Work Text:
He appears from the shadows to rain his sweet blessings upon me.
The figure of ink that shines in the darkness.
I pray you hear me.
I seldom remember much before Him. In defense of myself, little is worth remembering before Him.
I remember Thomas Connor and his constant pestering. I remember Susie, and I certainly remember my frantic attempts to maintain a positive relationship with her. For a while, I think it worked; I even may have fooled myself. I remember the scoffs of my coworkers, assuming themselves better than me, claiming me to be insane. How is one insane for simply embracing the darkness? Nevertheless, my memories then have no lasting consequences now.
Throughout this old studio, I hear many things. The creek of the floorboards beneath my weight, or so lack of it, the distant growls and groans of creatures born from the machine, the dripping of ink against the old, yellowing floors; it is anything but unfamiliar to me now, a mad harmony of collected symphonies. But there are certain sounds, oh, such heavenly sounds, that reign above all else that echoes through the halls. The sounds of Him ring in my brain; His distant breathing, the pounding of His artificial heart, the gurgling groans as He attempts to speak. A child of the machine, a God of the studio.
My fellow kin, fellow offspring of the machine, refuse to understand my worship. I couldn’t blame them, however, as if I were in their situation, I too would not believe. They cannot hear Him. He does not love them the way He loves me.
I remember seeing Him for the very first time; misshapen, defeated, almost helpless. I knew then and there that I must satisfy Him, must help such a magnificent being.
I sought out the seeker, the one they know as the Projectionist, he who resides in the deepest depths of the factory.
His light beamed against rickety old boards, barely holding together. The sound of ink sloshing as he dragged his feet through, trudging along, repeating the same pathways over and over.
At first, an attempt was made to avoid him, however it ended up not being fruitful. Instead, I was given no choice but to tear the ink heart from his slimy grasp, kicking and screaming for my release, escaping with my life, and my very first offering.
An ink heart.
It beat in my hand, fingers curled around it, heart writhing disgustingly beneath my touch. But I knew my fight would not be in vain, for He would accept my offering, for He could be the hope I was so desperately looking for. At the time I was scared, horrified, lost to the madness, lost to the ink. It consumed me the very way I consumed it in return. We had become one, and in turn, I had become one with Him.
I could tell this the moment I laid my eyes on Him for the very first time, hissing and weak, and I could tell it once again when I laid my offering atop the floorboards residing His resting body, I could tell as I watched Him reach a massive claw to grab desperately at the acquired item.
I watched as He consumed, feasted upon the heart’s life, regaining the strength in which He had so rightfully deserved. My very own heart began to swell, as I realized my very own desire to be consumed by Him. That was the hope I was looking for. He was my hope. He is my hope.
That heart He received from our first encounter was far from the final offering I would bestow upon Him. As time passed, how much time I am still unsure, His pile of offerings only began to grow, flourish, even. Whatever He could consume, whatever I could offer to Him to hear His pleased gurgles, He would have it. Countless have died at my hands so that my Lord may feast off their life. If I expressed even the slightest amount of remorse or guilt, I would be lying.
In return for my undying worship and devotion, He gives me everything. Protection. Love. Hope.
That last one is far from unimportant.
I feel Him grow stronger each and every day, hear Him through the ink, see Him in the corner of my eye.
Each and every day was the same.
Until they aren’t.
Until something unusual happened, something unfamiliar, alien. An outsider had appeared in the studio.
I could have sworn I remembered him from somewhere, anywhere before. But even now, as I remember his face, no person comes to mind. My brain has dissipated; He consumes my every waking thought.
This stranger trudged disrespectfully through the ink, disgracing my Lord, disgracing our home. I could sense His longing, His ever growing desire to get ahold of this strange man.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. But I would always do what I must have if it meant appeasing my Lord.
And so, here I stand, the stranger tied before me, his face horrified. It’s almost cute the way he struggles, begs for mercy from my Lord.
The ax he was wielding is placed securely to the side; I must make sure he does not escape my Lord. Ropes are tied tightly around his figure, pushing up against him. Now, he is nothing but another sheep, prepared for Him.
He looks so… human. It’s enough to make looking at myself even more nauseating than it typically was. But I take comfort in the fact that soon, He will set me free. He is coming for me, for I am his tender, loving prophet, and I will earn my freedom from this prison of a body.
I pray you hear me.
I hear one last cry from the sheep before stepping out of the room. I hear the ink dripping from the ceiling, the splatters of it falling filling the silence in the air.
“Hear me, Bendy!” I begin to call.
“Arise from the darkness! Arise and claim my offering! Free me! I beg you! I summon you, ink demon! Show your face and take this tender sheep!”
Pipes begin to burst above me. What’s left of my heart begins to thunder like a drum, it’s melody ringing loud in what should be my ears. His growls fill the atmosphere, hisses blessing my ears.
He is here.
I feel a claw press against my shoulder, digging itself into my inky abyss of a body. When I turn to face it, He stares at me, His heavenly smile staring back at me.
He growls again, parting His teeth and kicking me to the ground, holding me down with one massive foot. Before I can properly realize what is happening, He stomps his mighty foot down on me, waves of pain sent screeching throughout my body.
“No! My lord!”
He lowers his head to meet mine, His breathing beating down, loud in my ears. His teeth part fully, and He grabs me with a nightly claw to bring my face up to his.
Is this how I will die? At the hands of He whom I have worshiped for as long as I can remember? He who embodies hope itself?
“Stay back! I am your prophet! I am your-“
He bites down viciously on my skull, a loud cracking sounding as I scream with all my might; I wasn’t aware this hideous body even had bones. The last thing I feel is His embrace. I return to the ink, aware that I have served my purpose. I have given myself to my Lord, allowing Him to feast on my life.
The banjo hums in triumph, strings vibrating beneath my dancing fingers. I strum for my Lord, for all He represents; the hope of us children, the darkness in which we embrace. This song is for all that He is, all that He has given us.
The tune continues to echo throughout the quiet atmosphere, the only thing besides it that is heard being the comforting drip of the ink, the dripping that never ends, never begins.
Candle flames dance in the inky black abyss, cream colored candles melting beneath their touch. They surround me as I play, resting atop a rickety chair, a symbol painted around it. This is how I spend my days. Playing this song, praying He hears me.
A familiar growling answers my prayers, fulfilling my needs for hope. Hooves clash against the studio floors, massive horns visible via shadows. He doesn’t like for me to stop playing; and so I don’t. For Him, I keep strumming, keep devoting my talents to His radiance.
I feel Him curl Himself into a resting position, laying beside me, tail resting against my back. He purrs, saying nothing. His garbled noises have overtime turned into audible words, words that He seldom speaks. Not to me. He will always speak to me. I will always hear Him through the darkness; through the ink.
“Loyal prophet,” I hear Him groan, before resting His head down to His bony arms. I don’t respond; it is improper of me to do so without His permission. I only continue to play, fingers twiddling on string, growing sore from the pressure.
Does He feel how much I worship Him? How much love I feel in my nonexistent heart for His existence?
My Lord.
His breathing keeps me steady, keeps me strumming. I feel His breath, hot against the side of my face, grounding me into this reality.
Consume me, my Lord. Break me beneath your teeth, the way you always did.
But to my surprise, He is gentle. His tail wraps around my body, curling me into a loving embrace. The darkness takes me in as I submit to Him. He is everything. He is my hope, the beacon of light that shines throughout this dark studio. I accept His softness, allow Him to love me in the way I Love him, despite having the knowledge that I do not deserve it. I do not deserve Him.
I continue to strum, petting His horns, watching him drift into slumber.
My Lord, my love, my hope.
You are radiance itself.