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At the crossroads, don’t turn left. At the crossroads, don’t turn left. At the crossroads, don’t turn left.
–
D3rlord3 had to hope that it would be enough.
He could feel the way that cold yellow seeped into his brain. Any of his last wits, any of his last motivation and ideas and all the very energy from his brain were inaccessible. He could only hope now. There was no more time for intelligence.
D3rlord3 did not concern himself with the way his hands shook as he closed the book. He latched the chest shut and forced that mask of nonchalance over his body.
He turned his back on the chest and walked away.
His legs felt like lead. Every few steps he stopped, not only to listen for the sound of footsteps – which were gone now that he was out of the mine – but also to get a grasp on himself. Something deep inside him tugged at his very soul. He wanted to turn back. He wanted another glimpse of that yellow.
D3rlord3 could hardly remember what it looked like. His mind was blocking it out. All he could remember was the paralyzing fear that had frozen him, entranced him, and it was as horrific as it was beautiful. Something about the way the golden doors had shone and sang to him as he walked closer, something about the whispers that still plagued his brain, it was all calling to him. It tempted him.
He had stopped walking. D3rlord3 knocked his fist against his metal helmet and forced his body to keep going. He would not be tempted. He would not let himself be prey.
He was a better man than that.
–
D3rlord3 didn’t let himself go back to his base.
Thankfully, he had a few older abandoned bases he could use in the meantime. He huddled in the cold, lonely wooden house, sat himself on a lonely square of carpet, and began to write.
Over and over and over again, D3rlord3 planned and replanned, making notes only to scratch them out with so much force that the page ripped under his quill. He could feel his mind melting and leaking out of his ears, but he didn’t let himself stop. He wrote until his hand went numb.
No good plans came to him. Every single one was flawed. Subpar. Fucking shitty.
D3rlord3 ripped the pages from the spine of his notebook. He threw each one, one by one, into the fire. The golden flames licked at the golden pages and burnt them, blackened them, destroyed them until they were unsalvagable – but D3rlord3 knew it wasn’t enough.
He hadn’t heard any more footsteps. He hadn’t seen any more gold. But he could feel it; the tugging, the longing, the deep and constant ache in every single bone in his body. He needed to get up. He just needed to check.
There was no harm in checking, right? He could go down and set another trap. He could leave more messages for Avery.
The golden embers turned red and cool. D3rlord3 slipped his helmet back on, held his pickaxe firmly, and left.
–
He could feel it.
The second he left his base, he could feel it. Him. Watching.
He could nearly feel the breath on the back of his neck.
This was stupid. D3rlord3 was not a stupid man, but right now, he certainly felt like one. What he needed to do was get away, cover his tracks, and not walk straight into the Devil’s open mouth.
He gave himself a knock on the side of his head. Hard. It did nothing to stop his walking.
D3rlord3 was not in control of himself. He had felt this before, the whispers growing louder and louder until he was uncontrollably sprinting and plummeting into cold water. It was all consuming. This ache drove him mad. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, but he felt that he needed it.
He blinked.
Stone. Hard, cold, lonely stone. It stretched out for miles in each direction. D3rlord3 didn’t remember coming back down here.
He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t have done this, what the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he being so stupid all of a sudden? This was not him. These were not his hands. This was not his body. This was not his heart, beating so strong in his chest that he could hear the blood being pumped through his veins. He shouldn’t have done this and he didn’t do this because this wasn’t him. He balled up his fists and knocked them against his helmet, over and over, as if he could push his brain back into his body, push his soul back into his chest, get it out of the golden grip that crushed everything in its path–
Hey.
D3rlord3’s head shot up. He was still standing before the crossroads, if only slightly skewed to the left side. D3rlord3 liked to think of himself as brave, but the darkness seemed to crowd him, squeezing him on all sides.
Hey.
It was a voice unlike anything D3rlord3 had heard before. It was a whisper, but not like the whispers; this one was smoother, less frantic, and almost… calm.
There you are.
D3rlord3 did not answer. His mouth hung open, tongue limp and dry. He couldn’t get anything out of his throat. The darkness was so bright. It was lapping at him, tugging at him, and then suddenly he couldn’t feel the floor anymore. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He was falling. He was drowning.
