#can't move | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

firapolemos05 · 4 months

Text

The Web and the Lamp

@whumpuary AO3

Prompt 5

Can't move

CW: home invasion, attempted kidnapping, sibling whump, implied past child abuse, past matricide, implied cult childhood, magical immobilization, forced haircut, restraints, gags, threats to a loved one, verbal abuse, burns, blood magic, horror, insects, spiders, whumper turned whumpee

OCs: Bellkiira (he/him), Inithra (she/her), Twilight (they/he), Samhain (she/her)

In hindsight, Bellkiira should’ve noticed something was wrong the moment he stepped into the dark house. Twilight usually left a lamp on in the front room for him when he got home before sunrise.

But he's a creature of the dark. It's no trouble for his vision to transition to grayscale and for the wooden furnishings of his home to come into view. Mud walls decorated with Bellkiira’s paintings. Shelves filled with Twilight’s terracotta pottery. The ability had spared him from many jabbed hips and stubbed toes.

He hangs his cloak on the bronze stand by the entryway and glances over to the arched doorway that leads to his partner's workshop. The curtains are drawn closed, the space beyond dark, so they haven't awakened early to work on a project.

Bellkiira’s plan was to go whip up some breakfast. Twilight had recently restocked their reserves of black-eye peas and koose seemed to be one of few things unaffected by the drow’s curse of culinary disasterness.

Plus it never got old to see his partner's face light up with delight whenever he made them food.

That was his plan.

Bellkiira is halfway towards the kitchen when the floor turns red and his body just stops.

He-

His body isn't listening to him. His muscles refuse to move. Apprehension pools into his stomach.

‘The fuck is happening?’

He can't move.

In his peripheral vision, he could just barely catch the dull red edge of a glowing magic circle beneath his feet.

A glyph.

Someone had broken into his house and trapped it with a Glyph of Warding spell. The fact that its effect appeared to be an inconvenient but harmless stored Hold spell rather than a destructive explosive did nothing to quell Bellkiira’s growing anxiety.

Is Twilight okay?

Did whoever set this spell hurt them?

He would call to the tabaxi, hopefully asleep safe in bed, but the spell had locked his jaw and tongue in place.

‘No, no, don't panic.’ The spell would only last a minute. As soon as it released him, he'll be able to go check on his partner. It'll be fine. This was probably some prank by one of the lyceum students. Some of the more mischievous teenagers had a habit of pestering him whenever their schoolwork brought them to the archives. He'll be able to move again in a minute. Everything will be-

“You haven't changed at all, brother. Still so foolishly naive.”

With his mind spiraling, Bellkiira had not noticed the other presence in the room before the voice spoke from directly behind him.

He couldn't see her.

He didn't need to.

He knew that voice anywhere.

Only the spell's hold on his body prevents Bellkiira from flinging himself across the room. Away from her. Away from the sister he'd never thought he'd see again. It doesn't stop his heart from vaulting into his throat.

‘How the fuck did she find me?!’

How didn't he see her in the room? Why is she here?

Hands grab his wrists, wrenching them behind his back while Bellkiira was helpless to resist. Helpless to act on the fear freezing his blood. He feels the cold bite of metal through his gloves as a pair of manacles fasten in place. His mind comes to a quick conclusion.

Inithra isn't killing him. She means to take him alive. She's bringing him back to that city.

“The High Priestess has ordered your arrest. You have been found guilty of desertion, treason, heresy, and murder. I hope you've gained some semblance of a brain to comprehend the consequences of such crimes.”

There's only one reason Lod'tynan Orbbs'cress would demand the return of a traitor.

His tongue is still. He still can't speak. Can't yell for help. Can't protest as Inithra removes his grimoire from his belt, his spell components and various tool kits.

He can't go back there. Not again. Not after what they did to him last time. What they would've done had his mother not believed he could be re-educated. That had not been a mercy. Bellkiira had magic now. He had grown stronger. Lady Samhain had given him the ability to take his freedom. He would use it now. Just as soon as he could fucking break free from this godsdamn spell.

