Work Text:
Death doesn't frighten you. You've been preparing your entire life for the moment you cease to be, and you'll prepare long into your afterlife for the coming of the Angel of Double Death.
As soon as you found the quest cocoon you knew what was expected of you. There was power within reach and what you would gain from your sacrifice would far surpass the temporary discomfort it would take.
Settling on its hardened surface you mull over how to proceed. You'll need something sharp. Concentrating, you pull a sword from thin air. Its blade is long and pointed, perfect for the task at hand. Not for the first time you are thankful for your specibus. Jokerkind was the best of all possible choices, for though you don't make use of weapons often when you do you prefer to have the option to utilize anything you wish. Being unpredictable is the best way to guarantee success, after all.
You lift the sword and drive it straight through your heart.
*
You awaken in a burst of light, aloft on newly-grown wings that keep you up with little effort. You feel good, alive, in control. Rage pulses inside of you and you shove it down, keeping it tucked away for future use. There's no need to play all of your cards at once, after all.
You run your tongue along parted lips. This is wrong. A bare hand across your face confirms you are paintless. This is sin. This is taboo. No one can see you without your face applied.
You reach into your sylladex and pull out your paints along with a mirror so you can be sure you've applied it thoroughly. Then it's on to your clothes. It won't do to leave your arms uncovered as they are, nor is it advisable to broadcast your status as a god-tier to the rest of your peers. You redress in the holiest of cloth, that which you have used to cover yourself since you realized how wrong it was to display your skin without reason. The troll you are underneath this façade can only be judged by the Lord Himself; others have no right to see the way you appear without it.
Your wings tuck simply against your back, hidden easily from view under the black fabric of your shirt. They feel strange but not wholly unpleasant, something you can easily learn to ignore.
There is one other unfortunate side-effect of rebirth you must deal with. You bring your claws to your mouth, reach in, rip and tear and remove the offending muscle from its place. The pain is intense, the blood loss making you as woozy as it did the first time, but you cannot stop at that. You lips need to be sealed, need to stay sealed so you can't break your vow. Until Double Death takes you you will continue to pay for breaking the holiest taboo of all. No one shall attempt to mimic the noise of the Vast Honk, intentionally or not.
You dreamt you were the Lord. You should not have, and so you must do penance. Your matesprit's hearing was taken from her as well; punishment for hearing what should never grace the ears of a nonbeliever.
The threaded needle slides through unblemished flesh with some effort, and your gloved hands are slippery with blood by the time you finish. You lie on your side, exhausted but still coherent enough to realize choking on the fluid that fills your mouth would bring death and undo your efforts to correct what this process had done. Sleep takes you quickly.
*
You awaken to the sound of a crash.
Mituna lands hard in front of you, out of breath from pushing his psionics to their limit. You aren't certain he was even on planet for your ascension.
"What did you do?" he asks, voice dripping venom. "KL, you shit. What did you do? I almost threw up it felt so bad."
You pull yourself into a sitting position and smile up at him. The stitches pull more than they did when your wounds weren't as fresh and you feel a small trickle of blood slide down your chin. You need to reapply your paint, though since you can't do it here with Mituna around and you don't trust your legs to get you very far you must remain filthy for the time being.
"Fuck," Mituna mutters. "I can't leave you alone, can I? Shit, I--" He stops talking but his mouth remains open, gaping at the body behind you. "You killed yourself. No wonder I--" He grabs your wrist, squeezes as if to test whether you're truly alive or just a spiritual projection. "I'm gonna be sick. I'm gonna puke. This is so not cool. I thought you were in danger. It felt like you were in danger, I don't--"
You gesture for him to sit on the edge of the slab. He does with trepidation and you settle yourself next to him, hand rubbing his back in a futile attempt to get him to calm down. He doesn't understand. He will never understand why you need to make these sacrifices.
Later, you crack a can of wicked elixir and pour one out for your lifeless carcass. Mituna fidgets as you pray for it and burn it in accordance with Beforan custom.
"You're gonna pass out and fall in the fire," he warns, using his psionics to hold you up as your legs betray you and you wobble precariously.
*
You heal much faster this time than last, wounds knitting themselves together with minimal energy expended on your part. This doesn't escape Mituna's notice.
