͊͐̈ḯ̶͓̤̖̅ͅṋ̷̣̅̋̀͗o̴̼̳͙͋͝ͅx̶͓̗̜̯̔̃ ̴̞̜̠͍͑̆̉ȉ̴̡͔͎͊s̷̡̫̅ ̶̡̳̜̂̈́̔ă̶̮̳̹p̸̞̟͎̩̑͗p̵̩͈̓̚͜r̶͇͎̍̄̾ǫ̶̰̥̓ả̶̘̈͆ç̸̜̝̂ȟ̶̬͈̟į̶͓̝̀n̷͖͔̿͐͛g̷̯̋͒

Indoctrination is quite the incredible thing, and all the implications of what was before him came rushing back to the surface. He felt bile rising into his throat at the thought of it, at the sight of the deer dying on the stone. Davian knew a sacrifice when he saw one. When the dogs began to growl behind him, he could do little more than shake his head slowly in dismay, or maybe denial.

"Orthinos."

"Davian-" his voice cracked and he had to swallow down a noise that resembled terror far too much before he could speak again, "My name is Davian."

"How strongly we cling to childish things."

Davian felt the presence like a mist rising from the sea with cool fingers to grace his exposed skin. He set his jaw and refused to move, to look back, to breathe.

"It means beloved," he stated icily, "Am I not beloved to you, Father?"

"Human names and human definitions, they are as meaningless to me as their magics," the voice wrapped around his throat like a vice and rested there, choking him into silence.

The growls of the dogs were growing louder, more persistent as Father approached him from somewhere he didn't see. They were intelligent beasts, truly, and Davian could only hope they were intelligent enough not to bark.

"Are you still satisfied, my son? Is the thin, decorative glaze still enough to cover the atrocity of humanity? Or has the sweet veneer started to fade and show you what they truly are: a writhing loathsomeness of the gods' order?"

He swallowed hard, "I'd hardly call it atrocity."

"Even the beautiful ones are just soft fruit nearing the spoil."

"I don't think it's expected of us to be the judge of all mankind."

The disapproval, if it were a living thing, would have wound its way around his legs, anchoring him in place. He could feel it there where his gooseflesh rose, making the skin prick and become painful. Davian clenched his fists and braced himself against the feeling of It raking across his mind that feeling of claws sinking into flesh. If it had been external, he'd be bleeding out alongside the stag.

"You were to deliver Aeleora's killer."

None of what Davian would say would be a lie, and he had planned it that way. He'd rehearsed this exact moment in his mind more times than he cared to confess to. On late nights when he stared far too long at lacrimas and read journals filled with the most deplorable scratchings he often caught himself staring into the void and wondering how this moment would go. He just didn't think it would happen like this. A part of his mind didn't think he'd even make it this far, that he'd just find himself wondering the abyss of the afterlife not sure what had happened, his spirit left to decay into something grotesque. The other part knew that was all foolish.

"I won't press on you some... some empty excuse," Davian felt like he was losing air. His lungs were always just short of a full breath. Dry throated and with a pulse that seemed intent on giving him away, it took everything in him to keep his voice from shaking as he felt the looming presence press at his back. He wanted to squeeze his eyes tight and will It away like a child to a nightmare. He wanted to run and hide, to disappear, or maybe even just fall on the ground, but he didn't, "It was my own arrogance that led to this. Surely, I couldn't be bested by a man that had so little control of himself and his emotions. Men like that are sloppy, prone to mistakes, or so I thought. I could have done so much more... I can only ask your forgiveness, Father."

He could taste panic rising in his mouth like bile for a reconning that waited behind him quietly as if It knew innately his words were far from sufficient. Standing there watching the stag fight for life, he felt jealous.

"You are forgiven."

Davian blinked. There was no anger in Father's voice, no sour tone of disappointment or swift and striking judgement. Davian had expected some sort of reaction, like zinc and sulfur left under a blue flame, that would leave him crippled and gasping for breath. But a weight hadn't been lifted from his shoulders. He knew deep down in the tortuous churn of his gut that this was far from over.

"Thank you... You're, you're too generous..."

"It is not I who you should give your thanks," the sick hiss clung to the air like tossed rock dust, unwilling to dissipate, "Tonight is a special night."

Davian's body tensed as he stifled a shudder at the form of Father finally coming into view. Jittery and writhing, It made a wide circle towards the stag on the rock. The animal kicked its hind legs vainly in a weak attempt to escape from what instinct told was its demise. A large shape alighted on the animal's throat, a hand, though Davian couldn't see it, stilling the beast instantly.