Something cold and hard clamps over his mouth, and Bellkiira’s panic skyrockets as he recognizes the distinct toxic metallic odor of lead.

“Don't get any ideas,” Inithra hisses into his ear, securing the straps of the gag at the back of his neck. “You disgrace yourself, letting your soul be tainted by magic of a lesser-” Even the sudden pause in her words is enough to frighten him, and when she yanks too hard on his braid, his stomach drops.

‘No. No, don't.’

The disdain in her next words is palatable. “You dare mock our traditions? Braids are a mark of the strong and the loyal. You are neither.” There's the sharp shing of a knife being unsheathed. “The likes of you are not worthy to wear it.”

‘Your name may not mean something nice in your language, but I know a bit of the Elven spoken here on the surface. Bellkiira means strong gems, and you're certainly the strongest gem I know.’

Twilight had said those words to him once. When Bellkiira opened up about everything, revealing to them every scar of his past both physical and emotional. Those words had made his heart flutter.

Inithra was wrong.

He was not about to let her take away the symbol of his freedom. His final ‘fuck you!’ to the so-called family who hurt him, to the society that deemed his purpose was to serve.

It was a merciful moment for the spell to break.

Without hesitation, he lurches forward, and the pain of the pull on his hair is worth breaking from his sister's grip. In moments he's crossed the room, stumbling to keep his balance, then whirls around to finally face his would-be kidnapper.

The space before him is empty.

Where-?

He can hear Inithra's footsteps approaching but she's nowhere in sight. An invisibility spell? Divine mages usually didn't have that in their repertoire.

The young drow turns heel and runs. His heart yearns to fight her but he can't, not like this. Not while restrained and without magic. So he books it to the front door. To go get help and get Inithra out of his home.

Only he's left reeling back and falling on his ass, a scream clawing up his throat at the giant fucking spider perched on a web across the entryway. Its beady eyes bore into him and the terror is consuming. Foregoes all rational thought and overrides it with the sole impulse to flee.

“Seems you've yet to grow out of this childish fear of yours as well.”

The urge to spite her is almost enough to break him out. But not enough. He's scrambling away like a wounded crab attempting to evade a hungry gull and in his panic forgets the gag over his mouth.

His lips barely work through the incantation of a spell before he realizes his mistake. The faint hum of magic cuts off and the metal on his face and around his wrists warm until they're searing. The howl of pain is muffled against the gag but the stench of burning flesh hits his nose with full potency.

A cold pressure snakes through his body. From the tips of his fingers, up his arms, into his torso, and down his legs, overtaking him with a strange stiffness that stills his writhing. Bellkiira mentally screams in frustration as he finds himself unable to move again.

Had Inithra cast another Hold-?

There's a chilling sensation of heaviness, then a pulling, and without his consent his body sits up. And stands. And walks. Something pulls on his limbs, forcing muscle and sinew to move against their owner's will. It hurts. Almost like his blood vessels are attempting to bulge through his skin.

As if the vessels themselves had become puppet strings.

The pulling stops just as unseen fingers curl around his neck.

“Enough of this juvenile rebellion. You are returning with me and you will take whatever punishment the High Priestess has deemed fit with whatever dignity you can trudge from this gutter.”

He can't speak so he lets his eyes do the talking for him. Glaring into the dark hoping she sees the hatred. Contrary to what she may think, he isn't stupid. He knows exactly how this works. The only spell she would know that would teleport them directly back requires all passengers to be willing. Like hell is he just going to let her drag him back there to die-.

“That devil cat is quite fond of you.”

‘No!’

“Does he know what you did?”

‘You leave them alone, you bitch!’

“I suspect you wouldn't want to see him harmed.”

Hot tears prick at the back of his eyes and Bellkiira hates how quickly he breaks. He should’ve known she would stoop low enough to resort to threats. Those words are all that is needed to ring all the fight from him.

