ericd006

[ericd006]

This short story is basically a random thought that won't leave my mind.

Two people who are both in love with their own lovers become immortal and gets stuck together. It's like a weird balance between fwb and "I don't know why but I'm in love with you."

I only wrote like a peek onto how their story would start because I'm lazy.

Bye.

Cruel North

Within the estate of Gastrell-Cacciatore — a family renowned for its significant history and talents — I was there. A mere stable boy.

A strange word to use. Mere – Something or someone lesser than the rest. I loathed the word. I still do.

In comparison to my peers with my hair gracefully done and my wardrobe containing well kept fabrics for leisure they could only wish to indulge. I was nothing but mere.

Was.

“Benjamin!”

I jumped, nearly slipping into the puddle I have poured for my muddied boots and onto the floorboards— “Ben, careful! Pitchfork behind you!”

I reared back, my eyes falling upon the pitchfork, without my life within its biding blades. “What the hell, George?! Why is that thing in there?!”

George laughed sheepishly, rushing to grab his tool and muffling its spikes into the earth. “Sorry, I was in a rush. I’ll put it back where it belongs, I promise.” George smiled, bright and charming despite the absence of one of his lateral incisors — a drunken incident.

My eyes blinked twice, taking in the outfit George bought ages ago yet never worn due to the worry of its expense. Now hugging his lean muscular body without my pressure.

“What did our generous masters have announced this time, darling?” Said I with cheer, as I free myself from those godforsaken boots.

I had hoped that washing the mud off with some water would help save it for tomorrow’s use. It didn’t. From slightly damp from the cursed land it resides on: where the sun never sets — raining for eternity with little to no warmth — to sogging wet.

However, I would take being showered on every time I step outdoors, head home with mud from the peak of my hair until the bottom of my boots over being damned to have my skin constantly pelted on with the freezing snow of death — a situation George is trying to sweet talk me to attend.

“Come on, Ben.” George placed his hands up on my shoulders, massaging my back. “Madame Eileen insisted we come. It’s their anniversary and they said they would love to bless another couple to see the beauty of the north.”

“They’re deceiving us, I hope you know that.” I shrug him off. “They only wish to have someone who will carry their luggages.”

“Nope. They will be bringing other workers for that. Our hands will be free of heavy duties, dear! And we’ll have dinner—“

“In public?”

“In privacy. They have lodgings ready, and we’ll have our own. They promised.” George embraced me from behind, promising warmth and comfort which I am smart enough to know of its frail certainty. But aren’t I just effortlessly swayed by the man’s sweet sweetsmile.

“You know I hate the cold, George.”

“I do. That’s why I suggested that next time our masters should try something tropical.”

I smiled, melting onto my beloved’s warm embrace. “Why does it have to be Norway though?”

I accompanied the couple, my teeth clenched and my breathing laboured after and still while going through Sisyphus’ pitiful journey with my arms and fingers screaming as I did my best to hold the ridiculous amount of luggage the couple brought for a month worth of anniversary. The journey through sea and the effect it left upon my legs doing little but make my situation worse.

I was right.

Damn me and damn the beautiful man giddily walking on the opposite side of where I stood, eyeing the goods on the market as we trek through the icy pavement.

I scrunch my nose in disgust, the couple in-between I and George kissing behind a flimsy fan, before they shortly went back to walking with their hands braided together.

Madame Eileen laid her head upon her beloved’s shoulder.

A clearly uncomfortable position considering Master Clement’s lower stature.

They eventually opted to being much closer than they should be in public.

Eugh—

I bit my tongue. The hypocrisy dawning upon me as George grabbed my attention, discreetly flashing a pendant with an angel engraved.

For you. He mouthed, his eyes twinkling with victory as I was barely able to squash the smile creeping towards my lips.

“Benjamin, George?” Master Clement turned to us. “Would the two of you be a dear and accompany Madame Eileen to the apartments?”

“How about you?” Madame Eileen asked, fondness mixing with fret.

“Do not worry about me, love. You’re exhausted. I have someone I must talk to before I head back.”

“Who?”

Master Clement’s grin led to George, a confidential conversation exchanged. A secret against I and Madame Eileen as we asked each other through our own look what in the world are our partners up to?

“Just trust your husband, Madame.” George smiled, to Madame Eileen and then to me.

Master Clement barked a laugh as he led the rest of the company through his stride. “I trust that my darling wife will get the sweetest rest while I am away, George!”

George nodded, polite. Indifferent to the protests and doubt coming from Madame Eileen and I as he began to act in accordance to Master Clement’s orders.