"The new moon?" Davian asked quietly.

Father waited expectantly and Davian felt his heart sink into his stomach.

"The Black Moons."

"The day when Oros will join the heavens, Earthland, and the underworld, day and night, approaches."

Of course, Davian was aware of the equinox creeping ever closer. It was as ingrained into him as the seasons were to the changing leaves, but he'd long since stopped going to the temples and ever since his estrangement it mattered less and less to him other than a day where he felt more energetic, and more untethered. Even now he was confused, because Black Moons were not all that uncommon. Davian had watched them pass by over the years with the same fascination as seeing formations in the courtyard. They came. They went. Then came the equinox, or the solstice, and the universe would continue to tick like the forever-wound machination it was. The days were getting shorter, the nights bolder. This is the natural order of the celestial sphere. But Father's intonation meant this was something special, something new, and that was frightening in a way Davian simply couldn't put into words.

"Are you saying I am to set intentions?" Davian asked. Father didn't respond at first, and that alone made him feel as if he were plucked open by the sharpened beaks of vultures.

"No. Tonight, you will be cleansed."

"Cleansed?" his voice, damn him, pitched up and betrayed him. He felt it like the crack that fractures a glacier. The ice splinters of him were falling into the frigid at Father's feet, floating like evidence to a crime, "Whatever for?"

"In less than thirty days, it will be the first Black Moon, a time to pull out our darkest feelings, the things we keep hidden. It is time to confront what you have been running from."

"I'm not... I'm not running from anything-"

"Orthinos," Its voice resonated loudly throughout his entire being, making him flinch, "You are."

"My name is Davian."

"Your name is Orthinos, the Favorite Son of the Aurincarae, and it is time to stop running!" the words slammed into him with enough force that he dropped onto his knees.

The world shifted, tilted, spliced together with one very different. Shadows burst into being in an instant, screaming and muttering and whispering. There were hundreds, all watching and invisible and there, and he could hear them. They spoke of things he didn't want to know about. They talked about eternity, and new ages, forgotten knowledge, pain. Golden-eyed and sharp-toothed, with tongues that rolled out and eyes that bulged, they spanned ages. They were connected. They whispered. They knew his name. Davian ducked his head down and closed his eyes, unable to stop the tremors of terror wracking his body.

W̶e̴ ̸a̸r̵e̵ ̷f̶o̵r̸e̴v̷e̴r̷.̶

̵W̸e̶ ̴e̴m̷b̶o̵d̸y̶ ̵p̶e̵r̷f̴e̷c̶t̶i̸o̸n̶.̶

̶W̵e̵ ̷h̵a̷v̷e̴ ̸b̶e̴e̵n̶ ̷l̴i̵g̸h̸t̸.̵

̴W̴e̴ ̷h̴a̶v̷e̸ ̵c̵o̸m̵e̷ ̸f̸r̵o̵m̴ ̴s̸h̴i̸n̸i̸n̶g̷ ̸s̵t̵a̸r̶s̴.̷

̴W̴e̶ ̸a̶r̸e̷ ̶i̴n̴c̶o̶n̸c̵e̴i̴v̷a̵b̵l̷y̴ ̵l̷a̸r̸g̶e̴.̸

I̴n̸t̷o̵ ̷t̵h̷e̵ ̶s̶h̵a̴d̵o̴w̸ ̶w̵i̷t̵h̷ ̷t̶e̶e̵t̸h̷ ̵b̴a̷r̸e̵d̴

"Please..." he gasped, digging his claws into the dirt, "Please..."

He never heard Father move, just knew that It was now at his side. It towered above Davian as he shivered against the cold ground. Its voice was low and warm, not unlike a gentle purr.

"My child, you have nothing to fear..." the weight of the hand that smoothed itself across Davian's back should have been enough to crush him. With Its touch, he could feel his mind and sense of self shift and fizzle. The whispering voices ebbed in their murmurings, calmed by the ease of Father's ire. Davian refused to look up. He was too scared.

̷T̶h̸a̸t̵ ̶w̴h̴i̷c̵h̴ ̷i̸s̶ ̷a̵b̸o̷v̵e̵

̵S̷h̷a̵l̶l̷ ̵r̴e̶f̸l̶e̵c̴t̴

I̴n̸t̷o̵ ̷t̵h̷e̵ ̶s̶h̵a̴d̵o̴w̸ ̶w̵i̷t̵h̷ ̷t̶e̶e̵t̸h̷ ̵b̴a̷r̸e̵d̴

"Did I not allow you to abandon your duty to commune with humans? Did I not grant your wish to seek those parts of yourself you deemed missing? What did all that toiling bring you? A career marred by your own shortcomings? Wizards who look on you with disdain and label you as Other still whispering their doubts of what you are when behind closed doors? You are not human. You don't belong here... It is time to let go of these childish things. What has been begun must now find its end."

