Categories > Games > Castlevania > The Seeds We've Sown
The Seeds We've Sown
Chapter 5
Keening
He'd asked for water, no food, no pain medicine, no nothing save a sip. She'd given him some medicine anyway, Tylenol, but it was something and that soothed her conscious. So he sipped, lounged in her couch, and took the whole of it in his sprawl. Proving to be the perfect juxtapose, she sat on her chair's very edge, back ram rod stiff, muscles neatly knotting from tension. Eyes half closed, he studied her and then set the water to jiggling with the roll of his wrist.
Impressive really, considering he was drinking form a clunky mug. Another sip, and he set his repast done, study done he struggled for sitting and flopped instead.
"Damn, fluffy couch anyone?"
She almost smiled, might have, save she spied the whip on the floor. What it brought to mind (wounds and healing and hell altogether, a curious combination.) stilled the gesture. Following her eyes, with a twist and half rise, he quieted as well. But then, if one believed his delusional ramblings, he and that whip had quite the history.
"So… how've you been? Moving on and all that?" He drawled, turning away from the broken whip with the barest of shudders to give away what he was thinking about.
"I've been busy, working." And though mundane to its core, she carried on. "Got a new job... Moved a few times."
Moved away from her old haunts, away from him, from the potential of ever running into him. Those sentiments didn't have to be worded; her tone affirmed and confirmed her feelings. As did her glare at statement's end. Looking hurt, he made another go at sitting, and though he was slouched horrible he was upright.
"Really Doc. I didn't think we'd been getting along so badly. Most of your ancestors were trying to stake me and whip me to pieces by now. And here we are, just talking. I thought I was making some headway towards being civil and all."
She sighed, and he waited for whatever enlightening thing she had to offer. When he didn't see what he was doing (in actuality, at that very moment he was bent over. Fetching his glass, one straighten –and near fumble later-
There was something wrong with his hands, he moved as if there was something wrong with-,
rebellious thought squelched, she swallowed.
- And he was taking another draw, and when she was sure he'd never see she decided to enlighten him. Once and for all.
"Look…" Nominatives tripped her up, what would she call this man, whose name she'd never learned?
"Slogra." He prompted, reinforcing his dementia with a broken bitter smile.
"Yes... well…" She studied the walls, books books everywhere but not a painting or window to speak, still she refused to look at him. "It's nothing personal, but I… I don't want this."
A click, he'd found the nightstand set by the couches arm by the sound. Glass in place he stirred, and she dared a glance. He was the stiff backed one now, stiff backed and glowering.
"You're telling me, months and months in that hell hole, all for the sake of arranging to meet you… You still don't believe? Never mind what I've shown you? What I did?"
"You're insane." She gentled the announcement, and he raised an eyebrow at that softness.
"Precog." He spat the word, the rest took on a sneering drawl. As he continued he swung one leg over the other, ankle bouncing a restless tune on nothing. "Drives most mad, most humans mad I'll admit. I've dodged that bullet thanks to what I am little lady and the Sights not that far reaching that it's gunna unhinge me tomorrow night… I only see matters of death, relating to death, twelve hours ahead at most. That's not a guarantee I'm gunna snap."
"Snapped, past tense."
To her correction he snarled. "Belmont, you really are a mess, aren't you? What's it gunna take? A midnight tour of some horrors? A "Meet the werewolf pack next full moon" session?"
Silence, she looked at him, expression so open, soft, sad. He snorted, softened his snarl at her genuine mercy, and looked away. Down and back, to be exact, he stared at the threaded whip, his bane, ages back.
"Stop looking at me like I'm a lost Warg pup, alright?"
"You need help…"
"Fat lot of good that institute did. They wanted to off me, and if I go to anyone for "help"," Quotations were supplied courtesy of four wiggling fore fingers, two per hand. "they'll just lock me up where I started."
"Well, if it's any consolation…" She offered weakly, wondering what he was staring at. Why the leather held such fascination for him. His blue eyes were tracing out it's fraying, reading something amongst the coils and tears. "The fact that you admit you have a problem means all isn't lost."
"Tell me," blue eyes flicked up, met hers. Save they weren't blue, not anymore, but a deep, pit, black. "Do whips normally scald people down to the bones, like yours did to me?"
Silence. Platitudes, condolences, assurances, all died on her lips. She recoiled, catching the change at last. All her efforts to "help" were felled by logic she couldn't dispute. Logic faltered before a revelation that lingered, partial reveled.
He smirked, fanglike tooth bared in the gesture.
"Thought not."