He was standing in front of the golden doors.
D3rlord3 fell to his knees. The darkness, that void, it was messing with his head. He gave the impossibly black floor beneath him a weak punch before dragging himself back up.
“I’m not scared of you.”
His voice rang out through the emptiness. It seemed to echo forever, growing louder with each pull, like a choir mocking him.
The golden door in front of him, beautiful and haunting in it’s serene elegance, creaked open with a haunting sound. Like a laugh.
I don’t want you to be.
D3rlord3’s heart was stuttering in his chest. It skipped beats like a bad drummer. He raised – or felt himself raise – his fist to knock against his helmet. It didn’t make a sound.
The yellow was hypnotizing. It seemed to absorb and reflect light in a way that should be impossible. D3rlord3’s head hurt, but it was a dull ache, like it was nothing but a memory. It was hard to focus on the pain when everything was just so dazzling.
The door creaked again. Another chuckle. It was begging him to come in. He was begging for D3rlord3 to come in.
D3rlord3 didn’t walk in. He didn’t. He wasn’t in control of his body anymore. His body wasn’t his. He was powerless to stop it from pushing the door open more, peeking around the edge, welcoming in that horrible hypnotizing hell–
There was nothing.
D3rlord3 blinked, and then blinked again. He looked over both of his shoulders. He eyed the floor for any hidden pressure plates. He took a step just to strain his ears for the echoing footsteps.
Nothing.
“What the fuck?”
The room was empty. The doors seemed to lead to nothing but more endless black void. Clutching his pickaxe, D3rlord3 took step after step. His heels clicked against the ground, but when he looked down, there was nothing. It was all just nothing.
Are you surprised?
D3rlord3 froze. He could feel it now. It was barely there, another memory of a sensation. Breath on the back of his neck, right between the gaps in his armor.
D3rlord3 did not turn around. He did not run. His hands did not tremble as he lowered his pickaxe and emptied his lungs of air.
When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “No,” he said simply. “I’m disappointed.”
Now that D3rlord3 knew what to look for, everything was more obvious. This time, he didn’t miss the way the feeling of breath paused. Something creaked behind him, the door presumably, but it wasn’t a laugh this time. It was the sound of a man clenching His teeth.
There was a long, heavy silence before He spoke again. You are a very interesting animal.
D3rlord3 allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. It was hidden under his helmet, but he knew He could see it. He could see everything. And He did not like it.
There was a heavy presence behind him, like the weight of 30 pairs of eyes all trained on him, all begging him to move a muscle. D3rlord3 did not turn around. He clenched his hands into fists, bit his lip so hard it drew blood, and did not turn around.
His head felt like it was about to explode. He could feel it – he could feel Him – and there was that longing again. It was as if his very being was called to the yellow behind him. D3rlord3 felt like he would die if he didn’t turn around, if he didn’t just get another glimpse, another dazzling glimpse. It would all be worth it.
It would all be worth it.
D3rlord3’s knees hit the floor. He held himself around his middle and doubled over. It was excruciating. Voices, both his and His, echoed around and around in the room and in his mind. Blood ran down his chin. Breath hit his neck. A hand wrapped around his throat. Eyes pressed along his skin. Eyes. Looking. He was looking.
D3rlord3 opened his eyes, and everything was yellow.
Yellow fabric spilled along the dark vastness of the floor. Yellow fabric shone so bright it looked like it was spun of pure gold, or maybe pure sunlight, warm and welcoming and blazing hot. Yellow fabric spun up, up, up, in the shape of a very tall man.
From the dazzling yellow fabric sprouted two arms, long and thin and made of that same impossible black. D3rlord3 thought there might be more arms, or maybe too many fingers, or maybe they weren’t arms at all. Yellow contained it all, and D3rlord3 got the feeling that He was something that could never be understood.
He had a head. It was cloaked, yellow draping over it, casting a shadow so dark that D3rlord3 could not make out a single feature, nor the shape of a head at all. It was void. It was nothing cloaked in everything, and it was beautiful.