"How does it feel to be immortal?" he asks with an air of nonchalance. "I guess not that different considering you were practically gonna live forever anyway." He regards the disparity in your lifespans with bitterness, knowing a night will come when he won't be able to check up on you.
You consider assisting in his ascension but think better of it. He knows the power is there for the taking if he chooses to put in the effort and if he doesn't partake it should be of no consequence to you. Besides, Doom brings suffering and mental anguish you don't wish upon him any worse than it has been. You see him getting more and more worked up over the fate of your mutual friends, foregoing sleep and imbibing small quantities of the forbidden substance known as mind honey in order to keep himself alert and ready to fight for his faithless friends at a moment's notice.
It will be his undoing. You are certain of it.
*
He sneaks up behind you one night. You senses are attuned to his arrival but you allow him to approach. His hand snakes behind your hair to the back of your neck and his touch feels warm against your bare skin.
"You feel normal for a bruiseblood," he tells you, somewhat triumphant in finding space to check you for a fever. He knows better than to put hand to your paint. You could have told him you were fine, but he never believes you completely.
He folds himself against your back in a common pale gesture.
"Wait, what the fuck?" he asks, face buried in the slight bump where your wings fold against flesh. "Is this...?" He has his hands on them now. "What is this?"
You attempt to wrest yourself from his grip.
WINGS, you finally tell him, for you know he won't leave you alone until he has the answer.
"Wings? This some god-tier shit? Shit, KL, you can't just keep them under your shirt."
You hear the rip of fabric and instinctively pull yourself away. You intend to keep the vows you made the day you realized you had done wrong by your Lord, to cover yourself in holy garments and live your life and death and beyond shrouded in silence. Sacrifice is part of existence and there is nothing in this world or the next that could convince you this isn't how you should behave.
Revealing your true self is forbidden. What exists under your exterior coverings is not to be seen by others, especially those who have no concept of the lie they are living without the righteous knowledge of the Angel's teachings.
Mituna prevents your escape with his psionics, holding you still in front of him.
"Shh. It's okay," he says, hand running up your spine. "Calm the fuck down; I can't even see anything. I just wanna get your wings out." He keeps rubbing your back as he eases one of your wings out through the slit he's torn in the back of your shirt. "I'm supposed to stop you from hurting yourself and if you let these atrophy you're gonna be really fucked up so just let me do this."
He has a point, you suppose.
THE OTHERS-- you start.
"I'm not gonna fucking tell them. They can go eat their own nooks."
You believe him. There is always sincerity implicit in his dealings with you.
VERY WELL, you acquiesce and he pats you on the back and removes the psionic restraint.
When he works your other wing free and you're able to stretch them for the first time since ascension you feel somewhat better.
"Holy shit," Mituna breathes. "They're fucking huge. Man is it true what they say about big wings?" he cackles. "Maybe that's why everyone's all over Rufioh, not his rack." He runs a finger across one in a familiar pattern. "They even put your shitty clown faces on here, did you see?"
You fold one of your wings over to glimpse the face on it. It smiles down at you. You understand now just how much this game can see of your innermost feelings and desires. It is unnerving.
You have no time to ruminate on this, suddenly pulled into the air by Mituna's sparking psionics. This is not the first time he's brought you skyward with him, but it is the first he's released you so far from the ground. Your wings catch you easily.
He forces you to exercise them until your stamina wanes and you both head back to the ground.
You make him turn around and watch his back as you change your attire to something that isn't ruined.
*
He is reluctant to leave you, but in the end he feels he has no choice. After spending the better part of a day and night texting frantically he opts to head off to the location of the coming danger, knowing he cannot prevent what disasters he senses happening to the others from afar.
"Why don't you go find Meulin or something," he tells you. He looks exhausted, bags under his glowing eyes. You reach out to cup his cheek with your hand.
PERHAPS I SHOULD COME WITH YOU.
"No. Fuck no. I'm not letting you get caught in this shit. It's-- Fuck, it's gonna be too late." He's off in a blast of energy before you have a chance to respond.
You cannot leave him to this alone. It always hits him hard when he realizes his efforts were futile and the doom he sensed has come to pass despite his best efforts. You concentrate, envelop yourself in the fabric you were provided with at ascension, and take off after him.