‘I'm sorry, Twi.’

He won't even get to say goodbye.

He's not expecting the slap, and the sharp pain striking his cheek makes him feel like a child again. Weak and small and scared. The force knocks him to the ground and he can't stop the tears from spilling over. And he can't stop the sobs when the knife returns and slices off his treasured braid.

“Figures you would cry for another surface scum,” Inithra sneers with distaste, tossing the hair aside like it's a piece of trash. “Honestly, you should be grateful I'm not killing you here, as much as I wish to. After everything you've done, you don't deserve to mourn him. Not after you made me mourn Mother.”

That mother of theirs did not deserve to be mourned.

She could not stop him from mourning. Twilight would be the only one he would cry over. His only regret.

A dim glow washes over the room, returning color to Bellkiira’s vision, and his sister's form materializes before him. He almost feels satisfaction seeing her sunken cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes. Well, one eye actually, the one not concealed by an eyepatch.

That had been his fault as well.

The sudden presence of light seems to startle her, the realization of not being hidden anymore. At the end of the room a flame rises from an oil lamp. Not even a second later, a vase shatters against her head and terracotta fragments rain across the floor.

Inithra falls hard and whatever force she'd been controlling to puppet her brother falters.

“Kiir!”

Relief and dread meet like two crashing trains. Relief of rescue. Dread of Twilight rushing into the room towards him and right into danger.

Strong arms embrace Bellkiira and maneuver him away from the fallen woman. Twilight takes one look at his face, stricken with tears, burned by the lead gag, his too short hair, and their eyes blow wide with horror. Their hands make quick work of the straps around his head and the awful thing is thrown to the floor.

“Is she your-?”

Bellkiira flexes the ache out of his jaw, wincing as the move pulls on burned skin. “Yes,” he confirms.

Inithra staggers to her feet, blood oozing from her head wound a stark contrast against her braided white hair (oh how he’d envied her growing up). A red eye piercing daggers.

The tabaxi tightens their protective hold, the gravity of the situation dawning. And if Inithra was as intelligent as she held herself, she'd see that her brother was equally ready to defend his partner.

“You will submit or you will regret it.”

That gag is finally off. There's two particular words he's been waiting to tell her.

“Fuck you!”

Her eye twitches. “I won't repeat myself again, Trael'yul.”

It's the first time she calls him by name and it isn't even the right one.

Trael'yul.

He would've taken centuries of imprisonment if it meant he'd never have to hear that name again. It wasn't his, never was. Not when the last high priestess he'd known spoke it as she sentenced him to death. Not when his mother first bestowed it to him the day of his centennial.

Trael'yul.

Obedient prize.

Something Bellkiira ensured he would never become, with his mother's death and his escape.

“That's not my fucking name.”

His sister scoffs. “Of course you would abandon the name mother gave you. You always were a disrespectful brat.”

“Maybe I just wanted a real mother who actually gave a damn about me! Maybe I was just sick and tired of being treated like a slave!”

“That's your damn purpose! As is for all others like you. That is where Lolth has placed you.”

“That fucking spider bitch doesn't give a shit about you! Any of you!” Bellkiira snarls, finally letting forth years worth of contempt and anger. “She's driving you all to ruin! Using you all to feed her own power. Did you know Lod'tynan Orbbs'cress is the only city of the Underdark still under her influence? All the rest have freed themselves and are way better off without her.”

Inithra's face twists and he could really see the resemblance to their mother. She even had the same way of raising her hand before going to slap him.

Twilight moves between them, becoming a defensive shield. “Don't you dare.”

For the first time, Inithra addresses them directly. “What do you think you can do, cat? When I can manipulate the blood in your bodies. Perhaps I should make you strike him and teach him his place.”

They tense up with that threat. “Maybe I can't beat you,” they begin, and Bellkiira’s heart soars with pride when they pull a familiar orange maple leaf from their pocket, “but she can.”

‘Oh you brilliant moon.’