“Come, Madame — and the other master of my life. You will soon see what we had prepared for the each of you. It’ll be great!”

I leaned towards Madame Eileen who spoke before I did. “I’ll be firing your companion very soon, Ben.” Pause. “My husband next in any way possible.”

“No objections.”

“He’ll be well, Madame.” George turned to us with ease in his tone. “If there are any unprecedented perils upon his way, surely his military training will be—“

“-inadequate.” Madame Eileen grabbed George’s coat, her grip stronger than what many would expect. “The man barely survived a fire that spread from the fireplace. His military training only gave him the confidence and braveness that will lead nowhere but—“

“Woah! Madame.” I placed a hand onto Madame Eileen’s arm. “Let’s not steer our thoughts to God forbidding places. We do not want to wish even by a hint that they become real.”

Madame Eileen took a breath.

Before she then granted an appreciative tap on to the back of my palm awhile she freed my lover. “I’m sorry, George, Ben. I’ve been feeling horrible ever since I was awoken.”

“Perhaps it’s just the cold?” I smiled sheepishly, as George sent an apologetic look my way.

It was not the cold.

I stood, my frame frozen as beyond the doorway, works of many talents lied, scattered, destroyed upon the floor. Jewels, pages, and sculptures whacked, crushed, and torn by what seems like a being out for nothing but blood; now spilt, splattered, and showered all throughout.

An artist’ unfinished work barely recognisable from the horror it was through; oblivious to the horror it flamed with its angelic devotion.

I held George’s hand, tight, as I feel him tremble— flinch from the echo of Madame Eileen’s cry.

Her despair and rage escaping her flesh, promising her own devotion.

Master Clement’s blonde locks was not within the many hidden by cloth.

I took a deep breath, as silently as I could.

Resisting the painful urge to fall upon my knees and beg the Lord for this phase of our lives to be over, to come to an end, and let us all feel the warm rays of the sun and the gentle touch of rain — damp and cold, yet loving and kind — once again.

But I resisted. Shutting my eyes close and hoping with the power of the human mind that my legs are nothing but stone. As like the candle that burned brighter than what it is used to — dimmed by the joy and the loving ecstasy of hearts shared by two — it had no right to leave in smoke before the foreign wind and the misery echoing through the chamber.

I opened my eyes, squinting towards the dark clouds seeping through the window, through the absence of the moon hidden by the sorrowful rage of the sun; never to be returned to shine upon the seas and the lives within the earth until its burning flame is restored to greet with its melting warmth in her every morning.

A selfish act.

But an act I could feel and see imitating as the glacial days continued, with only glimpse and a few words exchanged between I and my own light keeping me from sinking into the dark nothingness of the cruel void—

“Has the sun come up yet?” Said Madame Eileen, in a hoarse voice.

I kept my eyes back on the floor. “Not yet, Madame. They are still searching far and wide with their utmost effort.” I stood straight as I could. “George told me.”

A shuffle beneath the unending layers of sheets where Madame Eileen hid her pitiful self was heard, then an unbearable silence — that would’ve finally brought me to my pained knees and offer an ocean of tears if not for the barely therapeutic repetitive ticking of the old clock, it’s short hand inching nearer and nearer towards the point of my relief… and further suffering which I unironically prefer more than the presence of what once was a powerful woman known for her intense love now… still a powerful woman with a love so intense.

I just wish she wouldn’t take my bright George from I, for the actions of the world towards her own beloved Clement.

“My shift has arrived, Madame.” I uttered in a tone I dearly hope she had heard as I stood, waiting for a response which never came.

Nonetheless, I turned my heel and left Madame Eileen in her deep sorrow, praying to the heavens up above that George will greet me with tears of joy, or I will return with the key to have my beloved in my arms for more than a hasty minute.

The warmth of the fire has long proved its title to be the adversary of the cold, able to melt the icy chill around its vicinity with murderous ease; from the gawking bundle of nerves curled by the corner, to the frigid body lying upon the boards — whom nurses and fellow mates surrounded with feverish haste, fetching every thing they could to treat and heal against the bony hands of death, awhile hoping and praying to God that He let this man breathe another minute, hour, and another day.

Yet, despite the ache within my knees, the temptation screaming onto my ear with horrific shrill to finally fall and kneel to the ground and let the sea of prayers be cursed up above to the creature who held it all within his palm, I stood, still and frozen within the spot like a man encaged by his own form; the blood running through my veins colder than the frost seeping through the cracks of the walls heading towards the presence of their undoing.