XXX
What do you believe in? What you can weigh, measure, scoop in a cup and pour into some beaker somewhere? Apply flame, and change, notate, and insta-miracle. That's your faith, the faith of the tangible. The senses your scripture, your body divine (and unassailable save by time, you haven't figured time, save it's inevitable, but your trying to surpass it, watching your diet, taking those herbal junk teas…) and nothing exists for you beyond you and what concerns you.
Grandfather once said that faith without God was selfish. But then he'd backtrack, and say that God wasn't what they thought. Not the Catholics version of Him, or all the varying branches of Christianity, had gotten Him right.
"They'd failed, somewhere along the line. To capture Him. His decrees. By encasing Him in mortal words (for the languages changed, did they ever, bloody history showed why) by casting Him in mortal images, we've lost something along the way."
A book, black bound, generously embellished with blood. Shed blood, lost blood, accident from scrapes and tumbles, it's loss was all the same, it's gathering on the edges, in form of smears was as universal as the substance was itself… She flipped open the pages before patient black eyes.
She hadn't thrown it out yet, hadn't burned it. Hadn't thrown him out yet, hadn't driven him out with threat from the whip (which surely would have burned). Her "good guy/gal" impulses, so the Devil had teased.
"The back, one of the later entries…" He advised.
Still, she lingered, about halfway in, and he'd leaned over her shoulder to better see why. She was taking the couch, his place. The exchange had been gentle; he'd lead her along, holding one of her shaking hands in two of his own. He'd coaxed her to stand with tears in her eyes, and shakes to her steps, coaxed her from chair to couch and with a push had put her in her place. Content she wasn't going to fall off, he loomed behind her, chin on her head. Hands on her shoulders, steadying, nails lightly scraping despite her robe.
"Ah... an older picture… A sketch really does add a few pounds…"
Mostly skeleton, partially bird and lizard, wholly nightmare. Such he identified with with a proud smile. It was a profile drawing done in shaking hands. The description was mere rambling. Still the title matched her present companions name... What this mad man insisted he be called.
She held onto sanity with fisted hands, refusing to let go.
"Turn the pages."
When she couldn't he slipped his hands over hers, and turned them for her.
"Ah, here we are!"
His hands stilled, hers did not. Looking down, though it was lines on parchment, a picture with text and nothing to be afraid of, her hands started to shake, badly now. The book nearly tumbled from her lap.
"Grandfather…"
Bound on the written word, he didn't turn. Rather the lines that made that familiar form were quite busy rearranging themselves. One step, another, he was walking along a plain (his limp in full attendance) that stretched before him as a line. A line really, was all it was. It stretched before him, dove and rose, wove and twisted all the better to sketch out foreground and embellishing on background as he/it went along.
She went to touch him, hot long fingers wound about hers. Stopping her form touching any of that black and white forest landscape. She felt his head shake, his chin digging in just so.
No.
Some things didn't have to be said.
A man, bend over, clutching his stomach. He started as an arch just ahead, surrounded by snow. Though silent for her there surely was sound for him. For Grandfather started, spied the man and staggered forward as quickly as his limp would allow, whip dragging behind him.
The sky was a black scratch that chased itself, stars alluded to via omission. The moon was a crescent scar in the distant corner as the scene played on...
Grandfather knelt, offering a hand over the shaking man's shoulders, lips twisting into a smile she always loved best. His voice was soft, soothing, offering kindness, assurance.
You're going to be OK, where are you hurt? I can help.
Despite the bristles and dirt smears about his face, another allusion, to a hard hike and a few days without shaving she could see his mouth form the words. She started to smile. That was Grandfather, first to last.
All hints of a smile faded as the downed figure turned, twisted with a blinding smear speed, she couldn't make out much, save the edges. Claws, foot long monstrosities, flashed. Grandfather staggered back, black droplets trickling from his chest. Still low and surging the… the thing… snapped forward, teeth, muzzle, latched upon Grandfather's leg, one twist... the whip rose… It's fall was a splash of black that fled beyond the pictures parameters. Seeping down, into text and spreading far, mercifully obscuring the details of… of…
She lunged for the book, wanting to pull him up, pluck him out of a nightmare. Even though it was only his image. Hands snapped over hers, hauled her back, pinned her to the couch. Even as it began to scream and snarl… writhe. She screamed, kicked, and the book fell from her lap, landing on the floor. Still screaming, she… it… they… She was released, and her only thought, her only action was left to her was to scramble away even as he surged forward. One kick, an impact with the wall, and the screaming book flopped closed.
All was quiet. Save outside, some car alarm was blaring. A dog barked.
"Now… Well... Now you know. Your Grandpa wasn't a liar. Does that help?"