̶W̷e̴ ̸a̵r̶e̷ ̷i̵m̸p̸e̵r̸c̸e̷p̶t̵i̶b̶l̴y̷ ̶s̵m̵a̶l̸l̶.̵

"Please... I don't want this..." Davian pleaded, even though he knew it was fruitless.

̷W̴e̷ ̸w̶i̷l̵l̸ ̷r̷e̶t̷u̸r̶n̷ ̶t̴o̷ ̴b̵l̴a̵c̷k̴ ̵h̵o̶l̵e̶s̶.̴

"It is only natural to fear change, the things we do not know. Oros smiles on those that embrace their fear. Ours is not a power of peace, it is power in destruction so that we can be reborn. The circle of death, the gift of life. The burden of life, the freedom of death. From our first steps into this world, we were chasing the things that destroy us. From the ashes, we shall rise."

̴W̸e̶ ̸w̴i̸l̷l̸ ̴b̴e̵ ̵d̸a̴r̶k̵.̶

"The ashes of what?" Davian asked, and even though he couldn't see his Father's smile, he knew it was there and in it there were a multitude of teeth.

̷W̸e̷ ̴a̸r̶e̴ ̵O̷r̸o̵s̷.̴

"It is time for the next age to begin. We will usher it in, together." Davian choked on a sob as Father's hand released him. "Stand and take the blade in your hand."

̷W̷e̷ ̵a̴r̶e̶ ̴e̶t̶e̴r̷n̵a̶l̵.̷

Shaking, he pushed himself to his feet. He gripped tightly at the handle. The cold flash of it was harsh in the darkness of the night. Father's voice echoed like thunder into the night.

"Oros, God of Creation out of Destruction, Lord of Divine Wrath and Blood Sacrifice,

I call upon you to receive this offering,

Cleanse this child so that he may become worthy to receive your gifts,

And bring about your will to your people that has lost their way,

If it so pleases you,

Into the shadow with teeth bared."

The stag's cut-off cry echoed off the trees around them as he sliced deep into its chest. It was still gasping for breath when Davian plunged his hand into the heat of it, splintering through bone and tearing past tissue to wrap his fingers around the still beating heart of it. Its body jerked and shuddered as he drew it back out and offered it up to It that loomed over him with rapt anticipation that fell onto Davian in waves. Over it all, he still heard the voices.

Î̵̛̮n̷̩̈́t̶̟͉͛̊o̴͍̱͑͝ ̴̡̻̾͋t̷̪͔͐h̸̥̋̀e̷̝̱̐ ̵͎́ͅs̷̨̠͑͝h̴̓͜a̶̰͑͛ď̷͙̳ŏ̶͎w̵̲̾ ̸͈̉ŵ̶̫̬i̴̟̐̇ṫ̷͍̋ḧ̸̦́͂ ̴͉͈̕t̵̢͎̽̕ę̴̃ẹ̶́͜t̵̙͋̑h̴̰͒͊͜ ̵͙̟̓b̵͚̚ǎ̷͈̱ŕ̵̮͠ḛ̷̭̄̌ḓ̶̋͑

At the first wet snap of teeth tearing flesh, the burning pain started. Davian screamed and crumpled to the ground.

Things were far simpler, easier, before he found himself growing close to those that surrounded him now. Just as soon as he thought he'd be better off in his life as it was before Irena and then Laxus and then Serrill had crashed into his solitude, he realized it didn't much matter. So too in the way that cold, acidic water meets the banks of the earthen shore, he'd been turned into something that could not be unentwined from the other. A bog with bodies disturbed and floating to the surface, he was in a sour mood as he sat across Irena at their table, an untouched plate of food before him that at this point was to be expected.

Everything was changing and Davian was helpless to stop it.

He kept his eyes on Irena.

Her lips drew downward into a pensive frown.

"Should you be going on such a long trip?" she mused, pulling her lavender braids over one shoulder the way she did when she felt a need to keep her hands busy. There was a little bit more to that question, although she didn't want to speak it out loud. It wasn't long trips that she was worried about, truly, it was long trips alone.

