![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dreamfire.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
just_writingthe beginning of a character sheet we never used... but I am very fond of this piece of writing.
The first time was almost an accident.
In the dry heat of a summer day in the mountains, your sweat drenched palms leaving heavy prints on the oak of your desk even through the crumbling lace of your gloves, you leant back away from the ancient volumes which refused to yield their secrets and left you choking as the already too thin air filled with the dust from between their leaves. You leant back and felt the presence that has gripped you for so long shifting slightly, as it sometimes would. Shifting just enough so that you remembered, so that your mind was almost free. Free, to hear the first gasp the small child makes as one of the creatures approaches her, teeth bared. To hear the strangled sob as she looks for a way to run, to feel the pain that she barely notices as she scrapes on the briars, to know how her tiny, tiny limbs will not give up in a futile fight to outpace the beast. To listen to those mewling cries rise harsh, high and desperate and then turn to a sad, wet choking as her windpipe is torn in two by the first claw to the neck.
To feel all that pain building inside you, but know that you - you have no right to scream. Free enough to know what you have done, to know the risk to life, to safety, to the very land itself which will be bathed in the blood of shapechangers and magi alike and scorched to barren rock by their magics. But not free enough to act. Only to suffer in the knowledge of what you have done.
It is indescribable, the visceral sensation of the combined mental weight of guilt and responsibility. A body cannot sit still under it, but moving offers no escape. Oh Gellien, if Sarsis were to see you like this. Hands braced against the desk, feet to the floor your torso twists and writhes. Locked in a private dance against that blackest of enemies, that hides in the depths of your own mind. The one that is you - not the intruder.
And on that day, somehow in your twisting, your fingers closed around the bone handle of your eating knife. Cold, even in the heat, the handle was slippery with sweat, and you had to grip it tight, tight so the bone dug into your palm and you were sure not to let go. One, two three cuts you drew across your forearm, sharp and shallow, before the thought of what you were doing had even formed in your mind. A new pain, a fast pain. One you could fight. The blood was fresh and bright and it welled fast though the cuts were not deep.
Your enemy that is yourself retreated a little. And so did the other.
It retreated and it locked doors behind it. You could act… and did, in a few small ways.
Your escape discovered, you were not slow to use it. But the Thing learned fast. Before long even the very thought of a knife brought its attention firmly to you. And you were not only watched but once again forced to carry out its own particular plans. And whilst, when the thing gripped your mind so tightly, you were at least free from the pain of self recrimination - that was not the release you sought. Better that it should leave you to your torment, than take control of you totally.
But escape is addictive. And you Councillor, in so many ways a noble man, a strong man, a man of beauty and pride - are also a weak man. You could not resist the chance to escape from yourself. And so you took the tools from a jeweller and filed your own nails until the edges were pointed and the tips as sharp as the sharpest knife. And you headed out to the homes of old and aging courtiers from the former glory days of the Drakons court - and whilst you sat by candlelight and shared wine, and painful rambling conversations of decadence and beauty- you used each former friend to test your new spells of muto corpus. Just a paper cut, or a glass suddenly breaking in their hand to hide the true cause of the damage. No harm to them, and no chance of their suspecting you of anything other than being rather too fond of living in the past. The Thing did not seem to mind, indeed if anything it seemed both puzzled and pleased. But at length you had a spell which you could use on yourself. You could claim your escape by tracing the smallest of gestures at any time. No more torment Gellien, no more.
And for a time it was enough. If the Thing left you, and the screams and visions came to replace him in your head you could claim release in a sharp, quick pain and a sense of amazement at the brightness of your own blood. You scarred first the left arm and then the right. You marked your torso next, before your thighs and wondered at the choice. You had to be careful. If you bled too often both your enemies became immune to the pain. The first day you realised that was also the day you learnt that if you reached for a knife while the Thing was in slight retreat, and then stabbed it right through so it touched the bone It would go away for a much longer time.
And it was in that absence that realisation struck. You had found a way to be free and what had you done with it. No steps taken to find allies, to find out what the frenzied yellow madness that had gripped all of you was. You had not even found a moment to reach out and touch your former lover. You had not even smiled.
There is a state that is worse than pain. It comes when our shame is great, and our hope faint and faded. It grows in the aching gap left by sweet love taken away. It is void. From within it we look on the things we have cared for, and no longer catch our breath in a subtle moment of longing and ecstasy mingled. Instead the best we can hope for is tears of regret. And the tears of regret barely taste of salt, and the heart they spring from is almost dry as stone. We count our problems over, examining them without passion and news that would a day before have seemed earth shaking is merely another incident to add to the list. We withdraw, far far away from those who used to call ourselves their friends, and add to our own emptiness. And in that emptiness we crave one thing above all else. We crave feeling. We crave to know that we are still alive.
How well you know that place now Gellien. You tried to fill it with yet more blood. Tracing elaborate patterns, that as the scars fade might, even be seen as art, by those with a stomach for the gruesome. You watched with something akin to boredom as the blood spread through the mouldering fabric of your worn robes, coagulating slowly into the brocade and round the buttonholes. You barely felt the cuts anymore, and did not even notice whether the Thing was gone. You walked around waiting for someone to say something to but unable to speak. But where you should have been thinking of help, help for all of you and rescue for the Drakon… what was your only concern?
Ah yes.
To let your tainted blood run from your veins until not a drop was left to torture you with this life and what you have become.
The first time was almost an accident.
