Chapter Text
The human body has four main organs.
The brain, smart and complex, but the weakest and softest organ.
The heart, strong and powerful, but the hardest to heal when hurt.
The lungs, full of life and always together, but struggles on its own.
The liver, Able to repair itself and continue on, but it’s hard to tell when it is failing.
Without them, your body would collapse on itself, decaying and rotting away into the nothingness which is death.
Without them, the world would cease to exist.
As if there was nothing there in the first place.
Rotting, rotting, forever rotting.
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A little boy, no older than 7 or 8, walks through a forest, its leaves reaching over his head, covering him in a false sense of safety.
The leaves will cover the dark branches, sharp ends reaching towards him, as if wanting to tear him apart themselves.
The holes in the trunks merely watch a boy who thinks he's alone in the world, but alone he is not, and never will be.
The bright grass is soft, as if a blanket, comforting him.
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But the dirt underneath, is where the rot lies.
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The world is gilded by brightness, never looking close enough to truly see what's underneath the veil of carefully crafted lies.
Strung up against the sky and preaching truths to those gullible enough to listen.
The boy will continue to walk, for he is not like the other children playing in their yards and scribbling on paper.
No, no, this boy understands. He understands that what is under the painted gold is nothing but rot and ruin.
He seems to carry himself with confidence, sharp eyes glaring at the reaching branches in which he cannot know are there.
But he does.
He does know.
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The sprawling forest will thin out into a clearing, and the boy’s tail will swish in what seems to be excitement.
A tall tree rises far above his head, and he will look up to see the true extent of his finding.
A treehouse, swaying in the roar of the wind. Its steps will creak as the boy ascends the staircase, making him pause, listening.
But the only thing he will hear is the whispers of the wind, the sky, the sun.
So he continues his climb.
He reaches a door, turning the cold doorknob, its silver paint flaking off from use. From whoever living here turning it every day, smiling as they return to the place they think is their home.
The door swings open, creaking loudly. Sunlight spills in through the door, inviting itself in, although it was not invited.
The room is dark, with all the curtains drawn and the lights off.
The boy smiles at the sight.
He understands why.
He steps through the threshold, bare feet meeting the burning floorboards.
He yelps, holding his tail to his chest as he steps backwards, back into the light. The light is worse. The light watches. So he steps back inside.
Tears prick his eyes as he shuts the door behind him, banishing the light from this home. The magma blocks underneath the flooring burning him, punishing him for every step he takes within the dark.
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And Wemmbu sighs in relief, tense shoulders relaxing as he scurries around the house, going through each chest to find something, anything!
He was hungry, he’d run out of food earlier that day and wished for saturation. The floor was an issue, however. And how sweltering the house itself was.
Wemmbu is a dragon hybrid, and dragon hybrids don’t do well in the cold. Or, well, some types of dragons. Only the snow-based and end-based ones.
And he just so happened to be an end-based dragon.
Well, kind of.
He was sort of a mix, between demon and dragon. He has demon horns and a demon tail, but he has huge dragon wings and small sections of scales on his arms.
Wemmbu honestly has no idea what he is.
But that's not the issue at the moment.
He is reminded of this when his stomach twists in hunger, and Wemmbu winces before going into another room.
It seems to be a bedroom, decorated in a mix of red and black. Wemmbu doesn’t go through this room.
He also remembers that kitchens exist.
He can feel his cheeks heat up in embarrassment as he leaves the room in search of a kitchen, which he finds a few minutes later.
He finds a few golden apples, which he gladly takes. He hasn’t seen one of those since—
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“Here, Wemmbu. It’ll make you feel better.” His mother said, holding him close to quiet his tears.
He didn’t like being sick, but maybe it was worth it.
It was one of the only times his mother didn’t look at him like he was a burden.
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He shakes his head and stores the apples in his inventory, searching for even more food.
There isn’t much he can take, because Wemmbu doesn’t know how to cook. He finds steak and chicken, but it’s uncooked.
He takes it anyway.
Desperation can do a lot to a person.
He’s looking through the variety of plant-grown foods when he hears the front door creak open.
Wemmbu freezes, looking around for a place to hide, evidently finding none.
“Bro I am so hungry” a voice says, cutting through the silence and causing Wemmbu to panic even more.
“Bro you’re always hungry.” Says another voice, sounding slightly annoyed.
Great. There's two of them.
“I’m a lion bro, I gotta eat!”
Yup that is 100% worse.
Wemmbu frantically looks around again, but still finds nowhere to hide. He’s cooked. Fried. Flayed like a fish. Done for. Doomed. By the narrative. All the words for Wemmbu is dying today.
A figure steps into the doorframe as Wemmbu decides to just stuff the food in his inventory and hope to lie his way out of the situation.
“Flame do you want me to make you— what the hell?” The lion hybrid says, shock written on the visible parts of his face.
