Chapter Text
The Destructor hums, and it is a broken thing of scratches and failed notes. It does not care how its ruined voice butchers the song, tearing the melody limb from limb and leaving it to bleed out in the stagnant air of its little pocket of void.
Error sits on the floor cross-legged, void black limbs folded neatly over the once pristine and now tattered miniskirt of its outfit. Its posture is abnormally straight as glitches and sparks and missing blocks of text flicker in and out of existence on its body in the blink of an eye or three. Its left arm is coated in black and magenta squares always moving, always shifting, and it feels nothing from them - even as they rip and tear at its skin, Error simply looks down to them with an almost bored look.
It's been getting worse, and the thought almost excites it.
Soon, none of this will be its problem anymore, and never will be again. Can you blame the Destructor for being tired of longing gazes to an invisible hole in the ceiling? For being tired of missing the late night conversations around a table with two other smiling faces? For being tired of hissing and spitting such vile cruel things that it knows it didn't have the heart for before?
For being tired of wanting to tear the heart out of its equals chest, the organ still beating feverishly in its possessive hands and cackle as it watches the light fade from their eyes, wings spasming desperately before finally fluttering still? For being tired of wanting to pluck every single strand of fur from the little poem's skin until it is raw with blood, to baptise him in pools of liquid pain and watch as his body bubbles and rips with steam until the gargling chokes finally go as quiet as the water at its ankles?
Can you blame the Destructor for being tired of it all?
The air around it whispers, rippling with the voices of anomalies that beg for mercy, for freedom and for death. It will grant nothing, now. That's not its job anymore.
Error doesn't let its mind wander to the little poem's words, instead standing up with a jerky and clumsy motion before grinning a wild, cracked thing and reaching its glitch mangled arm into the non-existent ground beneath.
The BookKeeper finds himself here more often than not, now, standing on top of the mossy roads of SilentHallow.
He is gentle as he walks, being careful not to disturb the excruciatingly placed greenery around the area with his taloned feet, instead letting his tail gently swish behind him, ghosting against the foliage. Derman admires the place, though me may not admit it to its residents, soaking in the view of the crystals that surround the portal and the beautifully soft and bright oak wood that decorate the little cottagy buildings along the main path, like a plant to a sun. Lanterns hang from sturdy beams glow gently during the day and act as the sun in the cold nights, his furred ears turning to focus on the sound of the livestock and horses grazing in their respective barns.
Lanterns hang from sturdy spruce beams, high above him in the roof, glowing gently against the wood. His purple eyes flow from the top of the A-slanted roof , down the wooden and stone walls decorated with flags and banners and paintings, down more towards the elegant cobblestone stairway that curves down from the top floor in two places before conjoining in the middle, curling inwards towards the far downstairs wall. Light from the large bay window of the top floor floods through, illuminating the furniture in streaks of gold and silver while torches brighten up the two open guard towers in the corners.
He hums alongside the sound of the nearby nether portal, nestled into the wall dramatically while the sound of rumbling water emanates from the bubble elevator through one of the two doors opposite the stairs. Snow is still stuck to the stone stairs leading to the double front door, something that he needs to sweep up sooner rather than later lest the water melts and rots the wood-
Derman blinks, his thoughts not understanding why his vision has gone blurry until he feels the tell-tale burning of tears on his cheeks. The pain is much more dull, now, but it is there nevertheless as he wipes the liquid away with the hem of his sleeve.
"Why are you always so early? Pretentious prick."
The lilted voice drags his voice back into his throat, as The BookKeeper turns around with a small smile on his lips, steam still gently dissipating into the air. The smile, however, drops into an expression of horror while his eyes widen at the sight of his charge.
The Cursed Child looks at him with a scowling squint, one white eye staring at him with an insolent gaze while the other remains unfocused and black as void. Magenta and black squares cover the left side of her face now, black eye succumbed to the progression while the shapes jitter and buzz across her cheek and jaw. The BookKeeper thinks he can see it slowly inching forward, always continuing to spread.
He think he might be sick, too.
"You're looking at me as if I'm about to burst into flames, dude."
"The glitches- they're..." A disturbed warble forces itself out of his throat no matter how much he tries to force it down. Once the first one comes out, it's followed by another two, three, until he can slam a hand over his mouth and turn away, jaw shutting closed with an audible click. He doesn't see Celeste's eyebrows raise in confusion and surprise, her arms falling from their crossed position on her chest to almost reach out to him. Almost. Instead, she holds them raised and limp in front of her torso, absentmindedly fiddling with her fingers.
