Chapter Text
Everyone deserves a pinch of love.
Prologue
He recalls the sound of shackles, the sweet smell of stagnant blood and mud, the buzzing of flies circling in the darkness, and the red aura of the regal black shadow that loomed before eyes hidden behind white masks, some bloodied, some cracked.
Moments of torture that seemed eternal. Locked in black stone cells that oozed a thick, reddish liquid, they listened to their jailer speak to them about rapture, rebirth through blood, the corruption of the sacred tree, and the ascension of the slumbering divinity. Above everything, he lectured them about love.
He claimed to bestow it. Wanting to share it with those poor souls on the verge of fainting from heat, decay, and lack of nourishment. His voice was a sweet whisper that spoke each word with tenderness. Like the ramblings of a man of undying faith. Yet, he sounded honest, despite the disbelief of the captive men.
One by one, the prisoners left their stone prison. The mighty being forced them to wear their white masks and let chance and fate choose the first by pointing his finger in the dark. He does not remember who was the first to walk through the door, the faces were indifferent to him, for they were messengers of death in anonymity. Merciful and compassionate men who liberated souls from battered vessels of flesh and blood.
Then, the screams began. They echoed through the halls of the prison, cries for help that hurt the throat until the voice was lost.
Inside the cell, trembling bodies clung to each other, wiping away tears with the backs of their hands and soothing the tremors with loving pats on the head. They prayed together like the pious men they were, atoning for the sins they had committed in the horrors of war, repenting for the thirst for blood and violence they had quenched on the wounded, the maimed, the hopeless, or anyone with a wound in their chest. They were in hell, some of the men of mercy claimed, suffering the torment of the dismal choices in their lives.
He didn't see it that way, mercy could feign cruelty, but it is an act of love so pure that ends suffering and sorrow, that allows a new beginning in another life among the sacred branches of a tree that awaited them with open arms. At least that is what the dying believed. What he mockingly called faith in salvation.
And when one of them —at last!— returned, faith in salvation became palpable.
His surgeon's uniform was soaked with blood that was not his own, his mask was deep vermilion, the liquid falling like thick threads from his chin. They didn't care, they gathered to shelter him with curiosity. The creature did not utter a word, only a heavy, slow breathing.
Beneath the alabaster mask, sterile, expressionless deep red eyes followed their movements. Something had changed in him. It was almost as if an anomaly born of torture had taken over his body. He remained static as the others tried in vain to bring him to his senses.
He unsheathed the thin edge of the dagger and tried to plunge it into them, lunging for the jugular of a fellow man, piercing it like a stinger. Crimson liquid gushed out and mingled with putrefaction. The poor man fell to the floor and drowned in his blood, an expression of genuine horror on his face.
The being, once an emissary of mercy, crawled with erratic movements to his neck and removed the alabaster mask, letting the crimson glow in his eyes gleam in the darkness. He pressed his lips to the hot wound. He kissed, sucked, and drank. Licking even the drops that spilled on the dirty floor. Sounds of pleasure escaped his mouth.
The surgeons stared in horror and ran to one end of the cell, screaming, sobbing, and praying. The shock paralyzed them — including him, so absorbed in the scene with morbid intrigue and eagerness —, and none of them drew their weapons.
The door opened, and the giant shadow dragged him away, apologizing for the disturbance. The surgeon, beast, or whatever he was now, shrieked but remained motionless as the regal being spoke tenderly to him. He obeyed, raising his hands in veneration, kissing his feet, and uttering guttural growls.
The others, confused, clouded by fear, and on the verge of fainting, stared at the scene. So weak and unable to face their jailer. They may have been locked up for hours, days, weeks, or months, it no longer mattered. They trembled and hid their faces behind their hands when the door opened again, praying that it would not be their turn.
And the moment came.
A large, black, bony hand with a sharp claw that resembled a dagger pointed at his white mask. He swallowed and took a step forward. The alabaster concealed his distorted lips in a nervous smile, but not the trembling of his body. The figure beckoned him to follow.
In an impulse to stay alive, he ran to the door, through it, and into a dark corridor, using what little strength he had left to try to escape. He felt a tug, his body grew heavy, and two rings the color of blood encircled his chest, restricting his breathing. He bit his lip hard and fell to the ground, at least he had tried. The monstrous hand tenderly caressed the veil on his head, and the lack of air sent him to sleep, suspended between life and death.
He dreamed of a battlefield bathed in the golden rays of the Erdtree's branches. He walked through it, stepping over small leaves, bones, and torn flesh. A hand grabbed his ankle, he turned and his gaze met a young man with dark, deep circles under his eyes. A face that seemed strangely familiar, but he couldn't remember who it was. Someone had inflicted a large wound on his chest, a bloody hole instead of a heart. Please have mercy on me, pious man! He begged in a venomous voice that sounded strangely familiar.
He knelt, clenched the dagger, and before plunging it in...
His naked body lay kneeling in sweat, his eyes wide as he felt something brush viciously against his wrists: thorny vines as red as the liquid they drew. Piercing, the heat of agony coursed through his panting body.