“Where’s George?” The two words escaped, my hand already clasped within a passing arm.

“...Somewhere I do not know.”

I turned, the warmth of my own breath blurring my vision. “Where’s George?”

“I do not know, mate—” He tried to nudge against my hold, but a few centimetres is all the distance he could make between him and I.

“No. You know. I know you do.” I held him tighter, pleading onto the window of his soul for an answer to treat and heal the crushing force within my chest. “George was in the same party as you. You were on his second left when you departed yesterday noon. You know. You do. You must.”

“I d—“ The man grit his teeth, before a chattering sigh. “You have sharp mind for this fella but forgive for I don’t. However, if he really was in the same party as I and he is not here with us, then he is probably with the rest trekking through Tromsdalstinden.”

Tromsdal— Wha—

The man yanked his arm, so rough I broke free from my stone-like-miserable trance.

“Half of our party decided to continue the search south after we have found a lead — a piece of cloth which many agreed to be Master Clement’s.” The man caressed his arm, flinching at his own touch. “If you’d like to see it, go upstairs and see Madame Eileen inspect and confirm whether it belonged to her husband or not. Now, are you satisfied?” He seethed, and even with the absence of my response he walked off, passing by me with a bump onto my shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” I muttered, blinking as I freed the air caged within my lungs.

George is okay. He’s alive.

George’s alive.

He is.

“Are you not afraid of the dark, Ben?” A voice mocked behind I — his usually high pitched, nearly ear-deafening, and more annoying than a child screaming at your face with its desires refused now painfully deep and as menacing as the horses I’ve worked with.

“No, piss off.” I huffed, clouding my face with a second of tranquillising warmth— before I then felt a heat trailing upon my back that is anything but relieving.

I held onto my pole to balance myself before I trip and be cornered yet again with the sound of boisterous laughter which I do not think my patience could handle.

“Did you know?” I spoke. “The chances of a wild animal coming at us with ravenous hunger is high. This place is riddled with bears and so on; just biding their time until we accidentally wake them up from their long hibernation with their stomachs devoid of the sustenance that keeps them calm.”

“And?” He responded, still amused despite the lamp that was in his hands — which was and — finally used to guide us.

“Hm… I don’t know. A random thought came to me. My less than appetising state in comparison to you would probably give me just enough time to run and survive. You should be more careful.” I grinned awhile I think I heard a scoff followed by an insult leave his lips.

Unfortunately for him I am too deep in the snow to have the energy and strength but to retort back with absolute silence.

He left, and went to bother another miserable soul.

However, despite the answer that I gave just seconds ago, to deny the shiver and unease the looming darkness — which seems to grow larger beyond the colossal trees — is as easy as telling myself that George is well and very much alive, with every cold breeze that slices through my skin, in Tromsdalstinden.

I have spent many nights and days in darkness, before the incident— and especially after — now in my unfortunate present with only the stars and the lone moon to guide a man already lost deep down with a part of his soul separated from the place in which is by his side.

Yet even as the number of the days turned double — perhaps inconceivable with my duties in England included — the darkness, relentless, does nothing but continue to taunt my already fatigued self, delighted with every horror I present and suffer; every second of my reaction fuelling its mischief and sorcery of tricks to pull me further and further from the small crowd I — again and again — try to reach, the snow acting as its strength, pulling me deeper and deeper, every step heavier than the last. The party and their demands for haste from I unknowingly becoming my monster’s voice, taunting as it continued to drag me further— and down, my cheek kissing the snow awhile George flashed within my mind, well and alive, waiting for me by sunrise at the end of this dark chapter of our lives, filled with the warmth of the light which I can never bask upon again.

…

…

…

“Did you hear that?”

I looked up, finding the dimming light of the lamp unmoving.

“If you are trying to lighten the current foul mood everyone is in right now, I’m telling you, we don’t appreciate it.” A voice replied.

“I’m serious, did you hear that?”

“That could be just Ben. Ben?!”

I opened my mouth— but only a hitching breath left my lungs.

“Where’s Ben?”

“La oss ikke få panikk.”

“Ben?!”

“I am hearing something!”

I clenched my teeth, hissing a breath through my teeth and into my lungs. “I—“

“Blood.”

Blood?

Blood.

First was the man who uttered what he and only he saw — flown by the darkness, to be slammed onto a tree, falling with the branches as he let out a shout for help, a howl pain, and then a blood-curdling scream that placed a pit onto everyone’s stomach.

