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Crunching leaves grown from trees that are in forever fall. The idea that prefaced the location. Boots worn, and with a rodent jangling from her shoulder like caught lent, Little Red walks through a forest, hours before nightfall.
There is a young voice in her ear, crying things like, “waaaaaait!” or, “I don’t understand!” or, “let’s talk, please!” It’s a voice she knows she wants to protect. A voice that pumps a warm sound into her, one that feels familiar, more so than it provides familiarity. To let the voice die out, would be to forsake something that informs her of her very past, of her self. A north star that without, she might be lost.
Though, despite the voice’s cry, she does not slow her pace. One must always leave the forest before nightfall. As she runs, her boots peel up the sludge of mulch, a layer of foul smelling natural decay that will one day grow over this idea of forever fall.
Where Little Red runs, is from people that are as unfamiliar as strangers to her, but say her name as if they recognize her. For someone as lost as her, such voices bring an easy to believe peace. A lie you can get lost in without realizing you were ever in any danger. Voices that tear her self from her soul, as she is forced to watch it be molded by her very own hands into someone that is not her. It scares her, that feeling. It makes her angry, her uselessness in the face of it. So, she ignores these voices, as golden trees turn to baren winter branches. An old idea turned new by time. Night falls, and Little Red enters the house of an old, old, life.
~~~
A woman welcomes her through the door. Urging her in from the cold. This woman is a stranger to Little Red, but one that has hung the threat of a blade over her head for years. Something that her eyes recognize as a part of her life, yet remains unfamiliar to her. There is no threat here after all. Nothing soft to be lost within.
Little Red walks past paintings she does not understand, and does not care to. Old Vale elite. A school she does not recognize. A child that looks so much like what she thought the woman must have at that age, however long ago it might have been.
The centerpiece of the house is a single painting as large as the all the others put into one. It depicts a moment, a death she witnessed but does not recall. For it came on a night where spirits with hearts close to her own, had crawled through her sockets and into her soul.
A death of a man that is important to someone, much, much, younger than she is now. But after all this time, seems nonconsequential. Even on that night... She had barely thought of it again. Yet to the owner of this house, it had been everything. How jealous, Little Red was. For she knew that if she was ever to have a home that allowed such a painting, she would not know enough to depict something so grand. So, with some contempt, when the woman asks her to sit at her table, a table carved from the wood of the tumtum tree, and designed in the painful visage of Gimble Wabes, Little Red sat.
And when the woman offered her tea, one she would be mad to drink, she did not decline, so much as she ignored. And when the woman smiled at her defiance, chesired and lustful, Little Red did not flinch. And when the man she saw eaten, swung out from within an empty chair in a truly marvelous gesture, she felt no fear.
She saw the beast swallow his body whole. Saw as his flesh contorted their stomach, as he had sat living, thrashing, and whole within the beast’s hunger. The man whose flesh was meat, and soul was essence, smiled at her. She thought it must have been a brilliant smile with long white teeth. He talked, and she must have laughed, for his voice was so odd and husky compared to what she recalled. It walked towards her, mocking with arms outstretched, and she must of given it an odd look, for its limbs were so long. The woman sat still behind him, with watching eyes and postured pose. Little Red felt no fear, and knew no thought, other than, “Fine, so there his flesh is outgrabe, all the better to cut it down with.”
And so she did. Anger and Apathy is often a coin flip. Between despair, and the desire to bleed. To lay in wait, or force the world to let your rivers of crimson life run until barren. For that same misery that could demand you to apathy, can also demand you to earn the famine you crave. To prove that you were in fact up against destiny, no more and no less, and your path was always going to drain you drop by pathetic drop.
When her scythe cut through him, two pairs of eyes saw his chest unfurl. But a life did not crawl out from this defiled illusion. No, whatever soul might have been there, simply went out.