Once he's confident he can speak in English and not noises of a home he can never return to, The BookKeeper turns around to face his charge again, face painted with worry. "They're getting worse. Significantly." He says finally, once he finds his words, and it feels like he's recounting a death toll. The cursed child only huffs in return.
"Yeah, I know." Derman can see how she tries to hold herself so casually, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket, but he can also see the rise of her shoulders, the furrowing of her eyebrows, the tenseness in her jaw. He can see how much it must hurt, and for some reason the thought is more painful than the hissing he felt on his skin barely a few minutes ago.
"Are you..." He pauses, unknowing if he should continue, but with a sharp inhale he does so. "What do you see in your left eye?"
Silence. It's sickening.
Derman thinks he might not get a response at all, until the cursed child visibly swallows back a sob, grinning wide with a watery eye and trembling voice as she whispers,
"Nothing."
The world falls beneath his feet for a second time, and it take all of the willpower he's ever had to stop himself from falling over with the force of it. Instead, he scrunching his eyes up, head hanging low and fingers twitching at his sides underneath the ornate red cloak draped over his shoulders. Then suddenly he's moving forward, the cursed child flinching back until Derman plants his hands on her shoulders with a firm grip, not hard enough for his talons to hurt but enough for her to gasp under the pressure while he makes direct eye contact with her. Purple particles buzz around him anxiously in response to the shared gaze, but The BookKeeper totally ignores it, eyes scanning around her face for a second before returning to her eyes.
He opens his jaw to speak with strain, his voice sharing the sentiment, "I'm not going to let you suffer like this. I promise. I'll do something to stop her."
Derman thinks they both know he's only being hopeful, but it's enough for Celeste to lower her head tentatively into The BookKeeper's heavy chest as his hands move from her shoulders to her back, dragging the hem of his cloak with him and wrapping the cursed child up in the red fabric, hiding her away from the rest of the world and it's sight.
It's the least she deserves when's she's lost sight of herself, too, he thinks.
When the Fox sees his child next, Celeste stares at him with gold and void eyes. He stares back with grey. Both are unnerved.
He gently reaches out with scar smothered hands, trembling, gently, carefully feathering his hand over his daughter forehead and catching a loose curl of dark hair to brush it behind her ear. The other hand reaches up to join the other, palms settling softly against either side of her jaw as his clawed thumbs swipe over her cheeks in a soothing rhythm. The ache of the squares dull for a few seconds, and the Fox hates how he sees his child visibly slump and sigh in relief under such a simply touch.
"I'm sorry," he says as a broken thing, echoing with thousands of things never said and actions never taken.
The Cursed Child doesn't respond, instead leaning down to press her forehead into that of her father, feeling the tickly of his white fur against her uncovered skin. Its soft.
"It hurts really badly," Celeste mumbles out into the pale streaks, almost incoherent as she takes shuddering breaths that rattle in her throat. The Fox ignores the distortion in her voice that comes with it.
"It looks it," he pauses, still gently thumbing over his daughters cheeks with all the care in the world. It will never be enough. "I'll fix this. I'll find him and get him to fix it, or I'll call on the gods, or something - please, trust me I'll fix it. Anything for you."
"Are you sure you can do that?"
"No. But that won't stop me from trying. I'll bleed myself dry before letting it get to you."
"Don't do that" is all she responds, but its pathetically weak as the Cursed Child's lungs feel like they might just constrict her.
The Fox almost shakes his head at the sound, stretching upwards on his feet as his hands move from face to back, arms wrapping around his child in an embrace reserved for desperately trying to stop a broken statue's pieces from falling apart. Celeste's energy, pain and fear all pent up from days of constant dull pain vanishing into nothing as her knees buckle under her, the Fox catching the other in his arms and lowering the pair to the floor.
The Cursed Child sobs into the shoulder of her father, shaking hands grasping onto anything they can - shirt, hair, arms, tails, anything- as wails pour from her throat like the chorus of a song. The Fox tries his best to hold all the broken pieces of her together, tucking her head underneath his chin while he holds tightly onto her torso, claws clutching onto the fabric of her outfit; not enough to hurt but enough for him to be there, finally. Three ruined tails wrap around the both of them like a blanket of soft white, hiding his child away from the pain and prying eyes of the world, because he's fucking had enough of it taking her away piece by piece. He'll go up to that golden-gilded hell and throw hands with The Destructor himself, for fucks sake!
"I'm sorry," his child says instead this time.
"That apology shouldn't be coming from you," The Fox seethes, one hand soothingly rubbing circles into his child's back while the other gently cards through her hair.
"It should be coming from them."