corpseknight: (zzzzz)

"Duty before self." -- Motto of House Dawnherald

He tells the living and the dead alike he doesn't dream when he sleeps--that "sleeping" isn't the proper term for it anyhow; he's awake to what's around him, insensible as he might seem--that the apparatus of dreaming long-ago decayed along with his sight and his reason and the other useful parts of his brain; and like everything he's invented and re-invented about himself since being dragged half-blind into the twilight realm of undeath, that isn't strictly true.

The aftermath of terror stirs the muddied waters of his consciousness like a prowling shark, sending rotting fingerlings of half-digested memory skirling in its wake. They aren't important--most aren't important--and more than anything after a shock to his system so severe (he lied and i believed him gullible fool my fault m y  f a u l t  stupid stupid slut) he wants to let exhaustion take its course--decorum be damned--and let him sleep.

But Memory's awakened, and Memory stirs, and puts on a pretty, green-eyed face, and Larkspur dreams:

"I should have strangled you at birth, for all the use you've been to me!"

She is beautiful and fierce and perfect, even standing outside the bars of his cell, saying things that aren't--that can't possibly be--true. Hair so wheat-pale as to be nearly white, fine of feature and delicate of frame in a way that hides deceptive strength, Dionaea Sunwatcher is beautiful and no one watching the two of them could mistake the lines of heredity that tie the pair together.

"--or never let the old fool sire you on me in the first place! Ridding myself of him was the best thing I've done for our House! And now this!"

She is beautiful and absolutely insane and he is in love with her, a gaping fool for her, exactly as she planned it.

"Larkspur!"

She slaps the bars in front of his face and he shies back like a startled horse.

"You stupid, filthy little traitor. Do you know how much this has cost me, you little ingrate? Do you understand what you've done to me?"

Somehow in the midst of the shock of revelation--(she killed Father?)--and the sheer inside-out, upside-down madness of the entire scene he finds his voice and finds it calm: "This wasn't for you, Mother. This was for Silvermoon."

He isn't sure what's worse: The look of utter incomprehesion she fixes him with, or the words that follow:

"Silvermoon? You stupid little fool, I raised you to be loyal to me, not some faceless fucking city!"

"Mother--"

"Shut. Up. You're useless to me, Larkspur."

 

"I would be lying if I said it is not a bitter pill to swallow. Everyone wants to be first sometimes. To not always feel like second best. Or third. Or fourth."

 
corpseknight: (teeth)

Thoughts adrift on a sea of agony, Larkspur cannot remember how he got here.

He's not even sure where "here" is, whether it's warm or cold, where most of his armor has gone, why his runeblade isn't close enough to grasp; only that he is shattered by pain, awash in it, gorged on such a surfeit that even he can only feel the ache and not the satisfaction.

But that is the point of punishment. And he is being punished here with splinters in his hands and a great gaping deathwound in his essence as if he were a gutted fish on display at market, and even if can't remember the hows and wheres the why and the who are graven into every moment that he lies there with ichor pooling in his throat and silence in his ears.

"You may scream, if you wish to. If you are still able."

He isn't thinking ahead of his instincts again, that's the whole problem, letting himself be distracted and making stupid, selfish animal mistakes. Sleeping with Mornherald's partner. Tormenting the junior knight with unwanted advances. Prying off his head amidst terror and hurt so obvious anyone could taste it, all to satisfy his own sick curiosity.

And isn't it a fitting punishment to discover his chosen replacement is himself rotting from the inside out? Because he wasn't thinking, he was doing this all Wrong, and even the world recognized and objected. Lark tries to laugh and begins coughing instead, spitting up black foam.

It's Wrong, taking someone and making something of them they aren't; Wrong, shattering a friendship simply by being in the middle of it; and Wrong, Wrong, Wrong to give orders just because he knew they couldn't be disobeyed, just because he could taste the terror they evoked. Just because it gives him a thrill to have someone obey him for once.

"But Mommy, I don't want to--"
"I know you don't want to disappoint me either, sweetie. Do you want to disappoint Mommy?"
"No-o."
"Then you'll do this one thing for her."

Pain lances through his head and chest as he starts to laugh again, unable to control himself. I'm turning into Mother. It's not enough that he lose everything that makes him an individual and a person on the way to becoming a mindless beast; he has to become everything terrible he's inherited, everything he despises in a person, first.

Fucking fate.

He laughs until he can't any longer, until his useless lungs fill up with liquid and he blacks out from agony again.

---



Taproot -- "She", Assemblage 23 -- "Collapse", Three Days Grace -- "Animal I Have Become"

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Larkspur Plagueheart

March 2017

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