With a clench of their fist, the leaf crumbles in Twilight’s hand.

And before Inithra can make some condescending comment - questioning what a mere leaf could do - all three of them feel the pulse of energy that emanates. The flame in the oil lamp burns higher. The shadows around them grow, climbing further up the walls.

And begin to dance.

A breeze coming from nowhere flutters the curtains and rustles their hair. It carries an old graveyard scent of soil and stone. The oil lamp flame burns too high yet the temperature in the room chills to the point Bellkiira can feel goosebumps forming on his arms.

The dancing shadows grow faces.

Glowing eyes and glowing smiles.

Inithra backs away. “What in Lolth’s name-?”

Laughter.

Eerie high-pitched cackling.

The shadows fill the house with a cacophony, taunting gazes turning Inithra into the title character of a dark comedy.

The flames flicker out. A moment of silence. And when they relight seconds later, the air is swarming. Beetles, locusts, moths, and bugs galore. The buzz of countless flying insects joins in with the shadows’ guffaw. They descend upon the threat.

Twilight presses themself into Bellkiira’s side, their tail curling around him in fear as the dark cloud of writhing wings engulfs Inithra. The two spectators can only assume the alarmed scream comes from the drow woman. Her arms thrash and flail against chitinous bodies, the mass so thick not even her face is visible. Her arachnid familiar doesn't last long against the merciless bites, and with a dying hiss, it disappears in a puff of mist, no longer able to hold material form.

Bellkiira touches his head to Twilight’s, the one gesture of reassurance he's able to make with his arms still bound. Nothing of this horror show would harm them, but the frightened tabaxi certainly hadn't expected such a display from their rescuer. They weren't as used to his patron’s mannerisms as he was.

Amidst the laughter and buzzing, a voice sings.

“Come critters and geists, Come scitter and stamp. The moth has caught A spider in her lamp.”

An arm reaches out of the dark and grasps onto Inithra's. The swarm retreats for a moment, and her violet skin is stained red with blood and bites and stings. She stumbles on her feet, chest heaving to gulp down air not filled with insects. The eyepatch had been torn away, revealing the scarred mess of flesh that had once been her right eye.

Now only a single left eye can glance up to the being towering over her. Large black and yellow wings, dark compound eyes with glowing yellow pinpoints that pierce down through her, the large chitinous arm that dwarfs her own and three others that hold aloft a skeletal scythe, the tip of its blade pricking the bottom of her chin.

“You!” Inithra hisses, recognition in her one eye that morphs into fury.

It's only their second meeting, but one does not simply forget an encounter with Lady Samhain, Reaper of the Harvest Diablerie, second of the Autumn Court.

Especially when said first encounter turned your entire life upside down.

“You think you can come steal away my little chrysanthemum? Allow your goddess to claim one under my protection? Oh I don't think so, little spider.”

The mass of shadows repeating that final line casts a haunting echo.

Despite her crooked smile, glowing like the carved gourds they light up for the Vigil, Bellkiira notes it's been a long time since he's seen his patron so angry. The last time, his plea had sent that scythe slicing through his mother's throat.

9 notes · View notes

melanie-ohara · 4 months

Text

Hollow Yourself in the Mercy of Man

Whumpuary2024, Day 09 - prompt: Can't Move

Safety Investigator Kassa January is called to an industrial accident and finds tragedy in the rubble

An original story at last! It's been a while since I did something original and my god it was hard

AO3 Here

Central-1 grew larger on the monitor as the ship approached, and January tapped a code into the comms panel to request docking authorisation.

"Welcome to Central-1," an artificially cheerful voice chimed. "Please state your name, ship ID, and the reason for your visit."

"Inspector Kassa January, 2171-SD, maintenance tunnel collapse on aft deck 3-Heron."

"Please hold," the voice said and Kass sighed, "you are being transferred to an operator."