In the dry heat of a summer day in the mountains, your sweat drenched palms leaving heavy prints on the oak of your desk even through the crumbling lace of your gloves, you leant back away from the ancient volumes which refused to yield their secrets and left you choking as the already too thin air filled with the dust from between their leaves. You leant back and felt the presence that has gripped you for so long shifting slightly, as it sometimes would. Shifting just enough so that you remembered, so that your mind was almost free. Free, to hear the first gasp the small child makes as one of the creatures approaches her, teeth bared. To hear the strangled sob as she looks for a way to run, to feel the pain that she barely notices as she scrapes on the briars, to know how her tiny, tiny limbs will not give up in a futile fight to outpace the beast. To listen to those mewling cries rise harsh, high and desperate and then turn to a sad, wet choking as her windpipe is torn in two by the first claw to the neck.
To feel all that pain building inside you, but know that you - you have no right to scream. Free enough to know what you have done, to know the risk to life, to safety, to the very land itself which will be bathed in the blood of shapechangers and magi alike and scorched to barren rock by their magics. But not free enough to act. Only to suffer in the knowledge of what you have done.
It is indescribable, the visceral sensation of the combined mental weight of guilt and responsibility. A body cannot sit still under it, but moving offers no escape. Oh Gellien, if Sarsis were to see you like this. Hands braced against the desk, feet to the floor your torso twists and writhes. Locked in a private dance against that blackest of enemies, that hides in the depths of your own mind. The one that is you - not the intruder.
And on that day, somehow in your twisting, your fingers closed around the bone handle of your eating knife. Cold, even in the heat, the handle was slippery with sweat, and you had to grip it tight, tight so the bone dug into your palm and you were sure not to let go. One, two three cuts you drew across your forearm, sharp and shallow, before the thought of what you were doing had even formed in your mind. A new pain, a fast pain. One you could fight. The blood was fresh and bright and it welled fast though the cuts were not deep.
Your enemy that is yourself retreated a little. And so did the other.
It retreated and it locked doors behind it. You could act… and did, in a few small ways.
Your escape discovered, you were not slow to use it. But the Thing learned fast. Before long even the very thought of a knife brought its attention firmly to you. And you were not only watched but once again forced to carry out its own particular plans. And whilst, when the thing gripped your mind so tightly, you were at least free from the pain of self recrimination - that was not the release you sought. Better that it should leave you to your torment, than take control of you totally.
But escape is addictive. And you Councillor, in so many ways a noble man, a strong man, a man of beauty and pride - are also a weak man. You could not resist the chance to escape from yourself. And so you took the tools from a jeweller and filed your own nails until the edges were pointed and the tips as sharp as the sharpest knife. And you headed out to the homes of old and aging courtiers from the former glory days of the Drakons court - and whilst you sat by candlelight and shared wine, and painful rambling conversations of decadence and beauty- you used each former friend to test your new spells of muto corpus. Just a paper cut, or a glass suddenly breaking in their hand to hide the true cause of the damage. No harm to them, and no chance of their suspecting you of anything other than being rather too fond of living in the past. The Thing did not seem to mind, indeed if anything it seemed both puzzled and pleased. But at length you had a spell which you could use on yourself. You could claim your escape by tracing the smallest of gestures at any time. No more torment Gellien, no more.
And for a time it was enough. If the Thing left you, and the screams and visions came to replace him in your head you could claim release in a sharp, quick pain and a sense of amazement at the brightness of your own blood. You scarred first the left arm and then the right. You marked your torso next, before your thighs and wondered at the choice. You had to be careful. If you bled too often both your enemies became immune to the pain. The first day you realised that was also the day you learnt that if you reached for a knife while the Thing was in slight retreat, and then stabbed it right through so it touched the bone It would go away for a much longer time.
And it was in that absence that realisation struck. You had found a way to be free and what had you done with it. No steps taken to find allies, to find out what the frenzied yellow madness that had gripped all of you was. You had not even found a moment to reach out and touch your former lover. You had not even smiled.
There is a state that is worse than pain. It comes when our shame is great, and our hope faint and faded. It grows in the aching gap left by sweet love taken away. It is void. From within it we look on the things we have cared for, and no longer catch our breath in a subtle moment of longing and ecstasy mingled. Instead the best we can hope for is tears of regret. And the tears of regret barely taste of salt, and the heart they spring from is almost dry as stone. We count our problems over, examining them without passion and news that would a day before have seemed earth shaking is merely another incident to add to the list. We withdraw, far far away from those who used to call ourselves their friends, and add to our own emptiness. And in that emptiness we crave one thing above all else. We crave feeling. We crave to know that we are still alive.
How well you know that place now Gellien. You tried to fill it with yet more blood. Tracing elaborate patterns, that as the scars fade might, even be seen as art, by those with a stomach for the gruesome. You watched with something akin to boredom as the blood spread through the mouldering fabric of your worn robes, coagulating slowly into the brocade and round the buttonholes. You barely felt the cuts anymore, and did not even notice whether the Thing was gone. You walked around waiting for someone to say something to but unable to speak. But where you should have been thinking of help, help for all of you and rescue for the Drakon… what was your only concern?
Ah yes.
To let your tainted blood run from your veins until not a drop was left to torture you with this life and what you have become.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-06-30 04:07 pm (UTC)You have introduced and developed within the space of one page a tortured personality fighting against a possession and in a few words created something the reader can begin to empathise with.
That's not an easy thing to do.