The local aimed his rifle — almost aimed his rifle. He was next, dragged by the darkness upwards, the lamp left to shine for one last time before the warm red darkness enveloped it.

It rained blood.

I cannot see, I cannot feel, but I can taste it splattering onto my lips and into my tongue — the metallic horror I cannot do anything against but listen as the screams lessened and lessened and lessened until one was left… then no more.

I came last.

Unmoving, numb, silent, already at death’s door with the youthful flesh of my palm cold, frozen limp onto the snow. My mouth agape, as I looked upon the only audience of my passing, the cruel darkness up above devoid of joy, or a heart to hold my last words onto.

A far cry from how I wished it could’ve been.

However, my wishes and constant prayers does not… and never even mattered.

Did it?

Blood.

Blood rushed between my ghoulish lips, my teeth baring itself beyond my control and biting with such terrifying strength, my jaw fret their destruction; yet relished nonetheless from the rotten and heinous flesh that offered the abomination that is life.

The voice of what was left of the broken holiness within I shrieked from the horror and begged within my heart that I stop, gather my strength and to not let—

...Whatever it was, like a fire rising from a bonfire of little to no more logs to burn, the blood — smooth and devilishly sweet — slipped beyond my resistance, and extinguished the flame before it could even burn and waste one last breath within my chest.

And with no breath to waste — or to use — I continued, my mind uncertain if I am in the afterlife, alive, dreaming, or if I even exist. All I know is the metallic taste filling my every sense of being and the sound of a voice, like a siren beckoning a naive sailor towards his erotic demise.

“Go on.” A voice so rich, so vivid, it is as if the sun was right beside I — with my eyes closed — within the four walls of my purgatory.

“Take as much as you have to.” I did. God forbid if I didn’t. And if God did forbid it, I’ll offer every single thing I could offer in a golden plate adorned with the rarest of jewels if it means not parting with what should be abhorrent yet the body responds with a feeling so heavenly, alike floating, and falling from heaven up above—

Another drop.

This one had no intention to be consumed. Its voice wasn’t that like that of a siren seducing a sailor to its death.

It wasn’t blood, and its voice was a sob, coming from the lips of a man begging for mercy.

A tear.

I opened my eyes, shut so tight against the wind of my fall, bracing, against the glimmer of Mammon’s gold in the form of thousands if not millions of strands of thin and waving lines framing the skin of a man now paler than the lively and warm gent full of love and devotion with no intention in mind but to dedicate every second of his life to worship his other half until he lies in his casket, and darkness forever envelops his every deathly moments for eternity.

“Master Cle—“

“Do not mind me.”

He begged with trembling lips, his icy frost of eyes now painted blood, glassy with pure tears that slowly faded to be followed with the delicious redness that painted his cheeks and everything within the darkness that now seem like… home. Wrongly home but, home.

“Live, dear Benjamin.”

He held my head securely, pressing my lips against the open wound pouring out blood like a waterfall with no end onto my lips; my unconsciousness making sure nothing goes to waste onto the repulsive tiles of dried blood and bodies drained dry from the skin to the flesh and onto their very essence.

“Or I won’t be able to no longer.”

Master Clement echoed, through the aged tomb of a long passed couple bound for forever under the lids the son who held the crown of thorns with love and pain; a sacrifice to be remembered for eternity.

An image now unconcealed from the dark as I took more than what life could offer. What death should not have.

Yet I’d rather be damned than not take the mercy Master Clement cries with life for me to offer even if the months which I have lived like they’re my entire life now slowly faded into a blur of air and fog, as if they are nothing but a memory to be remembered one last time. And never again.

“I promise— My dear Benjamin, live. And I’ll promise nothing but everything.”

[ericd006]

Cruel North

Within the estate of Gastrell-Cacciatore — a family renowned for its significant history and talents — I was there. A mere stable boy.

A strange word to use. Mere – Something or someone lesser than the rest. I loathed the word. I still do.

In comparison to my peers with my hair gracefully done and my wardrobe containing well kept fabrics for leisure they could only wish to indulge. I was nothing but mere.

Was.

“Benjamin!”

I jumped, nearly slipping into the puddle I have poured for my muddied boots and onto the floorboards— “Ben, careful! Pitchfork behind you!”

I reared back, my eyes falling upon the pitchfork, without my life within its biding blades. “What the hell, George?! Why is that thing in there?!”

George laughed sheepishly, rushing to grab his tool and muffling its spikes into the earth. “Sorry, I was in a rush. I’ll put it back where it belongs, I promise.” George smiled, bright and charming despite the absence of one of his lateral incisors — a drunken incident.