Kass brought her ship into a holding pattern around the 3-Heron dockyard and pulled up her scopes while she waited, zooming in on the collapsed section. It was small, a thin scar less than ten metres across. Something had slipped through Central-1's grid and impacted on the side of the station in a million-to-one, unforeseeable accident. According to the report, all four of the workers the station had in there at the time were killed instantly.

"2171-SD, come in please." This was a new voice - human, not synthesised, officious and, based on his decision to use her shuttle code and not her name, busy and rude.

"Go for 2171-SD," she replied, after an unnecessarily long pause.

"We weren't expecting you so soon," he said.

"Safin-Daniels ensures immediate response to high-priority clients like the Central Network," January rattled off, quoting verbatim from the pamphlet Central Network's upper management would have been given thirty years ago when they took out their insurance. It was a very reliable pamphlet.

"Well, yes but… It's just that we haven't cleared the site yet," he said, starting to sound a bit apologetic. "Search and Rescue only finished an hour ago and there are still dead bodies down there." He whispered the words like he was afraid of them, and January wondered where it was on the station he lived that he hadn't seen a corpse before.

"The fresher the better," January muttered before hitting the comms switch again. "That's not a problem, Central-1. If you could clear me for a berth and have someone direct me, that would be great."

There was a pause before the amber light on her HUD turned green and she could guide the ship out of the holding pattern and into the docking hub, letting the autopilot take over for the tricky landing manouevre while she buttoned up her jumpsuit and checked her hair in the dull reflective surface of the metal wall.

The man who met her at the last junction before the sealed off maintenance section looked exactly how she expected after hearing his voice on the radio: short and sweaty in an expensive suit and uncomfortable expression. His name was Salder, and he was anxious for her to finish as soon as possible. Apart from the pop-up pressure seal that divided the wrecked portion of the room, Supply and Utility Maintenance access hatch 73 looked just like any other - a functional, bare metal structure welded to the next functional, bare metal structure in a long chain that allowed entrance to the warren of tunnels that riddled the station. They looked exactly like the SUM hatches on Central-5, where January had been last month, and Luna-7, where she had found explosives residue that exposed the Cassarn Syndicate's insurance fraud. The first thing she noticed were the three body bags.

"Where's the fourth?" she asked. "The report said four men died, I only see three."

Salder pointed to the unzipped empty body bag. "Perhaps you'd better take a look."

January frowned, but did what he said and lifted the flap of the black bag. "Ah," she said, about the severed leg sitting there.

"That's all they managed to find," Salder said. He was resolutely looking the other way, and January thought about kicking him with the severed leg for a second. She put the thought, however tempting, out of her mind and looked at the sealed section. It was a pretty open-and-shut case. As much as she'd like to ruin more of Salder's day, it was a textbook act-of-God meteor incident. She was getting back to her feet when she heard a soft crackling sound. She paused, and it stopped for a moment, and then came back.

"If you'd care to - "

" Shush ," January hissed, waving a hand at Salder until he closed his mouth.

There it was again: crackle, silence, crackle, silence.

"You hear that?" she asked.

"No?" Salder said, looking at her dumbly. January shushed him again and followed the sound, stepping as softly as she could on the rubberised floor so she didn't drown it out.

"There!"

The sound was spilling from an almost-closed zip on one of the body bags, and January knelt to open it properly. The man inside was, of course, stone dead, but his radio wasn't. She grabbed it from the hook on his belt and clicked down the push-to-talk.

"Hello?"

The crackle changed in intensity, and if she listened carefully she could make out what could be a voice. The radio was damaged, probably by the crushing force of the metal walls slamming together that had killed its owner, but maybe one of the others still worked. The first body she checked had lost his radio along with most of his right side, but the second one was intact. It had been switched off, presumably by the SAR crew, but as soon as she turned it on she heard him: the missing three quarters of the man who was supposed to be dead.

"Do you copy?" he asked. January could tell his voice was hoarse even through the tinny radio speaker.

"I read you," she said. "Where are you?"

"Not really sure," he said. "Last I remember I was near the airlock, but I think the crash threw me around a bit and I was unconscious for… I guess a while."

