Work Text:
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
The clock is ticking away.
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
Your claws dig into the bedside table, knocking over unfinished cards and candles.
Tick
Tock
You bleed with rage. The table shatters in your grip. You do not even get the satisfaction of drawing your own blood.
Tick
Your wings flare in anger. The little nest you have constructed barely survives such an action.
Tock
It certainly does not survive you ripping yourself out. Malice drips from your form like ichor from a wound. You thought the quiet would help, the relaxation, the break. It was what everyone told you you should do. Despite every responsibility, every subversion you have to prepare and enact, despite needing to curtail the worst impulses of every player in this monstrous game. All so short sighted, all wanting to win at any cost. Oh, but your health matters, they say, you should rest, they say. You leer at the shattered table. Quite restful it seems.
Rest, why could you not find it? It should be easy. The Curve is so close, so easy to touch, yet no peace to be found, no healing, no repose to receive. Why would your home deny you such mercy? Does it not recognise you? Or, perhaps, this is because it does.
Your wings cramp. Too small. You thrash in your flesh, finding yourself alone across your oleaginous mirror. Do you recognise yourself, Mr Candlesrds? The shattering of glass against the floor of your spire alerts you, golden ichor blood staining the shards, and your claws. In the silver slivers, you see a glimpse of flesh. Too human.
Your body is wrong. Everything is wrong, this is not you, you are not you. The desire rising to excise all that does not belong. You frantically start to search through every drawer, trunk, chest, dresser, pocket, and bag. Where is it!? Spices’ stash must be here somewhere, you would not lose you, you cannot lose it. Contents are strewn across your domicile, but that jar is nowhere.
Checking another of your robes, you pull out the model of your ship. Tears stream down your face as that ever present hole in your body, in your soul, wails out. Collapsing to your knees, you clutch your head, pathetic whimpers escaping your lips. A purpose your flesh desires but cannot fulfill. Barren, a void, lacking nature. Just a runt.
Your whimpers turn into wails, your sobs into screams. But nobody comes. You are alone. His voice does not speak to you, His words do not direct or invoke. Nor do you feel the presence of His light, His loving warmth, His soothing care. Neither of Him are with you now. All you feel is the echoes of your reflections and sibling-self, violant infused hypha binding all as one, all suffering as you do. You have no help. You have no peace.
A question lingers over your, a question you cannot answer. You weep.
Who are you?