This was not what D3rlord3 had seen the last time. His mind does not allow himself to recall exactly what it was, but it was not this. It was not Him.
Now you are surprised, He mused. D3rlord3 felt like He was smiling.
Blood from his split lip dripped down his neck and stained the gold of his armor. He pushed himself up, but his body would not let him stand for long and his eyes would not leave the enchanting darkness of His face.
Something caught him, but then there was nothing to catch. D3rlord3 was sat on an armchair, velvet gold and more comfortable than anything he could imagine. In front of him, on a glimmering, ornate throne, was The King In Yellow.
The King crossed His legs, or at least did a motion similar to it. D3rlord3 did not allow his brain to focus on the mess of broken limbs and inky blackness beneath the yellow. In front of them, made of wood so shiny D3rlord3 could see his reflection, was a coffee table.
The King waved His hand. With a blink, an ornate teapot sat on the table.
I figured you could use a nice break.
What the fuck.
The King In Yellow chuckled as if He knew what D3rlord3 was thinking. It was an odd sound, echoing the creaking sound of the door, bouncing around in his head, both brash and singsong. Horrifying. Dazzling.
A broken hand reached for the teapot. He poured Himself a cup of liquid gold and spooned in something syrupy and sickly red. D3rlord3 tasted blood.
The King raised the cup to His lack of a face. A breeze ran through the room, like Spring heaving a gentle, peaceful sigh.
It is always nice to have a warm drink, don’t you agree? Your kind used to offer this to Me. It has been so long.
D3rlord3 was only half listening, and He knew it. The breeze turned cold. A second cup of tea was poured with thin fingers. The King reached for the teaspoon again, but instead of scooping syrup from the jar, He leaned over the table, settled the spoon against the base of D3rlord3’s neck, and dragged it upward. He gathered the blood that had dripped from his mouth, and stirred it right into the teacup.
The King leaned back and draped His many arms over the throne. He was lounging now. He was confident. He could smell every emotion that D3rlord3 hid beneath his skin.
But D3rlord3 was a brave man. He was not prey. His hand did not shake as he picked up the teacup. He did not hesitate to push his helmet up to his nose. He did not gag as he drank his own golden blood.
A creak. A twig breaking under the heel of a boot. An impossibly small twitch of yellow robes. D3rlord3 knew how to read Him now, and he could play His game.
“Nice tea.” D3rlord3 set his cup down, armor clinking against pottery. He raised his hand and wiped at the last bit of blood on his chin, but he didn’t pull his helmet back down. If The King was getting comfortable, D3rlord3 would too. Push and pull. “But I’m not a big fan of it.”
Yellow fabric rustled like a sigh. What a strange thing you are.
D3rlord3 let his hand curl into a fist for just a moment, before he released it. “You look different this time.”
The King tilted His head. D3rlord3 could feel the sharp smile He gave. Did you prefer Me otherwise?
“I don’t prefer you at all.”
D3rlord3 reached for his tea again, or tried to, but his body wouldn’t move. His body was not his. Each breath was painful, each thought was muddled with whispers both his and not. It was an echochamber. He was weakening, and his body would not move.
The King In Yellow leaned over the table again, crowding into D3rlord3’s face, cornering him. The void of His face was hypnotizing. The void of His hand reached up and knocked against the side of D3rlord3’s helmet.
Get a grip, Little Lord. You are not a stupid man.
Anger flooded every cell in his body. It set every nerve alight. It forced his brain to think and his body to move, and in an instant, D3rlord3’s hand shot out, gripped the teacup with so much force it cracked, and he downed it in one bitter gulp.
A pause. A space for the beating of D3rlord3’s stuttering heart.
Good job.
The thrill that shot through D3rlord3’s body was logically not one of fear. He deluded himself into thinking that it was anyway, and then raised his fist to knock the stupid out of his head again.
So odd. The King’s strange, slithering voice was sly around the edges. Most animals fall into patterns. I’m sure you know by now that our world is not unique. But you, Lord, are a world of your own, aren’t you?
D3rlord3 adjusted his helmet, setting it back over his nose and chin. “You can’t flatter me.”