In this act, there was stillness. Little Red heaved her breaths out gasp by gasp, but did not move. She stood still, scythe behind her, in arc half swung. In this action, remained the inescapable hollow unfamiliarity that has defined her relationship with action itself for longer than she can recall. As well as a faint shimmer of rightness. Worldly correctness recognizing a practiced style she has not used for the pressure of familial eyes and duty, since before her journey started. This old practiced confidence awoke into her muscles, and something familiar felt right. There was no team nor quest, no child nor hero. There was simply the word huntress, and the practice that had earned it. A huntress, anger, and a monster she should not feel guilt or repercussion for killing. And so, she let her scythe be felt behind her, not in front like a club, but hanging back on the breeze. Just waiting for momentum to carry its sharp weight through the necks of whatever opposed it.
In this act there was stillness. As Neo witnessed what she thought was to be a monologue and victory lap turn into an unpracticed joint production. An easy kill turned into a waltz. She knew he was not back, but she did not expect to see him gone again so soon. She did not expect how witnessing his murder, by the same hands, conducted in the same manner she longer terrored mimicked reality, would not fill her with anything more than she what was already feeling. There was no change in the course or severity of her anger. But that is fine, there is still a solution. If she is not the plant waiting to collect the body of Ruby Rose, then she will do upon her something much sweeter. A suffering not from the greedy thing Neo has denied even herself, but from true replication. If she must feel as she does, then Ruby must feel it too. Until the huntress comes to the promise sat in her arms, of her very own volition.
Neopolitan arose from her chair, left the teacup at her table. And walked towards Ruby Rose. Little Red looked at her, scythe hanging tall and commanding like the crawling branches of a cracked willow tree. As if it was the body of the thing she now talks to, and the voice below it was a mere recording. This living thing said “Is that what this is really about… All this? Just because you think I killed Roman? Everything you’ve done? For all that you hate me? For all you could have been? This is the reason?”
Neo did not know what to say to that. It occurred to her, that this was the first time she had spoken to Ruby Rose. That perhaps for all she has watched her, she didn’t know this creature at all. Standing now in front of something not new, but unknown, Neo hesitated. Afront that dreadful scythe, a fear began to set in her. A primal little warning ingrained into her that whispered, ‘now is the time to run, not fight.’ One she had felt before only on trains or in floating castles.
She never wanted to fight though, she merely wanted to lie. She wanted Ruby Rose to feel exactly as she did. Nothing else would satisfy her, and so she did what she had originally prepared, before Ruby had come to her home of her own accord. And despite the fight that clearly still exists within her, The Huntress let her. The Huntress let the human soul return to its seat. Let it watch her, knowing and learning and hungry. Let it caress the cup of tea in its hands, waiting for a better time, and the Huntress prepared for whatever was next.
A champion walked out from within one of the Tumtum chairs. Adorned in gold and red. Autumn and Fall. She walked towards The Huntress, and The Huntress let her take the lead. The champion sunk her teeth into the ears of the woman she led, and let her weaves pierce through flesh and blood. Destiny tied The Huntress’s bones into disformed knots. Forced to move in a non-skeletal fashion, and shift into terrible shapes, as the bones and fate of another worked its way into her body. All the while from the distant height of the dinner table, Neo grew flush at the taste of what she saw. Jubilant flavors ran across her tongue, as Ruby Rose learned one of the three facts Neo has suffered for years now because of the girl.
It should of been me, not them.
The Huntress swung Pyrrha around by the waist, in a dance that seemed natural to even the clumsiest foot in this empty house. Her Scythe mirrored her movement just a foot behind her, caught upon the wind, the rose fluttered to its song even as the bodies paused but a beat. It cut through Pyrrha as she was placed back to the ground, as the steps demanded. Autumn turned to mulch, then to winter, and a single huntress remained.
A metal man who never wanted a heart approaches a huntress at the ball. Women who lose their partners, were never left waiting to be approached in this house. And the dance continued unbroken.
Ironwood gripped his hand around The Huntresses throat, and slammed her into the ground. His foot met her stomach, his fists her face, and his bullets her waist. He laid into her, brutal and unrelenting. Until the floor beneath The Huntress was cracked and ruined.