My eyes blinked twice, taking in the outfit George bought ages ago yet never worn due to the worry of its expense. Now hugging his lean muscular body without my pressure.

“What did our generous masters have announced this time, darling?” Said I with cheer, as I free myself from those godforsaken boots.

I had hoped that washing the mud off with some water would help save it for tomorrow’s use. It didn’t. From slightly damp from the cursed land it resides on: where the sun never sets — raining for eternity with little to no warmth — to sogging wet.

However, I would take being showered on every time I step outdoors, head home with mud from the peak of my hair until the bottom of my boots over being damned to have my skin constantly pelted on with the freezing snow of death — a situation George is trying to sweet talk me to attend.

“Come on, Ben.” George placed his hands up on my shoulders, massaging my back. “Madame Eileen insisted we come. It’s their anniversary and they said they would love to bless another couple to see the beauty of the north.”

“They’re deceiving us, I hope you know that.” I shrug him off. “They only wish to have someone who will carry their luggages.”

“Nope. They will be bringing other workers for that. Our hands will be free of heavy duties, dear! And we’ll have dinner—“

“In public?”

“In privacy. They have lodgings ready, and we’ll have our own. They promised.” George embraced me from behind, promising warmth and comfort which I am smart enough to know of its frail certainty. But aren’t I just effortlessly swayed by the man’s sweet sweetsmile.

“You know I hate the cold, George.”

“I do. That’s why I suggested that next time our masters should try something tropical.”

I smiled, melting onto my beloved’s warm embrace. “Why does it have to be Norway though?”

I accompanied the couple, my teeth clenched and my breathing laboured after and still while going through Sisyphus’ pitiful journey with my arms and fingers screaming as I did my best to hold the ridiculous amount of luggage the couple brought for a month worth of anniversary. The journey through sea and the effect it left upon my legs doing little but make my situation worse.

I was right.

Damn me and damn the beautiful man giddily walking on the opposite side of where I stood, eyeing the goods on the market as we trek through the icy pavement.

I scrunch my nose in disgust, the couple in-between I and George kissing behind a flimsy fan, before they shortly went back to walking with their hands braided together.

Madame Eileen laid her head upon her beloved’s shoulder.

A clearly uncomfortable position considering Master Clement’s lower stature.

They eventually opted to being much closer than they should be in public.

Eugh—

I bit my tongue. The hypocrisy dawning upon me as George grabbed my attention, discreetly flashing a pendant with an angel engraved.

For you. He mouthed, his eyes twinkling with victory as I was barely able to squash the smile creeping towards my lips.

“Benjamin, George?” Master Clement turned to us. “Would the two of you be a dear and accompany Madame Eileen to the apartments?”

“How about you?” Madame Eileen asked, fondness mixing with fret.

“Do not worry about me, love. You’re exhausted. I have someone I must talk to before I head back.”

“Who?”

Master Clement’s grin led to George, a confidential conversation exchanged. A secret against I and Madame Eileen as we asked each other through our own look what in the world are our partners up to?

“Just trust your husband, Madame.” George smiled, to Madame Eileen and then to me.

Master Clement barked a laugh as he led the rest of the company through his stride. “I trust that my darling wife will get the sweetest rest while I am away, George!”

George nodded, polite. Indifferent to the protests and doubt coming from Madame Eileen and I as he began to act in accordance to Master Clement’s orders.

“Come, Madame — and the other master of my life. You will soon see what we had prepared for the each of you. It’ll be great!”

I leaned towards Madame Eileen who spoke before I did. “I’ll be firing your companion very soon, Ben.” Pause. “My husband next in any way possible.”

“No objections.”

“He’ll be well, Madame.” George turned to us with ease in his tone. “If there are any unprecedented perils upon his way, surely his military training will be—“

“-inadequate.” Madame Eileen grabbed George’s coat, her grip stronger than what many would expect. “The man barely survived a fire that spread from the fireplace. His military training only gave him the confidence and braveness that will lead nowhere but—“

“Woah! Madame.” I placed a hand onto Madame Eileen’s arm. “Let’s not steer our thoughts to God forbidding places. We do not want to wish even by a hint that they become real.”

Madame Eileen took a breath.

Before she then granted an appreciative tap on to the back of my palm awhile she freed my lover. “I’m sorry, George, Ben. I’ve been feeling horrible ever since I was awoken.”

“Perhaps it’s just the cold?” I smiled sheepishly, as George sent an apologetic look my way.

It was not the cold.