He could not see any hint of facial features on the King’s face, and yet, he could feel His smile again. Yellow fabric spilled and swished as He stood up. I can’t?
“No.” D3rlord3’s voice, for the first time, has a tremble. The room slanted. The scales were tipping. An odd fire was building in the pit of his stomach, not unlike the cooling embers of his torn up notebook.
The King stepped through the table as if it had never had any structure to begin with. Impossible hands rested on the arms of D3rlord3’s chair, yellow crowding his vision, endless warping black spiraling and hypnotizing him into leaning closer.
Breeze rustled around them like leaves on rows and rows of straight oak. For a moment, D3rlord3 thought he could hear birdsong – but then the King leaned forward and he realized the sound was Him.
He was singing.
It was haunting. It was the cries of doomed, sad souls. It was the pleading of mothers to save their children. It was the last cry of a bird, interrupted by the piercing metal of an arrowhead through the heart.
It was beautiful. Grief and sorrow and hope in one bitter cocktail. D3rlord3 wanted to open his mouth and let Him pour it down his throat, let Him feed him that music, that beauty, that fear. He longed for it. He ached for it.
But he was a better man than that.
D3rlord3 balled up his fists and hit his head. Again. Again. Again. The song fell away like paper dissolving into golden fire. Again.
When he looked up, everything was yellow.
The King had him wrapped in yellow robes, the same off His own form, tangling them together. It was warm, burning hot, like the beginnings of a sunburn. Empty hands cradled D3rlord3’s face. Eyes and smiles pressed into his skin, burning through his armor.
There you are, Little Lord. I thought you were losing your fight.
D3rlord3 doesn’t struggle against the robes. He doesn’t shy away from the hands on his face. He doesn’t protest the nickname.
“You still can’t flatter me.”
Is it flattery if it's true?
D3rlord3 wasn’t in his chair anymore. The King had lifted him up, cradled him in millions of arms, in effortlessly soft robes, flowing over him and cupping him like he was a precious diamond.
There was a hypnotizing charm to everything He did. D3rlord3 didn’t like it, but he wasn’t immune to it. This wasn’t a product of his long fight against stupidity. This was inevitable. The King knew it. They both did.
You know who I am. It wasn’t a question. Sharp smiles against his armor. You know what I do. And yet, here you stay. Even a smart man like yourself can act foolish.
The King could see right through him. D3rlord3 forced his eyes closed and his body to relax. His head was a mess of mental notes, page after page of every small detail he had committed to memory. The King was there, too, creeping in through the cracks in his armor and worming His way into his head.
D3rlord3 held his breath in his lungs before he let it out slowly. “Maybe I am foolish.”
The yellow fabric turned softer. It was warm honey now, dripping over both of their forms, pooling on the void of the floor. A crackling sound filled the room, like the purr of a satisfied fire swallowing up dry kindling.
You remind me of someone. There was an amused lilt to The King’s voice. Someone I knew a long time ago. He was so intelligent that it made him slow. I could teach you, Little Lord. I could make you strong.
D3rlord3 did not allow himself to respond, neither verbally nor in his head. He kept his mind a steady stream of thoughts and his body deliberately relaxed and calm. “You’re a good salesman.”
The heath stopped its crackle. An empty face stared down at him, completely unreadable, made of and born from nothing itself.
Look at Me. Look at what I can do. Isn't it tempting? You could have it all if you tried, Little Lord.
D3rlord3 slipped.
He bit his lip and reopened the cut. He raised his hands in an attempt to clasp them over his mouth, but The King was faster.
Two abnormally long arms pried off D3rlord3's helmet. It fell to the floor without a sound. The King In Yellow held his face with too many hands. The King In Yellow leaned too close.
All D3rlord3 could feel was the cold, vast emptiness of space. His bare face shoved right against The King's. Inky black clung to him like cobwebs stuck to his armor.
The word intimate was the first that came to mind. D3rlord3 would've hit that thought out of his head if he was able to think clearly. The King was enthralling from far away, but up close like this – being held by Him, being pressed against Him in such a weird, inhuman way – it was hypnotizing.