All through the dance, Neo watched. She felt a faint connection in the back of her brain, as it was her that brought Ironwoods fists down upon the girl. A matriarch who had designed the ballroom, the house, the decor. Who had decided which song would be played, and choreographed its very steps. It was Ironwood, and it was her who danced with Ruby. And thus, she felt every bruise and blood splattered fist, as Ruby learned the second fact Neo had suffered for years.
When you are alone, the world is cruel. It will hurt you. In the most literal and uncomplicated of ways. And you can’t do anything to stop it, when it is you that it beats upon.
After her aura was broken, and after her body was bruised enough, broken enough, and lost enough blood. Which is to say, exactly when the steps required her to. Ruby calmly stood up, held her scythe gently behind her. And with a gust of wind that hollowed the house, and a joint fluttering of petals, Ironwood was cut in two.
No longer a huntress. No longer Little Red. Someone she did not know, but who Ruby on some level loved, remained.
The final verse. Neo let herself feel the strings around her fingers, tapped them upon the table to her song. Movements that went unseen when she puppeteerd Pyrrha and Ironwood, are left out for all to see. Lest the audience grows fearful of the uncanny nature of her creations. Lest the audience forgets that the performance they see, and the voice they hear, is not life, but simple theater.
The War Machine sweeps out from within her chair. Before The Huntress can regain her breath and bearings, there is a hand on her hip. Her own calloused one is gently pried from her scythe, letting the weapon hang loose behind her, as her hand is joined by the machines own.
Ruby is led around the ballroom. In winding circles and complicated patterns designed for no other reason than to let the dancers feel lost within their own small world, and to be at the mercy of the dancer’s intimate subconscious movements. Rubys eyes looked reverently into The Puppets own. Their noses touched, their breasts pressed together as Rubys heart beat fast and full into the love of The Puppet. Neo pressed her puppet further into Ruby. Let the hand on her waist caress her sides. Neos hand grabbed hold of the puppets throat, and through it she whispered for only Ruby.
“I love you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“You feel so warm darling.”
“You don’t have to do all of that, let me take a look.”
“When this is over, I want to see your home.”
“I want to know more about you, Ruby Rose.”
“I love you.”
The song ended. Ruby leans in towards the lifeless thing for a kiss. But Neo gently puts The Puppets hand on her shoulder, and pushes against her. Ruby brings a hand to The Puppets hair, and Neo makes her puppet preen into the touch, with a gentle smile and a warm gaze. There are tears in Rubys eyes, her throat is choked and building up hiccups like a dam. Letting small ones out every few seconds, holding back the building pressure.
Neo creates a short vorpal blade in the puppets hand, and makes it smile as she brings it to its very own throat. Ruby looks on struck with fear, but does not move to stop her. Does not remove her hand from Penny's face, and remains unwilling to remove her final hand from her scythe. Neos blade cuts into nothing, but unlike before, Neo had filled this lying sight with carmine fluid. Had made it feel hot and thick. It boiled against the puppets throat, making a pleasant snicker-snack sound as it pushed past the blade, and down into Penny's chest.
Rubys eyes followed the path of this not blood. And as Penny’s body collapsed to the ground, her eyes followed its descent. And as Penny’s body disappeared into nothing, a face to be forgotten once more, Ruby's eyes, looked at nothing.
No longer Little Red. No Longer a Huntress. And no longer the person Penny had loved.
The third lesson learned. Something Neo has believed for years now. Love, is something that comes into your life but the once. A single flame to ever warm your heart. And if it ever goes out, you shall be forever cold.
Neo looked at The Thing afront her, accomplished. Her task done, and nothing but a single drink to end this night on. One final action, and then it would be over. It should taste sweet, it should fill her chest with accomplishment. But it does no such thing. And she knows why, she feels stupid that it had not occurred to her why.
She had spent years ripping Ruby from her own road, and brought her to her own. Then, in this very room, she assured that their now shared road had but one destination. Two woman alone that know three things. Two woman who know no one, not even themselves, but now each other. Alone, with a drink that will make but one. A cat chases a mouse in the rafters, both waiting to intervene. Both waiting to see who shall get to escape, and who shall be forced to remain at the end of a road, with nowhere to go.