I stood, my frame frozen as beyond the doorway, works of many talents lied, scattered, destroyed upon the floor. Jewels, pages, and sculptures whacked, crushed, and torn by what seems like a being out for nothing but blood; now spilt, splattered, and showered all throughout.

An artist’ unfinished work barely recognisable from the horror it was through; oblivious to the horror it flamed with its angelic devotion.

I held George’s hand, tight, as I feel him tremble— flinch from the echo of Madame Eileen’s cry.

Her despair and rage escaping her flesh, promising her own devotion.

Master Clement’s blonde locks was not within the many hidden by cloth.

I took a deep breath, as silently as I could.

Resisting the painful urge to fall upon my knees and beg the Lord for this phase of our lives to be over, to come to an end, and let us all feel the warm rays of the sun and the gentle touch of rain — damp and cold, yet loving and kind — once again.

But I resisted. Shutting my eyes close and hoping with the power of the human mind that my legs are nothing but stone. As like the candle that burned brighter than what it is used to — dimmed by the joy and the loving ecstasy of hearts shared by two — it had no right to leave in smoke before the foreign wind and the misery echoing through the chamber.

I opened my eyes, squinting towards the dark clouds seeping through the window, through the absence of the moon hidden by the sorrowful rage of the sun; never to be returned to shine upon the seas and the lives within the earth until its burning flame is restored to greet with its melting warmth in her every morning.

A selfish act.

But an act I could feel and see imitating as the glacial days continued, with only glimpse and a few words exchanged between I and my own light keeping me from sinking into the dark nothingness of the cruel void—

“Has the sun come up yet?” Said Madame Eileen, in a hoarse voice.

I kept my eyes back on the floor. “Not yet, Madame. They are still searching far and wide with their utmost effort.” I stood straight as I could. “George told me.”

A shuffle beneath the unending layers of sheets where Madame Eileen hid her pitiful self was heard, then an unbearable silence — that would’ve finally brought me to my pained knees and offer an ocean of tears if not for the barely therapeutic repetitive ticking of the old clock, it’s short hand inching nearer and nearer towards the point of my relief… and further suffering which I unironically prefer more than the presence of what once was a powerful woman known for her intense love now… still a powerful woman with a love so intense.

I just wish she wouldn’t take my bright George from I, for the actions of the world towards her own beloved Clement.

“My shift has arrived, Madame.” I uttered in a tone I dearly hope she had heard as I stood, waiting for a response which never came.

Nonetheless, I turned my heel and left Madame Eileen in her deep sorrow, praying to the heavens up above that George will greet me with tears of joy, or I will return with the key to have my beloved in my arms for more than a hasty minute.

The warmth of the fire has long proved its title to be the adversary of the cold, able to melt the icy chill around its vicinity with murderous ease; from the gawking bundle of nerves curled by the corner, to the frigid body lying upon the boards — whom nurses and fellow mates surrounded with feverish haste, fetching every thing they could to treat and heal against the bony hands of death, awhile hoping and praying to God that He let this man breathe another minute, hour, and another day.

Yet, despite the ache within my knees, the temptation screaming onto my ear with horrific shrill to finally fall and kneel to the ground and let the sea of prayers be cursed up above to the creature who held it all within his palm, I stood, still and frozen within the spot like a man encaged by his own form; the blood running through my veins colder than the frost seeping through the cracks of the walls heading towards the presence of their undoing.

“Where’s George?” The two words escaped, my hand already clasped within a passing arm.

“...Somewhere I do not know.”

I turned, the warmth of my own breath blurring my vision. “Where’s George?”

“I do not know, mate—” He tried to nudge against my hold, but a few centimetres is all the distance he could make between him and I.

“No. You know. I know you do.” I held him tighter, pleading onto the window of his soul for an answer to treat and heal the crushing force within my chest. “George was in the same party as you. You were on his second left when you departed yesterday noon. You know. You do. You must.”

“I d—“ The man grit his teeth, before a chattering sigh. “You have sharp mind for this fella but forgive for I don’t. However, if he really was in the same party as I and he is not here with us, then he is probably with the rest trekking through Tromsdalstinden.”

Tromsdal— Wha—

The man yanked his arm, so rough I broke free from my stone-like-miserable trance.

“Half of our party decided to continue the search south after we have found a lead — a piece of cloth which many agreed to be Master Clement’s.” The man caressed his arm, flinching at his own touch. “If you’d like to see it, go upstairs and see Madame Eileen inspect and confirm whether it belonged to her husband or not. Now, are you satisfied?” He seethed, and even with the absence of my response he walked off, passing by me with a bump onto my shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” I muttered, blinking as I freed the air caged within my lungs.