Still wrapped in discomfort, he managed to clasp his hands in a prayer. Flesh tore, twitching at the touch of sharp thorns, long and thin like mercy knives. Drops fell, little vermilion beads staining the marble, forming figures that danced until they found their way into the crevices.
The tip of a claw digging into his chin made him raise his gaze. His jailer had a bright red eye and a chaos of sharp black horns on his head and body.
Hundreds of white masks watched him from a mound of corpses that already began to rot. And their jailer, who spoke in a serene voice, seemed to ignore the pain he had caused them. He suddenly snapped one of its claws, no, a horn . A black, deformed horn that had developed in the place of a finger.
A cascade formed over the vein of his wrist and the river, oh, the river of blood, fell like a stream and kissed his forehead, then made its way into his nostrils and between his lips. It drowned out any screams and stifled ragged inhalations. Then, it flowed down to his chin, staining his neck and collarbone. The river forked down to his genitals, thighs, and knees, then poured under his legs.
He drank as much as he could. The taste was sweet, salty, and metallic. Reminiscent of a lover's kisses, semen, and the scrape of a dagger's blade. He tasted rose extract, rot, wine, vinegar, awakening, and death. Its warmth engulfed his insides, suffocating his lungs. The thick liquid mixed with his saliva, nasal secretions, the acid of his stomach, his seed, and plasma until they became one.
Eyes wide open, overwhelmed by an unspeakable feeling. He longed to weep, tears not coming from his eyes, only blood.
Golden irises that morphed to crimson and returned to their yellowish color, volatile with every blink. Gold. Crimson. Gold. Crimson. Don't lose your mind, don't die . He repeated in his mind, he screamed but could not hear himself. His voice was lost.
He heard voices circling the room, an echo of laughter among the marble pillars and statues. Thousands of gloved hands touched his body, fiddling with the blood spilled on his chest and crotch, brushing it until no corner was left unsullied. Icy porcelain lips kissed his mouth, his chest, his genitals.
He regained his vision, and the deceased men, concealed behind their masks, gazed at him with curiosity. They extended their hands. His arms were sore and bleeding, the vines bloomed with red rose buds. Don't lose your mind.
The white masks moved forward, their eyes fixed upon him. He felt a dagger, the same weapon he had previously used to pierce the bodies of dying men on the battlefields. The blade repeatedly punctured his flesh. His new blood was searing, wounds releasing smoke.
More daggers, stabbing again, and again, and again. They stabbed his eyes, his tongue, his neck, his heart, his chest, his testicles. Until there was no more blood, only the scent of roses.
The vines kept him from falling, his head only lowered until he slowly lost consciousness, drowned by the pain, so slow and piercing that it enveloped him in the horror of disappearing, of becoming another in the pile of corpses, of roses blooming from his heart.
The claw forced him to raise his face again. Before disappearing, his bleeding eyes stared at his jailer and he realized an absolute truth: He was strikingly beautiful, an angel of twisted horns and black fangs.
Feeling a nausea that he could not control, he vomited blood and pus. Forgive me. He tried to utter.
And then, everything went black.
Small kicks in his sides made him open his eyes and move slowly, his companions retreating, victims of fear. His body was numb from the dried blood on his skin and clothes. He looked at his hands, touched his stomach, where he had been stabbed, and felt no discomfort. He gave a puzzled look to the others and stood up calmly, staggering on his legs, leaning against the dirty wall.
Inside he felt a strange warmth, a flame running through his body. His mouth was dry, hunger growing inside him. He drew closer until he felt his breath hot and heaving with uncertainty.
It's me. It's me, Varré.
Only a few remained, and he was a glimmer of hope, the last one. The faith of salvation.
Every time the door opened with a creak that resounded among the stones and that angel pointed his finger and chose, he had the impulse to bow, to be observed by such a beautiful being.
He approached the one that was chosen after him, gave him a kiss on the forehead, begging him not to be afraid. It is painful, yet you're going to live. Nothing will happen to you, believe me, I've been through this. Provoking a false sense of tranquility. The man advanced with confident steps, certain of his safety.
He did not return.
The door opened again. It will be quick, don't be afraid, let your body be wrapped in flowers . With a little pat on the shoulder, the defeated man walked to the threshold of the door, which closed with a loud sound.
He did not return.
The door opened, again. He kissed the forehead, again. I believe in you. You will live. You will feel anew. Your eyes will be opened. He stroked the dirty veil over his head and the man nodded.
He did not return either.
In the eternal darkness, accompanied by screams, distant pleas, and the prayers of his three remaining cellmates, he looked again at his arms, unmarked by wounds or scars. He gently ran his fingertips over his body, hoping to find traces of agony, but felt only exhaustion.
The door creaked again. Sitting on the cold stone, he turned to face the horned figure, the dim light of the corridor hitting the small gold ornaments on his tunic, which made a faint sound with each movement.