She nodded, swallowed, was almost sick.
"Don't think you'll be needing more miracles, will you, Belmont?" His humor was back, as dark and biting as ever.
She shook her head wildly, then closed her eyes. The black made her recall, she stood, raced to the bathroom to be sick. When she was better she stagger to her bedroom, looked down at the bed, wished… just wished… But something beyond her, within her, made her dig in. Once the depths were breached she had enough sense left over to fumble on some real clothes and just enough strength to shuffle back into the living room.
He was there, sprawled again, glass in hand, a quick trip to her fringe had left him something orange that bubbled and fizzed like a bad alka-seltzer by product. Immersed in his repast, he didn't notice her, talked to himself to fill the quiet.
"Funny, doesn't taste like oranges…" Another sip, a grin. "But damned if it aint good… Oh, there you are. Done sicking up yet?"
"I'll remember that next time you get sick." She flopped into the nearest chair.
"Can't." He drawled, twisting about in his sprawl to better stare at her. "Pact with
Death, I spread plague, death, despair, and thus am exempt from it."
Damn him for his sing songing it. She moaned, closed her eyes, and while the black recalled to her of… There was nothing left to come up, so she was spared another mad dash to the bathroom.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why him, why, you, why me?"
"Him…" Black eyes closed, his tongue clicked in his mouth. Meditations done, those pits cracked open, seeming a might sunken. "Him, because he couldn't say no. Wouldn't say no. Age and pain and the like aside. He wouldn't leave anyone behind for anything, even if it was just taking on rabid beasties on the fringe of the world he was a Belmont. As for you... well it's the same reason. You're a Belmont. It's expected."
"I… I don't want this…" She waved to whip, to book (still fallen, mercifully shut) to him. "I... I'm just a bloody shrink, nothing else!"
"A shrink with connections." A sip, a sigh, bubbles crackles along his tongue, adding a rasp to his voice. "Granted, you didn't pick them, the name's yours though, and so's the curse."
"Curse?"
"You're conscience. Nothing more, nothing less." A swallow. "As for me…" He struggled to sit up, a fumbling fetch. "Orders are orders. Death's got something up his sleeve for both of us, or for your father. If you really want to say no, just say it, and I'll be nipping off to talk to your father next, that or your kids. But regardless of what you want, this century it's happening."
"What… what's happening?"
"The keening."
Chapter 5
Keening
He'd asked for water, no food, no pain medicine, no nothing save a sip. She'd given him some medicine anyway, Tylenol, but it was something and that soothed her conscious. So he sipped, lounged in her couch, and took the whole of it in his sprawl. Proving to be the perfect juxtapose, she sat on her chair's very edge, back ram rod stiff, muscles neatly knotting from tension. Eyes half closed, he studied her and then set the water to jiggling with the roll of his wrist.
Impressive really, considering he was drinking form a clunky mug. Another sip, and he set his repast done, study done he struggled for sitting and flopped instead.
"Damn, fluffy couch anyone?"
She almost smiled, might have, save she spied the whip on the floor. What it brought to mind (wounds and healing and hell altogether, a curious combination.) stilled the gesture. Following her eyes, with a twist and half rise, he quieted as well. But then, if one believed his delusional ramblings, he and that whip had quite the history.
"So… how've you been? Moving on and all that?" He drawled, turning away from the broken whip with the barest of shudders to give away what he was thinking about.
"I've been busy, working." And though mundane to its core, she carried on. "Got a new job... Moved a few times."
Moved away from her old haunts, away from him, from the potential of ever running into him. Those sentiments didn't have to be worded; her tone affirmed and confirmed her feelings. As did her glare at statement's end. Looking hurt, he made another go at sitting, and though he was slouched horrible he was upright.
"Really Doc. I didn't think we'd been getting along so badly. Most of your ancestors were trying to stake me and whip me to pieces by now. And here we are, just talking. I thought I was making some headway towards being civil and all."
She sighed, and he waited for whatever enlightening thing she had to offer. When he didn't see what he was doing (in actuality, at that very moment he was bent over. Fetching his glass, one straighten –and near fumble later-
There was something wrong with his hands, he moved as if there was something wrong with-,
rebellious thought squelched, she swallowed.
- And he was taking another draw, and when she was sure he'd never see she decided to enlighten him. Once and for all.
"Look…" Nominatives tripped her up, what would she call this man, whose name she'd never learned?
"Slogra." He prompted, reinforcing his dementia with a broken bitter smile.
"Yes... well…" She studied the walls, books books everywhere but not a painting or window to speak, still she refused to look at him. "It's nothing personal, but I… I don't want this."