George is okay. He’s alive.

George’s alive.

He is.

“Are you not afraid of the dark, Ben?” A voice mocked behind I — his usually high pitched, nearly ear-deafening, and more annoying than a child screaming at your face with its desires refused now painfully deep and as menacing as the horses I’ve worked with.

“No, piss off.” I huffed, clouding my face with a second of tranquillising warmth— before I then felt a heat trailing upon my back that is anything but relieving.

I held onto my pole to balance myself before I trip and be cornered yet again with the sound of boisterous laughter which I do not think my patience could handle.

“Did you know?” I spoke. “The chances of a wild animal coming at us with ravenous hunger is high. This place is riddled with bears and so on; just biding their time until we accidentally wake them up from their long hibernation with their stomachs devoid of the sustenance that keeps them calm.”

“And?” He responded, still amused despite the lamp that was in his hands — which was and — finally used to guide us.

“Hm… I don’t know. A random thought came to me. My less than appetising state in comparison to you would probably give me just enough time to run and survive. You should be more careful.” I grinned awhile I think I heard a scoff followed by an insult leave his lips.

Unfortunately for him I am too deep in the snow to have the energy and strength but to retort back with absolute silence.

He left, and went to bother another miserable soul.

However, despite the answer that I gave just seconds ago, to deny the shiver and unease the looming darkness — which seems to grow larger beyond the colossal trees — is as easy as telling myself that George is well and very much alive, with every cold breeze that slices through my skin, in Tromsdalstinden.

I have spent many nights and days in darkness, before the incident— and especially after — now in my unfortunate present with only the stars and the lone moon to guide a man already lost deep down with a part of his soul separated from the place in which is by his side.

Yet even as the number of the days turned double — perhaps inconceivable with my duties in England included — the darkness, relentless, does nothing but continue to taunt my already fatigued self, delighted with every horror I present and suffer; every second of my reaction fuelling its mischief and sorcery of tricks to pull me further and further from the small crowd I — again and again — try to reach, the snow acting as its strength, pulling me deeper and deeper, every step heavier than the last. The party and their demands for haste from I unknowingly becoming my monster’s voice, taunting as it continued to drag me further— and down, my cheek kissing the snow awhile George flashed within my mind, well and alive, waiting for me by sunrise at the end of this dark chapter of our lives, filled with the warmth of the light which I can never bask upon again.

…

…

…

“Did you hear that?”

I looked up, finding the dimming light of the lamp unmoving.

“If you are trying to lighten the current foul mood everyone is in right now, I’m telling you, we don’t appreciate it.” A voice replied.

“I’m serious, did you hear that?”

“That could be just Ben. Ben?!”

I opened my mouth— but only a hitching breath left my lungs.

“Where’s Ben?”

“La oss ikke få panikk.”

“Ben?!”

“I am hearing something!”

I clenched my teeth, hissing a breath through my teeth and into my lungs. “I—“

“Blood.”

Blood?

Blood.

First was the man who uttered what he and only he saw — flown by the darkness, to be slammed onto a tree, falling with the branches as he let out a shout for help, a howl pain, and then a blood-curdling scream that placed a pit onto everyone’s stomach.

The local aimed his rifle — almost aimed his rifle. He was next, dragged by the darkness upwards, the lamp left to shine for one last time before the warm red darkness enveloped it.

It rained blood.

I cannot see, I cannot feel, but I can taste it splattering onto my lips and into my tongue — the metallic horror I cannot do anything against but listen as the screams lessened and lessened and lessened until one was left… then no more.

I came last.

Unmoving, numb, silent, already at death’s door with the youthful flesh of my palm cold, frozen limp onto the snow. My mouth agape, as I looked upon the only audience of my passing, the cruel darkness up above devoid of joy, or a heart to hold my last words onto.

A far cry from how I wished it could’ve been.

However, my wishes and constant prayers does not… and never even mattered.

Did it?

Blood.

Blood rushed between my ghoulish lips, my teeth baring itself beyond my control and biting with such terrifying strength, my jaw fret their destruction; yet relished nonetheless from the rotten and heinous flesh that offered the abomination that is life.

The voice of what was left of the broken holiness within I shrieked from the horror and begged within my heart that I stop, gather my strength and to not let—

...Whatever it was, like a fire rising from a bonfire of little to no more logs to burn, the blood — smooth and devilishly sweet — slipped beyond my resistance, and extinguished the flame before it could even burn and waste one last breath within my chest.