January checked her watch. He had been trapped for seven hours, which was more than enough time for him to bleed to death from his injuries, but other than his scratchy voice he didn't even sound hurt.

"Are you… injured?" she asked, looking over at his severed leg.

"My leg hurts."

"The left one?" January asked.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Call it intuition," January said. There must be something pressing up against the remains of his leg, stemming the bleeding enough for him to stay alive. Salder looked a little green. "My name's Kass," she said.

"Bennett," he said. That was Bennett Anto, the maintenance co-ordinator. "Did any of my guys make it out? I've been trying to contact them since I woke up, but you answered so I guess…"

"Sorry," January offered. Bennett didn't reply for a moment.

"I can't move, Kass." His voice sounded different now. Choked. Afraid.

"That's alright, Bennett," she said, as reassuringly as she could. "We'll send someone in to cut you out.

"I don't think you will," he said. "There's something I haven't told you."

"What's that?"

"There's a support strut that sheared in the crash. Every couple of seconds it shifts a few centimetres. I probably only have about a minute and a half left before it hits me."

"Shit," January breathed. She knew the specifications: each support strut weighed half a ton and was made of galvanised steel.

"Yeah."

"You can't move?"

"No. The best I've got is deciding which side of my head it goes through."

There was no time to send a crew in, especially when they didn't know where he was. Likewise, there was no way to stop the strut. If they could place a shaped charge in the right place, they might be able to redirect it - except they didn't have the time. There was nothing they could do except stand there and wait. Salder turned to leave, but January grabbed his arm.

"Don't you dare," she said. He swallowed. All the colour drained out of his face, but he nodded.

"I'm sorry, Bennett," January said. "I don't think there's anything we can do."

"I know," he said. "I've known since I saw it start moving. 'I will see my fate, and I will greet it, and I will not be afraid.'"

January paused and frowned. "What is that?" she asked Salder. "Is that scripture?"

He nodded. "Neo-Latin Revivalist," he said. "There's a whole mess of them down a couple levels."

January clicked the push-to-talk button again. "I respect that," she said, a little weakly. Religion and the faithful always made her a little uneasy. In her world, a life was forfeit so easily: an acetylene torch left on, a loose wire, industrial sabotage, a locked door left open, poor pressure seal maintenance… the list of sad and empty ways to die was endless. To find meaning in any of it felt so forced and unnatural to her.

"Just one problem," Bennett said. "I'm still shit-scared."

"Easier said than done, right?"

"I guess," he said. "I thought I could accept this in silence, you know? Be a stoic." His voice was getting strained, and he was speaking faster. January guessed the steel strut had moved again and gritted her teeth. "I only picked up the radio to say goodbye to my guys, but… well, you know. I think I'd be a screaming wreck right now if I was still alone."

January didn't know what to say to that. She glanced over at Salder, sweating uselessly next to her. She thought about handing the radio over to him but the idea of hearing someone from the executive class telling a doomed man he was thankful for his service made her feel a bit sick.

"I'm sorry they couldn't save you," she said, in the end.

"That's alright. Just one of those things."

There was a long pause. Salder wiped the sweat from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. January tried desperately to think of something reassuring to say in the last few seconds of a fellow human being's life and came up empty.

"Okay," Bennett said, his voice tight with fear. "Next time it moves, I'm gone. So, I guess I'll sign off now."

"No," January said quickly. He needed someone with him, she was sure of that. "Leave it transmitting. I'll be here for… for the end."

There was silence for a moment, and then the radio crackled as Bennett held down the push-to-talk.

"Thanks," he murmurred.

January said nothing, and waited.

It took four seconds. There was a brief scrape of metal on metal, and then silence as Bennett's lifeless finger slipped from the button. It was over.

Slowly, Kass January lowered the radio, and blinked tears from her eyes.

#writing #original character #whumpuaryno5 #Can't move #original story #there's some death in this one #whumpuary2024

10 notes · View notes