Wemmbu couldn’t see his eyes through the orange blindfold, but he could tell the guy’s eyes narrowed at the sight of him.
Wemmbu just smiled, slightly waving.
“Hey bro— uh— fancy meeting you here?” He says, attempting to sound confident, but it comes out more like a question anyways.
“What happened Mane?” Asked the voice of who he thinks is Flame, slowly coming closer to where the lion— Mane— was.
Another figure appears in the doorway— this must be Flame— and freezes when seeing him.
“Bro, why the hell is there a child in our kitchen?” Flame once again questions, and Wemmbu thinks he’s looking at him, but he’s also wearing a blindfold.
“Language bro” Mane says, “and I dunno? Why are you here?” He asks him.
“...Shelter.”
“From what?”
“The rain.”
“It’s sunny out.”
“It’s not.”
“It literally is!” Flame buts in, opening one of the curtains in the kitchen for proof. As soon as sunlight pours in, Flame shuts the curtains again, albeit a little violently.
“Look at that! The weather changed!” He squeaked, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else but here in this room.
“Yeah, sure bud.” Flame replies, the eye roll obvious in his voice. He then draws his sword, looking as if he was ready to attack at any given moment.
Wemmbu shrieks and steps back instinctively, before covering his mouth with his hand.
The two others look at each other and immediately start laughing. Which, like, first of all, rude much? And second, that was a valid reaction!
Wemmbu glares at them, which only makes the two laugh harder.
Eventually, the two stop laughing, and Mane walks over to him and straight up just picks him up. Which obviously causes him to yelp again, and once again, the two older boys start giggling, much to his dismay.
“Put me down!” He yells, struggling to escape.
Mane only giggles at Wemmbu’s escape attempts, holding him out in front of him so he doesn’t get kicked.
“Bro what are you doing?” Flame asks, still holding his sword.
“I like him. We’re keeping him!” Mane smiles.
“What!?” Both Flame and Wemmbu yell, confused out of their minds.
“Bro— we can’t just— kidnap a child bro!” Flame hissed, but he now lowered his weapon. Which was good news for Wemmbu.
“Sure we can! No kid with parents is breaking into random houses in the middle of the woods.”
Ouch.
He’s still struggling in Mane’s grip, but he’s getting tired. He’s hungry, and he wants to sleep. The brothers are still going back and forth as Wemmbu slowly stops trying to escape, but is still tense.
Mane stops holding the kid out in front of him and hugs him to his chest, causing Wemmbu to huff in quiet protest.
He can worry about food later though, Mane was comfortable and he wants to sleep. So he lets himself relax in the other's arms, closing his eyes as he waits for sleep to take him.
“Awhhh” Mane practically squealed, and if he wasn’t so tired he might have said something snarky back.
“See Flame! He’s adorable!”
“Bro he was trying to steal from us, like, literally 15 minutes ago.”
“Still cute”
“You are a piece of work bro.”
“You still love me though!”
“I guess bro” Flame replies, rolling his eyes under the blindfold.
Mane leaves the kitchen, and Flame follows behind, to see where he was going.
Mane carried Wemmbu to his bedroom, the child now being fast asleep. He smiled at the sight, laying him down in the ‘nest’ of sorts he had, made out of piles upon piles of blankets.
He patted the kid on the head before exiting the room, Flame following behind. They still needed to make food for themselves, and Mane was starving.
Mane hummed as he started cooking, unaware of what was going through Wemmbu’s head in the other room.
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He was running, running so fast and so far that he thought he was lost.
Which scared the 7-year-old.
He didn’t want to be here, in the cold darkness, but he didn’t want to be at home either.
So he continued to run, muscles screaming and lungs gasping for air.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been running, shoes slamming against the stone street.
Whispers fill his mind, telling him to keep going.
Whispers, telling him—
Don’t go into the light. Don’t go into the light. Don’t go into the light.
So he avoids the street lights.
He listens.
To what they say.
They guide him, telling him which street to turn to and which ones to avoid.
Wemmbu listens.
They tell him he’s a good listener.
He smiles at this.
He runs into a forest, and the whispers tell him to avoid the branches.
The reaching branches.
Normally bark in the daylight, covered by leaves, are now arms with clawed hands, reaching, reaching to grab him.
To kill him.
To tear him apart limb by limb.
Wemmbu screams as one of them latches onto his hair, pulling him back, towards the gaping hole in its trunk.
A mouth breaks itself free, fangs sharp and gleaming in the moonlight.
Wemmbu continues to yell as he breaks free from the branch's grip, tears streaming down his face from the pain of being yanked backwards.
The whispers tell him sweet nothings.
Tell him all will be okay.
Tell him he is okay.
He listens, wiping his eyes and continuing to run.
More mouths open from the tree trunks, all of them letting out blood-curling screams.
Some a male voice, some a woman's, and even some children.