A click, he'd found the nightstand set by the couches arm by the sound. Glass in place he stirred, and she dared a glance. He was the stiff backed one now, stiff backed and glowering.
"You're telling me, months and months in that hell hole, all for the sake of arranging to meet you… You still don't believe? Never mind what I've shown you? What I did?"
"You're insane." She gentled the announcement, and he raised an eyebrow at that softness.
"Precog." He spat the word, the rest took on a sneering drawl. As he continued he swung one leg over the other, ankle bouncing a restless tune on nothing. "Drives most mad, most humans mad I'll admit. I've dodged that bullet thanks to what I am little lady and the Sights not that far reaching that it's gunna unhinge me tomorrow night… I only see matters of death, relating to death, twelve hours ahead at most. That's not a guarantee I'm gunna snap."
"Snapped, past tense."
To her correction he snarled. "Belmont, you really are a mess, aren't you? What's it gunna take? A midnight tour of some horrors? A "Meet the werewolf pack next full moon" session?"
Silence, she looked at him, expression so open, soft, sad. He snorted, softened his snarl at her genuine mercy, and looked away. Down and back, to be exact, he stared at the threaded whip, his bane, ages back.
"Stop looking at me like I'm a lost Warg pup, alright?"
"You need help…"
"Fat lot of good that institute did. They wanted to off me, and if I go to anyone for "help"," Quotations were supplied courtesy of four wiggling fore fingers, two per hand. "they'll just lock me up where I started."
"Well, if it's any consolation…" She offered weakly, wondering what he was staring at. Why the leather held such fascination for him. His blue eyes were tracing out it's fraying, reading something amongst the coils and tears. "The fact that you admit you have a problem means all isn't lost."
"Tell me," blue eyes flicked up, met hers. Save they weren't blue, not anymore, but a deep, pit, black. "Do whips normally scald people down to the bones, like yours did to me?"
Silence. Platitudes, condolences, assurances, all died on her lips. She recoiled, catching the change at last. All her efforts to "help" were felled by logic she couldn't dispute. Logic faltered before a revelation that lingered, partial reveled.
He smirked, fanglike tooth bared in the gesture.
"Thought not."
XXX
What do you believe in? What you can weigh, measure, scoop in a cup and pour into some beaker somewhere? Apply flame, and change, notate, and insta-miracle. That's your faith, the faith of the tangible. The senses your scripture, your body divine (and unassailable save by time, you haven't figured time, save it's inevitable, but your trying to surpass it, watching your diet, taking those herbal junk teas…) and nothing exists for you beyond you and what concerns you.
Grandfather once said that faith without God was selfish. But then he'd backtrack, and say that God wasn't what they thought. Not the Catholics version of Him, or all the varying branches of Christianity, had gotten Him right.
"They'd failed, somewhere along the line. To capture Him. His decrees. By encasing Him in mortal words (for the languages changed, did they ever, bloody history showed why) by casting Him in mortal images, we've lost something along the way."
A book, black bound, generously embellished with blood. Shed blood, lost blood, accident from scrapes and tumbles, it's loss was all the same, it's gathering on the edges, in form of smears was as universal as the substance was itself… She flipped open the pages before patient black eyes.
She hadn't thrown it out yet, hadn't burned it. Hadn't thrown him out yet, hadn't driven him out with threat from the whip (which surely would have burned). Her "good guy/gal" impulses, so the Devil had teased.
"The back, one of the later entries…" He advised.
Still, she lingered, about halfway in, and he'd leaned over her shoulder to better see why. She was taking the couch, his place. The exchange had been gentle; he'd lead her along, holding one of her shaking hands in two of his own. He'd coaxed her to stand with tears in her eyes, and shakes to her steps, coaxed her from chair to couch and with a push had put her in her place. Content she wasn't going to fall off, he loomed behind her, chin on her head. Hands on her shoulders, steadying, nails lightly scraping despite her robe.
"Ah... an older picture… A sketch really does add a few pounds…"
Mostly skeleton, partially bird and lizard, wholly nightmare. Such he identified with with a proud smile. It was a profile drawing done in shaking hands. The description was mere rambling. Still the title matched her present companions name... What this mad man insisted he be called.
She held onto sanity with fisted hands, refusing to let go.
"Turn the pages."
When she couldn't he slipped his hands over hers, and turned them for her.
"Ah, here we are!"
His hands stilled, hers did not. Looking down, though it was lines on parchment, a picture with text and nothing to be afraid of, her hands started to shake, badly now. The book nearly tumbled from her lap.