"I have parameters in place," Davian lied. True, he'd purchased a new watch with a harder face, and true he kept more of his sedative on him than he used to and even stashed some in his bag, and truer still he found himself sleeping more and more in an effort to keep the blackouts at bay, but that didn't mean he was any more prepared.

Something moved in his peripheral vision but he kept his eyes on Irena.

"I've been careful enough for this long, haven't I?" in his mind he amended sourly, only for a short while longer.

"Yes," she said hesitantly, "But maybe Laxus would be willing to come here? Or maybe you could wait a couple of days so Serrill could go with you?"

"Serrill has a lot of work to do. I don't think it's necessary to impose."

There was a long moment where Irena quietly drank her tea and Davian just stared. He stared in a way that he found himself doing more and more, candidly. But really, how could he not? She was the one who'd found him, after all, on the ground. It was the most explicable thing. She and Serrill had heard the dogs and rushed as quickly as they could to the source of alarm, but always somehow found themselves emerging from the wood back at the yard of the saltbox house. It had been nearly morning when whatever spell that had kept turning them around was finally lifted, and by then all that had remained of the great stag was shredded ribbons of flesh clinging to cracked and splintered bone, as if a flock of vultures had picked it clean in those few hours between dead of night and dawn.

Despite his objections, when Irena had seen the blood that had soaked through his trousers, she'd insisted on cleaning him up. Even though he proved he could walk just fine, because the wounds had long been healed, she still delicately pulled the damp clothes free. He'd known what he'd see when she washed away the dried blood and mud. The gold stood out vibrant against his skin, the scars beneath fresh and still tender.

"Does it... hurt?" she asked, nodding towards him over his cup as if she knew innately what he was thinking about.

Davian barely shook his head, "Not anymore."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Irena asked.

"No... No, I don't think so," Davian whispered.

"Alright, but I'm worried about you now, Davian Bishop," she said sternly, narrowing her eyes.

"There's nothing to worry about, little heart."

"Nothing to worry about," she rolled her eyes and her voice lilted upwards with a posh tone, "You and I came to an accord."

"Excuse me?" a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "Are you mocking me?"

"Hardly," she replied keenly. She sat down her coffee mug and stepped sharply around the counter towards him in a way that was most certainly supposed to mimic him, "I am merely reminding you that you and I came into agreement. You, sir, gave me your word and I would the loathe to allow you to break it."

"I suppose I have little choice in the matter, then."

She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms, making a point to look down her nose at him, "Quite."

Davian chuckled, "Whatever man you are mimicking seems like the sort of person I'd get along with."

She leaned toward and smirked, "And what makes you so sure it's a man?"

"Well, I'd think only a man could be quite that pretentious."

"Oh, that's sexist," she grinned.

"My sincerest apologies."

Her smile faded a bit and she reached up slowly to pluck his glasses off his face and set them on the counter gently. He hardly heard them touch the marble. He was too busy realizing how close they were to each other, and how that made him uncomfortable. She was gazing into him with her brilliant blue eyes and it was intimidating to know she could see right into his own.

He wasn't quite used to this. Being known.

"I'm going to kiss you, if you don't mind," she said.

His entire body went rigid and he suddenly lost the ability to string together more than a few consonants together. The garbled mess came out in a mix of his language and hers and felt a lot like his tongue getting twisted into a knot. Her eyes crinkled at the edges in her amusement.

"Do you mind?" she asked plainly.

"Well, um, that is – I mean – I suppose that's what people... do."

"Some people," she said patiently, "Around here, anyway."

"Right... um..."

"You can tell me no, Davian. I won't think any less of you."

He looked at her, really looked at her, "You... won't?"

"You and I are two very different people, Davian. We can like different things."

"Yes but... you can be too different," he said quietly.

"You can... but I don't think you're it, love."

He stared at her in the same way he figured a rabbit stares down a fox at the edge of the wood, with the idea that he'd take flight if she moved to quickly. He felt ridiculous and embarrassed and nervous and quite a few other things that made him feel like he might throw up, and then he felt silly all over again for feeling those ways. He sort of wanted to shake himself and snap out of it, be romantic, maybe, and also slink away somewhere. It was overwhelming and mawkish and he had to force himself to open his mouth and say, "Yes, alright... go ahead."

She beamed and that made his stomach twist in a horrible, wonderful way. It was such a quick thing that if he hadn't been feeling quite so in tune with every other atom on his body, he might not have noticed it at all. He blinked up at her and she gave him a fierce look.

"You come back home, Davian Bishop. Safely. Do you understand?"

"Oros's death and rebirth, you're terrifying."

She grinned at him as she reached for her tea, "Good."