The angel entered the cell, staining his feet with the stagnant and rotten blood that clung to the stone, and walked up to him. The black figure placed a claw on his chin, the gesture send shivers through his entire body. A glance was exchanged between them, it reminded him of the blood trickling down his body. His skin crawled. At the sight of him, he felt terror, respect, and a strange comfort that spread through his whole being and made his blood rush. He wanted to say something but his parched lips were paralyzed. You are beautiful.
Your eyes. Your eyes have not changed. He heard him murmur. His voice caused a sparkle of electricity to run down his spine.
The angel withdrew the finger on his chin and turned his gaze to the other side of the cell, the two remaining men wept, knelt, and pleaded with their heads down, waiting for clemency.
He then spoke again.
Give them mercy.
The words brought an ecstasy he thought was dead. He rose, his cellmates still shouting, the prayers now directed at him. Please, no. Please, let us go. Please, you're like a brother to me. He walked until he felt the angel's silken robe brush against his arm and stopped. His whole body trembled, a mixture of excitement and fear, awed by the request.
More screams, muttered curses, kicks to the ground, and different colored gloves clinging to his boots. Please, intercede for me, for us . Their pleas went on for hours.
An adrenaline rush made him raise his head as he heard the unmistakable sound of a dagger being drawn. With their faces smeared with dirt, the two remaining men approached him cautiously. The words they spoke were steeped in the poisons of fear and resentment: What privilege do you enjoy before the Greater Will? Executioner! You must pay for our brothers!
He snorted and shrugged. He was confused as well, but he was profoundly grateful. He had been granted another day to gaze upon his angel's wings. He could proclaim that, among the vultures of the dying, he was the only one that had endured the blood rebirth.
Three blades clashed in the darkness, the sound of metal against alabaster. With each sharp cut his blood boiled, ready to spurt. His movements were swift, unlike those of his attackers, the blood rushing through his limbs giving him weightless agility. He dodged and thrust, the tip sinking into the soft flesh, piercing the breastbone.
The image of the man pleading, spitting, and bleeding to death was both enticing and inciting, a sense of intense frenzy within him. He fantasized of a black hand stroking his head, caressing every strand of his hair, which was stiff with sweat and blood. His new Lord was seeping adulatory words in his ear.
He was like a puppet, his arms and legs guided by his Lord. Eyes blinded by bliss. Mind clouded by horns and fangs. And a dagger swinging with the prodigality of a conductor moving his baton.
The battle then became a dance of rose petals that flew, brushed his mask, and fell to the ground.
Use me as your tool. I am a reborn man, one loyal to you.
He snapped back to his senses, smoke leaking from a wound on his chest. He collapsed on a bed of petals, along with the other two men. Three white masks, but only four eyes closed.
His hand dipped into the spilled blood, small ripples soaked his gloves. He licked his fingers. Metal on his taste buds activated all his senses and moaned softly, overwhelmed. What a sensation! He then lick again. He licked until he was satiated.
This rapture relaxed his body, his muscles slowly ceased to respond, and he surrendered to a deep, pleasurable stupor.
When he reopened his eyes, everything was blurry. He did not notice the beautiful starry vault, nor the delicate statues interspersed with columns of white stone stained with dried blood. In the center stood a large pedestal of bone holding a broken chrysalis. From a crack, a large hand rose, its skin charred almost to the bone.
He swallowed nervously and inhaled, his nostrils beginning to burn and sting from the smoke of the large torches lit beneath each statue. He opened his sore lips to take a breath. He coughed, and spat out blood and a thick thread of saliva.
Blood. His life had been marked by it ever since he chose the profession he loved so passionately. One so merciful as it was ruthless. Every day, his gloved hands were soaked in mud, blood, and pus. Memories of the stench of the battlefields and the delicate edge of the blade on hearts and jugulars are engraved in his mind.
When he awoke in that strange, festering stone cell with his white-faced brothers, he found that blood had another meaning.
The chrysalis seemed to be soaked in it. Its moldy walls oozing a black liquid that trickled down to the limestone floor. A strong smell of decay coming from it.
The liquid began to flood the room. From it emerged the black figure he so revered, an angel of blood and enlightenment. He shuddered at the mere sight of it, not knowing which sensation was more powerful: exhilaration or fear.
He knelt, bowed his head, and the hand on him, caressing him tenderly, stirred his heart. He let him carefully remove his veil and white mask.
Two black wings enveloped his body. He touched the feathers, soft as velvet and sharp as a razor.
I have another gift for you.
He swallowed, a lump in his throat. He wanted to thank but all that came out of his mouth was nervous babbling.
The horned figure held a mace shaped like a bouquet of vivid red roses, it was soaked in fresh blood. A symbol of love.
He picked it up, weighing it in his hands. He stroked the flowers, small cuts on his palm told him that each petal, perfectly shaped, was sharp enough to tear flesh with a simple touch.
The angel pointed to the pile of corpses; masks returned a look of disdain.
My lamb, you are the only rose that bloomed.
Thank you. He squeezed the handle of the bouquet with both hands, feeling the cold metal like a prize. He knelt and bowed his head, tears spilling over the feet of an angel.
He smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he felt loved.