"Grandfather…"
Bound on the written word, he didn't turn. Rather the lines that made that familiar form were quite busy rearranging themselves. One step, another, he was walking along a plain (his limp in full attendance) that stretched before him as a line. A line really, was all it was. It stretched before him, dove and rose, wove and twisted all the better to sketch out foreground and embellishing on background as he/it went along.
She went to touch him, hot long fingers wound about hers. Stopping her form touching any of that black and white forest landscape. She felt his head shake, his chin digging in just so.
No.
Some things didn't have to be said.
A man, bend over, clutching his stomach. He started as an arch just ahead, surrounded by snow. Though silent for her there surely was sound for him. For Grandfather started, spied the man and staggered forward as quickly as his limp would allow, whip dragging behind him.
The sky was a black scratch that chased itself, stars alluded to via omission. The moon was a crescent scar in the distant corner as the scene played on...
Grandfather knelt, offering a hand over the shaking man's shoulders, lips twisting into a smile she always loved best. His voice was soft, soothing, offering kindness, assurance.
You're going to be OK, where are you hurt? I can help.
Despite the bristles and dirt smears about his face, another allusion, to a hard hike and a few days without shaving she could see his mouth form the words. She started to smile. That was Grandfather, first to last.
All hints of a smile faded as the downed figure turned, twisted with a blinding smear speed, she couldn't make out much, save the edges. Claws, foot long monstrosities, flashed. Grandfather staggered back, black droplets trickling from his chest. Still low and surging the… the thing… snapped forward, teeth, muzzle, latched upon Grandfather's leg, one twist... the whip rose… It's fall was a splash of black that fled beyond the pictures parameters. Seeping down, into text and spreading far, mercifully obscuring the details of… of…
She lunged for the book, wanting to pull him up, pluck him out of a nightmare. Even though it was only his image. Hands snapped over hers, hauled her back, pinned her to the couch. Even as it began to scream and snarl… writhe. She screamed, kicked, and the book fell from her lap, landing on the floor. Still screaming, she… it… they… She was released, and her only thought, her only action was left to her was to scramble away even as he surged forward. One kick, an impact with the wall, and the screaming book flopped closed.
All was quiet. Save outside, some car alarm was blaring. A dog barked.
"Now… Well... Now you know. Your Grandpa wasn't a liar. Does that help?"
She nodded, swallowed, was almost sick.
"Don't think you'll be needing more miracles, will you, Belmont?" His humor was back, as dark and biting as ever.
She shook her head wildly, then closed her eyes. The black made her recall, she stood, raced to the bathroom to be sick. When she was better she stagger to her bedroom, looked down at the bed, wished… just wished… But something beyond her, within her, made her dig in. Once the depths were breached she had enough sense left over to fumble on some real clothes and just enough strength to shuffle back into the living room.
He was there, sprawled again, glass in hand, a quick trip to her fringe had left him something orange that bubbled and fizzed like a bad alka-seltzer by product. Immersed in his repast, he didn't notice her, talked to himself to fill the quiet.
"Funny, doesn't taste like oranges…" Another sip, a grin. "But damned if it aint good… Oh, there you are. Done sicking up yet?"
"I'll remember that next time you get sick." She flopped into the nearest chair.
"Can't." He drawled, twisting about in his sprawl to better stare at her. "Pact with
Death, I spread plague, death, despair, and thus am exempt from it."
Damn him for his sing songing it. She moaned, closed her eyes, and while the black recalled to her of… There was nothing left to come up, so she was spared another mad dash to the bathroom.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why him, why, you, why me?"
"Him…" Black eyes closed, his tongue clicked in his mouth. Meditations done, those pits cracked open, seeming a might sunken. "Him, because he couldn't say no. Wouldn't say no. Age and pain and the like aside. He wouldn't leave anyone behind for anything, even if it was just taking on rabid beasties on the fringe of the world he was a Belmont. As for you... well it's the same reason. You're a Belmont. It's expected."
"I… I don't want this…" She waved to whip, to book (still fallen, mercifully shut) to him. "I... I'm just a bloody shrink, nothing else!"
"A shrink with connections." A sip, a sigh, bubbles crackles along his tongue, adding a rasp to his voice. "Granted, you didn't pick them, the name's yours though, and so's the curse."
"Curse?"
"You're conscience. Nothing more, nothing less." A swallow. "As for me…" He struggled to sit up, a fumbling fetch. "Orders are orders. Death's got something up his sleeve for both of us, or for your father. If you really want to say no, just say it, and I'll be nipping off to talk to your father next, that or your kids. But regardless of what you want, this century it's happening."
"What… what's happening?"
"The keening."
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