Neo arose from her table. She clapped for a fine, fine show. And gestured despondently, for The Empty Thing to finally take her up on that tea. The creature, piloted by its scythe, moved from where it stared, and towards Neo.
The Empty Thing took the cup in claw like hands, and with but a second of hesitation, and a glance back to where their lover had just stood, drank all of it in with but a barble. It had seen her lover die once, and thinking she was dead, it had let a part of itself die with her. Once again had she seen her love cut from vorpal balde, and so thinking she was dead, drank after her.
This was the end, Neo knew. After this there would be no love, and no destination. No path and no thought that drives. She would simply be. Such knowledge made one feel… Well, as it so often is, such a feeling was decided by fates coinflip. The coin landed, and there was nothing left in Neo to feel.
The Empty Thing did not swallow. It instead took Neo into its arms, and began to dance. Neo let herself be taken, let the thorns from this things stem rake across her arms, as their bodies were pressed breast to breast. As their breaths mingled, and their hands entwined. As a single pair of scared and lost lips, hovered uncertain above the small exposure of soft neck beneath The Empty Things worn hood.
One two three, one two three, destiny sang in encore. Round, and around, then leap, than land. Limbs tangle in beautiful harmony, together but not caught. The music swells, and the house returns to how Neo remembered it for the last time. Aflame, and the start of something new. Not death, but the willing forget of who she used to be.
The Empty Thing, ever the leader, grasps at Neo's waist. They’re joined together in a waltz, moving at three fourths time through the burning oil of Neo's entire life. Tangled in constant balance. Neo is lost within the sweeping despondence before her. The steps demand they break apart. The lights dim as the dance slows. Her breaths are gasping, looking for an anchor. Something within her screams to remove herself from the dance. To think before action is taken. To see the ever changing motions from the perspective of the audience once more. She is denied such things, as The Empty Thing grabs one of her hands and holds it above her head. With blank face, Neo is swung across the floor at blistering speeds. Her sight in constant rotation of burning oil, the only memory of a girl whose name is no longer her own, and the sight of a dark burning room. The Empty Thing she created staring at her as if it knows her. As if it has say in who she is. It pulls at her body and demands her attention. The painting that was once Roman, that was once Vannille, turns to foul smelling ash. The smell of such a thing irritates her lungs, and starts a hacking fit. The swirl ends, and she is brought taught to The Empty Things chest. It’s raw strengths keeping her still, and any thoughts of removing herself from this dance are lost to the haze of smoke, and the close touch of the dancer.
As the song ends, Neo is pushed to the floor. The Empty Thing with rough determination, presses itself atop her. Forcing the feeling of joint pressure, and drinking in all that Neo offers in her absent complacency. A hand brings itself to Neo's chin, and Neo knows that it is a mercy. Heavy lips connect to the trembling mouth beneath it. The Empty Things tongue forces itself into Neo's mouth, past her teeth and intertwining with her tongue. A heavy liquid cascades into Neo's mouth. Taste overwhelming, and texture suffocating. The Empty Things tongue works the liquid down her throat, pushing and pushing. The sound of swallowing throats, gulping at something one must choke to get down, emanates from the two entwined souls. Hands grasp at sides, and pin wrists that reach futilely to a nothing neither feel as if they want.
Voices are heard by both of them. Familiar, but still unknown. One young as a child, the other too old for its profession. Two more joint in love, another that never got to be.
The Empty Thing Removes her mouth from Neo. Saliva and colorful liquid connecting the two with thick threads. The kiss, or the tea, leaves a fog within their minds. Obscuring thoughts as they enter what’s left of their heads, so that though they might hear, even in this last moment, they do not recognize nor understand.
The voices have faces. Confused, disgusted, horrified, scared. Lilac sees a teacup, then in anger moves to brown and pink, then in desperation looks to silver eyes of flame.
A hole beneath the two entwined souls blooms, and as one they fall.