It’s horrible and loud.
Wemmbu fights the urge to cover his ears.
To curl up into a ball and cry.
He wants his mom.
He wants his mom to hold him and tell him everything will be okay.
“What are those things?” He whispers, maybe to himself, and maybe to the whispers.
The whispers tell him that they were once people.
Now they are not.
Their bones have been twisted, manipulated, into a monster.
Eternal hell.
A punishment perfectly articulated for only the worst of the worst.
Wemmbu nods as if he understands, but he does not.
The grass is sharp now, too.
Stabbing into the soles of his shoes, as if they were small knives.
He is glad that he’s wearing shoes.
And he continues to run, only off pure adrenaline.
He can see a wall of what seems to be prickly vines, with small flowers sprouting from them.
Cypress vines, the whispers tell him.
They tell him to run through the vines.
He does.
The small spindles on the vines shoot themselves into his body, causing him to cry out in pain.
But he makes it through.
Broken, bleeding, and dead tired.
He makes it through.
The whispers tell him he did good.
There is a house enclosed in a blue aura, glowing brightly against the black sky.
He looks up, as the trees have cleared enough for him to see the stars.
But stars they are not.
Blue eyes blink back at him instead.
He gasps, and his own eyes immediately move towards the moon.
Which is one huge eye, staring at him, unblinking, waiting.
Waiting for him, the whispers tell him.
The eye does not seem kind, but it does not seem mean either.
It merely watches.
Wemmbu tears his eyes away, making his way to the glowing house.
It floats above the ground, so Wemmbu has to pull himself onto the front steps.
The stairs do not creak loudly as he ascends.
The silver doorknob’s metal gleams as if new, never once used.
His fingers are the first to imprint the metal.
He turns the doorknob.
And pushes the door open.
At first, it was quiet.
The trees stop screaming.
The crickets stop chirping.
The whispers stop whispering.
And then a loud screech fills the air.
So loud, too loud.
Wemmbu can feel his ears bleed as the whole world explodes into a bright blue light, and—
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“—Made food, wake up bro.”
Flame.
Wemmbu opens his eyes.
He’s in a nest of sorts.
Safe.
He hasn't been safe for a while.
Wemmbu blinks at Flame, trying to recollect his thoughts.
To calm down.
Flame must see the look on his face, because he sighs and picks him up, holding him against his side with one arm, and patting his head with the other one.
Wemmbu looked at him quizzically, not knowing what the older boy was doing.
“Look bro, I’m not good at this comforting stuff.” Flame says, looking really uncomfortable.
That made him laugh a bit.
“Ok bro. I guess my pain brings you joy bro.”
That makes Wemmbu laugh a lot.
Flame puts him down, the glare being obvious through his clothed eyes.
Wemmbu grins back.
“You are so annoying bro.” Flame sighs, turning to leave the room.
Wemmbu follows after, the smell of food hitting his nose as he walks into the kitchen.
Mane smiles at the two as they sit down at the table, Flame sitting still and Wemmbu swinging his legs.
The three eat in silence for a minute before Mane speaks up.
“So, kid, you never told us your name.”
“Or your age.” Flame adds.
Wemmbu thought about lying and saying something stupid, like Sebastian or something, but then he realized that that probably wasn’t a good idea.
“Wemmbu, and I’m 8.”
“Hell kinda name is Wemmbu bro?” Flame asks,
“Hell kinda name is Flame bro?” Wemmbu mocks,
“Language! Both of you! Flame I swear to the moon if you teach him curse words—”
Wemmbu blinks.
The moon, huh.
Not the sun.
The moon.
The dark over the light.
Wemmbu doesn’t know what to feel about that just yet.
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He’s not really listening to the playful argument around him, only focused on the food.
He hasn’t had something this good in over a year.
But then he has an absolutely amazing idea that could not go wrong at all.
Wemmbu gathers a small portion of his food onto his fork and flicks it at Flame.
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Flame stops talking and slowly turns towards Wemmbu.
Wemmbu takes this as his cue to run.
And run he does.
He screams as he hears Flame chasing after him, running out the front door as Mane’s laughs echo behind him.
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Wemmbu runs down the stairs, quite quick for someone so small.
Another boy, Flame, follows suit, sprinting after the smaller one.
The grass does not turn sharp as the two laugh.
The trees do not scream as Flame catches up to Wemmbu.
The vines do not shoot as Mane walks out.
The older one looks up, towards the sun, and frowns.
This new-found family knows of the gold paint, of how it flakes away.
They know information they should not have access to.
The sky does not respond to Mane’s glare, but it knows of its existence.
And it is not happy about it.
Oh, tell me Manepear, how many mistakes can you make before you regret it?
Oh, tell me FlameFrags, how many times will you repair yourself before you cannot anymore?
Oh, tell me Wemmbu, how much power can you gain before it all comes crashing down around you