And with no breath to waste — or to use — I continued, my mind uncertain if I am in the afterlife, alive, dreaming, or if I even exist. All I know is the metallic taste filling my every sense of being and the sound of a voice, like a siren beckoning a naive sailor towards his erotic demise.

“Go on.” A voice so rich, so vivid, it is as if the sun was right beside I — with my eyes closed — within the four walls of my purgatory.

“Take as much as you have to.” I did. God forbid if I didn’t. And if God did forbid it, I’ll offer every single thing I could offer in a golden plate adorned with the rarest of jewels if it means not parting with what should be abhorrent yet the body responds with a feeling so heavenly, alike floating, and falling from heaven up above—

Another drop.

This one had no intention to be consumed. Its voice wasn’t that like that of a siren seducing a sailor to its death.

It wasn’t blood, and its voice was a sob, coming from the lips of a man begging for mercy.

A tear.

I opened my eyes, shut so tight against the wind of my fall, bracing, against the glimmer of Mammon’s gold in the form of thousands if not millions of strands of thin and waving lines framing the skin of a man now paler than the lively and warm gent full of love and devotion with no intention in mind but to dedicate every second of his life to worship his other half until he lies in his casket, and darkness forever envelops his every deathly moments for eternity.

“Master Cle—“

“Do not mind me.”

He begged with trembling lips, his icy frost of eyes now painted blood, glassy with pure tears that slowly faded to be followed with the delicious redness that painted his cheeks and everything within the darkness that now seem like… home. Wrongly home but, home.

“Live, dear Benjamin.”

He held my head securely, pressing my lips against the open wound pouring out blood like a waterfall with no end onto my lips; my unconsciousness making sure nothing goes to waste onto the repulsive tiles of dried blood and bodies drained dry from the skin to the flesh and onto their very essence.

“Or I won’t be able to no longer.”

Master Clement echoed, through the aged tomb of a long passed couple bound for forever under the lids the son who held the crown of thorns with love and pain; a sacrifice to be remembered for eternity.

An image now unconcealed from the dark as I took more than what life could offer. What death should not have.

Yet I’d rather be damned than not take the mercy Master Clement cries with life for me to offer even if the months which I have lived like they’re my entire life now slowly faded into a blur of air and fog, as if they are nothing but a memory to be remembered one last time. And never again.

“I promise— My dear Benjamin, live. And I’ll promise nothing but everything.”

[ericd006]

[ericd006]

Rhys Darby's lopsided smirk from I'm a Fighter Jet special, because it's doing things to me.

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Finally sharing the gentlebeard art I did for @ywftw-blackbonnet-zine back in 2022!! 💜

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Ed really said his reasons for living are warmth, good food, intercourse, and orgasms. He wants a guy to rail him into next Tuesday but also the guy has to be niceys and wrap him up in a blanket and feed him strawberries too, okay? He wants his Edussy obliterated but he also wants hugs and a cheesecake. Iconic. Character of all time.

Stede definitely makes him a charcuterie board after the second time they fuck.

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its that time of the year

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happy pride everybody

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Finally quit drawing with my finger and brought a drawing tablet. Not an easy transition as I thought it would be so here's Deacon.

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It wasn’t a “yes and” prompt, Stede 😭

[ericd006]

OFMD really is one of the queerest shows. Our two leads both live in exceptionally performative cultures, meet in a space where everyone is costuming themselves in layers of gender and sexual identity, to the degree that they both struggle to fit into their respective archetypes and find the constant need to perform increasingly exhausting. One season is spent with them layering costume after costume on themselves, their true identities most openly revealed in the spaces with each other, and then the second season strips them slowly of their costuming as they progress gradually towards an experience and costume that most clearly depicts their authentic selves. No one outside of their relationship understands it because no one else is capable of seeing to their true selves.

What stands at the heart of their relationship is their ability to see EACH OTHER so clearly that the taking off and putting on of costume and identity never once shifts the solidity of their love.

“I see in him a truer version of myself” is something they can both say and it becomes this profound truth about queer identity.

[ericd006]

Unfortunately, there is a high likelihood that Steve's the perfect man.

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They really just discover he was hot.

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(Bonus for Karen being the only correct one in the whole group, absolutely elated when Steve drops his pants.)

[ericd006]

I love their deeply weird relationship.

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Rhys Darby sweaty and distressed is such a personal thing.

[ericd006]

um sorry for moaning when you stabbed me. it's been a really long time since anyone touched me like that