Your wings have more freedom of movement in this obscene purple attire, but the feeling of wind on your bare arms makes you feel ill. You have to keep reminding yourself that you are doing this for Mituna, that no sacrifice is too great if it is to benefit your moirail. You are practiced at sneaking through the other worlds without drawing notice and when you arrive at Meenah's land you find a small outcrop of trees where you can change back into proper vestments in private before heading to the scene of danger, saying a quick prayer of forgiveness for your indiscretion.
When you arrive Mituna is already gone. There is blood everywhere, deep red and vibrant fuchsia. Droplets of brown. Rufioh lies in a heap not far from where you stand. His wing twitches; he is still alive.
Over the horizon you can see the shape of Horuss' horns. You leave before his arrival. He can provide aid to his matesprit. It isn't your place to intrude, not when you have a quadrant of your own to take care of.
When you're far enough away you pull out your phone.
WHERE ARE YOU :o?, you text to a number you could dial blindfolded. It never ceases to amaze you, the way you can all miraculously reach each other in this manner despite your home planet's destruction.
The reply takes painfully long to arrive.
1 FUCK3DUP 5H35 D34DF
W41T 5H1T 1T JU5T G0T 50 BR1GHT
ASCENSION :o)
You follow the sudden burst of light and it leads you to him.
"Fishbitch is alive," he tells you from his perch atop one of the glass bowls that pepper the landscape, not too far from the cocoon where he would have placed her. "Pretty sure DM's the one that killed her. I fucking warned them. Her and Rufioh both. No one fucking listens," he whines.
IT'S OKAY.
"It's not okay. I couldn't save you, I couldn't save them, something bad's still gonna happen, I can feel--"
You place a finger to his lips.
"Mmph," he complains around it.
SILENCE, BROTHER. THIS IS WHAT'S MEANT TO HAPPEN. IT'S WRITTEN IN THE STARS ABOVE.
"There are no fucking stars here, KL. It's the land of fishbowls and wet grass. And I wouldn't get these feelings if I wasn't meant to do something."
You remain silent. For sweeps upon sweeps you have been trying to convince him not to burden himself with these feelings; it is fruitless to remind him of your thoughts on the matter.
*
A night comes when he approaches you again. This time, you can feel the fear radiating off of him, worse than it ever has.
You've barely started to walk toward him when he stops your approach by placing you in a psionic hold.
"I am so, so sorry, KL," he says. "Kurloz," he repeats, the first time in ages he's used the first half of your hatchname in full. "Fuck. I can see the danger now. It's you. You're gonna do something awful and I have to stop you."
STOP ME FROM WHAT? I AM DOING NOTHING I SHOULDN'T. You can feel your anger starting to bubble up to the surface, the Rage you were blessed with upon ascension, before ascension. You are a Prince; you succeed leaving destruction in your wake. He is but an Heir, one who will inherit his Doom from someone of far more importance.
"From your shitty clown religion, saltbreath. I should’ve paid attention to all that shit you used to spew about it. All that death stuff. You want us all dead, don't you?" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't want us dead."
I ONLY WANT WHAT MY LORD HAS PROMISED ME.
"So, what, death? That's why you killed yourself, isn't it?" His grip on you tightens for a brief moment, his eyes flickering bright and brighter still. You wonder how much mind honey is in his system. "And you're gonna sacrifice us all for this god of yours or something. I-- You're not even gonna make sure this motherfucker's real first, are you?"
NOT REAL? HOW DARE YOU INSINUATE THAT THE ANGEL OF DOUBLE DEATH COULD BE A FABRICATION? On the outside you remain placid as ever but inside you are seething. It's unfathomable, that your own moirail would speak such untruths to your face.
"Have you seen him? You can't just do awful things for someone you've never even met. I can't let you. I won't let you." He's breathing hard, and when he squeezes his eyes shut you know he's trying not to cry. You've seen this look before. "I'm sorry," he says. "I fucked up. I failed you. I'm sorry." He doesn't realize this has nothing to do with him, doesn't realize how far out of his depth he is. He thinks he could end you and it would be a just death, thinks the raw psionic power he was hatched with could best what you have attained over the course of this game.
Your physical body may be useless in this moment, held in place by the thinkpan of someone who is as familiar with your weaknesses as you are his, but your mind is sharper than ever. He of all trolls should know better than to try to stop you while leaving it untouched.
