Work Text:
She had come to him, encouraged him to believe her falsehood because he'd been living one his entire life. He was already open to the disease. The lying disease of hope. She tried to fill him full of hope just as she filled the people of Spira with the same – but Seymour knew the signs.
She would banish him to the Farplane as easily as his father had banished him to Baaj with the "best intentions, for the good of Spira." The marriage proposal she'd finally accepted was for every bit of the same.
No one believed his vision of how things should change. The good of Spira belonged to Sin, the only entity truly with the people in mind. The spiral done correctly, with death at the helm - the only absolute release. Seymour stole his religion from the very worst cuts of Yevon so that he, by comparison, would be the very best. He was the infidel who defied the very deity he served, to insert himself into Yevon's place and become the infinite answer to finite suffering.
There are a great many things those in power fear; some are created in the mind, paranoias come to life, some are the what-if's and crossroads, the ones he could trust and the endlessly more he could not. Yuna was not one of the former, and he could smell it on her the day they brought her to him with the news she'd accepted his proposal.
He could smell it on her now, on the eve of their wedding, as he stretched out beside her bare body on her future bridal bed.
"I am as keen to hidden agendas as I am to the Farplane, my fiancée. Your decision to accept me is not without lies." He drags his nail under her chin. "Your eyes burned when you killed me. They burned as they burn now, against me." He shivers with delight. "It thrills me to see you so…aroused."
Though claws are a Guado characteristic, on Seymour they seem to particularly suit him. He is just that way; with a flick of the wrist he could end Yuna's life. Everything about him is long and spindly, including his ideas of such power. A snap of the fingers or a well-placed word could destroy all a person owned. He would contribute to the great Spiral. He would become the Spiral. Not simply a part of the whole, but the whole itself.
"You are envied by Gagazet itself, Yuna," Seymour says in his sticky utterance. His voice clings like cobwebs to everyone he meets. "For the holy mountain has centuries of feet upon its face – you have been tread upon by no one." He walks his claws down the inside of her arm, a five-legged spider with razor-sharp edges. "Except me."
His claws clack when they hit together, a scurrying sort of noise, like thousands of insects on a wooden floor. His claws crawl just the same: up and down they nip, taste and explore her skin.
Yuna says nothing, for she realized long ago that any sound she makes whets his appetite. She has agreed to be his bride for the good of Spira. She has already resolved to give her life for the Calm. There is no price she will not pay for that end - she has already paid her entire life forward. In that respect, there is nothing she will not endure on her quest to Send Seymour – a mission she has deemed a necessary part of her journey. Now, without the protection, without the pomp and circumstance of her Summoner's robes, she is simply a tiny woman laid bare for this sadist to devour. This is a means to her end, just as Seymour sees her as a means to his.
He loves that she will not speak, that stubborn will every bit as beautiful as she is. A horrid laugh leaves his throat and he walks his claws along her collarbone, then down the side of her bare breast. He marks her body in paper thin trails of blood – for this night he is no Maester, but a cartographer. She is the virgin territory he has set out to explore.
He swirls his index finger around her belly button. "This is where we begin, my love." He spirals his claw out, red swirls upon her skin until he reaches her hips. If she is the unmarred snow her hips are the rounded hills he sleds down, ten tracks wringing a fluttering heat from the pit of his stomach. His grey eyes gleam like a child's as he climbs to the top of her hills and sleds down again, over and over until he is breathless.
A word? No, a shudder her lungs cannot control.
"You will never heal from me, Yuna. Our fates have seen it so." His breath steals under her skin, veining out in streaks of blue beneath the snow of of Seymour's new playground. "As Sin I will free so many from their suffering, just as I will free you from your suffering now. Do you suffer now, Yuna? Is this the price to pay for Spira's happiness?" He isn't kind. He isn't considerate. He affords her the same leniency she bestowed upon him when she killed him. "When you receive me, I will become Spira's savior. I will become the only answer." His tongue slithers between his teeth and unceremoniously into her mouth, which is dry and unresponsive to his kiss. Despite the horror on her skin it is the most uncomfortable thing he's done all evening. It feels alive and wet, a wriggling alien extension – a human tongue. This disorients her more than anything. Despite being a half-breed there is nothing human about him and this – thing – feels cold and curious. He plunges it past her lips and teeth again and feels her body stiffen. No matter her will, her body will betray what her throat refuses. "When you receive me," he repeats, as soft as spun cotton. "You will receive me." He casts a healthy dose of Cura to stop the worst of the bleeding, then digs one claw into the soft meat of her inner thigh.
Still she makes no sound, even when he abandons her outer landscape to explore the depths of her inner caverns. "You will die with me inside you, my love," he hisses. His hand swallows her small neck; the claws fold over each other behind her head. "Your walls will be lined with my marks, and my marks alone." He heals her again to prolong the ritual of her scarification. Any resistance is met without mercy. His claws crawl inside her - the light of her insides dims with his darkness.