Your moirail realizes his mistake too late.
"Kurloz, don't--" he starts, then starts screaming. Your rage cuts down into the recesses of his thinkpan, leaving deep fissures throughout. His psionics fade into nothing, dropping you to the ground without ceremony.
When he falls silent you pull your mind away. Exhausted, you sink to the ground in front of his twitching form. His eyes are open but unseeing, as yellow as they would have been had he never been granted psionic power.
You are glad he remains among the living for now. You don't wish him to leave your side, not while there is still much work to be done before the end.
*
Mituna whimpers in his sleep.
HUSH, PALEST BROTHER. REST. The effort needed to impress these words upon him only intensifies your growing pan-ache. But no matter, you are used to pain. You can keep it close and smile and no one will take notice.
"What'd'you do Krrz?" he asks, slurring the sentence out without bothering to look up.
IT IS NONE OF YOUR CONCERN.
"But... You... hurt me?"
You don't reply.
"You did, you shhhhit. Fuck you fuck you fuck you." His voice rises in pitch and he clumsily slams his fist into the ground. You grab it, holding his arm still. This will not do. You press yourself back into his mind, trying to smooth over his anger. You cannot lose him. You will not lose him.
EVERYTHING IS FINE, you tell him, watching the purple glow of his eyes, mirror image to the glow of your own. DO NOT FRET, HEIR. THERE IS NOTHING THAT SHOULD MAKE YOU WORRY.
"Okay," he says. You reach out to wipe the tears from his face and he leans into your touch. What you have broken cannot be fixed, but you can at least ease the anxiety that has plagued him for sweeps. Using the mental gifts that are your hatchright you can make him forget he ever worried over the fate of yourself and your mutual acquaintances, make him forget he ever had reason to suspect you of malice.
Using your powers like this is forbidden on Beforus. They are only meant for assistance. This is taught in the earliest of schoolfeedings.
There was a blueblood living near your coastal abode who disregarded what was impressed upon him by his elders, who used his power of persuasion to coerce those around him into doing destructive things. He was caught before long, sent to a reeducation camp somewhere inland. None of those residing in the neighboring villages dared speak his name after that, describing his crimes only in whispers when they thought no other troll would overhear.
If the others discovered what you had done they would speak of you in much the same way. Perhaps they wouldn't speak of you at all. As Mituna's moirail it is your duty to ensure he does not come to harm, and harm is what you have engineered. You don't expect the heathens to comprehend your reasoning.
When he awakens again he is confused, unsure of where to direct the frustration he feels toward his current condition. You take care of him as well as you can, relieving him of his anger when it gets too great, though that is a challenge for he still possesses the mental strength to fight off your mind unknowingly.
You derive no pleasure from having done him harm. You are not that blueblood from the Coast; you would never hurt without meaning. What you've done to your moirail is a necessary sacrifice, what had to be done to further your Lord's cause. It will all be worth it in the end.
*
In death, you can finally see that end coming. Your Lord is almost here; in fact, he is already here, plowing through bubbles far from where you are situated.
Meulin has proven herself most helpful in gathering the necessary materials to appease the Angel and the Bard (though you are well aware of your many sins and transgressions and would be unsurprised if they never warmed to your presence). Her mind is soft, pliable, willing. Your friendship makes this easy and the fact that Beforus is long-destroyed makes breaking unwritten law less of a weight on your conscience.
You might feel some conflict at betraying the trust you feel from her if she didn't commit herself so wholeheartedly to your cause with such little coercion. She always enjoyed your sermons, before, and through this you can provide her with the rest of the Holy Teachings, locked safe away in a corner of her pan for the night when the end comes.
You want her to go willingly. You want the same for Mituna though you know he will refuse. The fight that still exists in his ruined mind gives you a sense of pride. Your moirail will break for no one, stubborn as he is. Alongside your pride, though, is disappointment that you could never convince him of the truth.
"Where were you?" he asks every time you pay a visit to the areas he spends most of his time. He suspects much, though he is unable to sense the machinations long in play or the fate that lies ahead for him and the others.
You shake your head.
"Fucking bulgesucker, you never tell me anything. I'm supposed to be your moirail."
You smile at him. It is for his own protection that you reveal nothing. There is no need to bring unhappiness to his last nights, after all.