It was quiet.
D3rlord3’s head was quiet for the first time since he heard those footsteps. There were no more whispers. His mind, once an ever-flowing river of plan plan plan worry worry worry was now a slow, lazy trickle in a stormdrain. Safe. Contained. Quiet.
He did not let himself pull The King any closer. He was a better man than that. But he will admit that he relaxed into it, that he let The King hold him with too many arms and wrap him up in yellow and cloud his mind with so much emptiness that it was profound.
He would be a fool to want more, but it was equally foolish to deny himself anything at all.
That sound, the gentle crackling of a golden fire, filled D3rlord3’s ears. He could feel The King's smile once again, but this time, it was against his bloodied mouth.
It was the strangest bit of peace that D3rlord3 had ever gotten.
The King pulled back eventually, leaving D3rlord3 intensely confused and horrendously exposed without his helmet. He sat D3rlord3 back in the armchair, and perched on His own throne with the body language of a very pleased, very smug man. Golden silk billowed in wind that D3rlord3 could not feel. The door creaked a laugh that D3rlord3 did not understand.
A very strange and unwelcome feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach. Thoughts sprang to the surface that D3rlord3 did not allow himself to entertain.
The King In Yellow unfurled Himself and slunk over not unlike a mischievous cat. Yellow robes pooled around D3rlord3’s armchair. Hands and arms and limbs made of nothing curled around the back. The King was close to him again, cradling him in His gold.
D3rlord3 knew He could tell what he was thinking. D3rlord3 knew He could tell how undignifiably fast his heart was pounding.
A thin black hand curled into a fist and knocked on the side of D3rlord3’s head. Hard.
Come back to Me, Little Lord.
D3rlord3 flinched at the third hit to his head. “I never left,” he mumbled, mainly to himself and partially because he couldn't possibly think of anything else to say. He was so exposed. He was on display.
The King took his face into His cold broken hands. He tilted D3rlord3’s head this way and that, as if inspecting some sort of delicacy or expensive good. Strange fingers messed with his hair and poked at his eyeballs.
I like you, creature. You are fun to play with. I love a good game.
“Couldn't tell,” D3rlord3 said, or maybe thought it loud enough that The King could hear. He couldn't tell anymore. All he could think of was yellow.
I like you.
D3rlord3 did not allow himself a response nor a reaction to that. He shut his eyes and let The King brush His hands all over his face.
You will be useful to Me, Little Lord. Very useful. Very good.
Something about His voice was getting to him now. It was lulling him nearly to sleep. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. The King's robes held him close and wrapped him up in yellow. It was so warm, that yellow. It was not burning like D3rlord3 had originally thought. How could he have thought that? How stupid. How foolish.
This wasn't right.
The King could hear his thoughts.
It was as if the very molecules in the air surrounding them froze with tension. D3rlord3 was cold, suddenly, the type of chill that sinks into one's bones and was not easily shaken by a shiver or another layer.
D3rlord3 found himself at a mental crossroads. His body was paralyzed but his mind was awake and spinning enough to make him dizzy. His soul was endlessly aching to lean against The King In Yellow and let those hands of void and gold take away his restless thoughts. He yearned to lean up and feel that cold dark emptiness cling to his face again.
This wasn't right.
Let Me in.
D3rlord3 relaxed. This wasn’t right. D3rlord3 let The King bring their faces together again. This wasn’t right.
His mind went blank, eerily and blissfully going quiet once again. The King’s vacant void clung to D3rlord3’s sweaty skin, both soothingly cool and searingly hot, making his body fall limp and his mind null. It was a peace like the eye of a hurricane, the last moments of calm in an otherwise horrifying and violent swirl.
D3rlord3 could hear, or rather feel His voice, like the low distant rumble of thunder. D3rlord3 could feel it resound in his chest and leak out of his ears.
You could have it all if you asked nicely, Little Lord. His voice was followed by the creaking of broken, dead branches. A laugh. You are smart. You are useful. I can quiet your brain. I can guide you, Lord, I can.
This wasn’t right.
If D3rlord3 didn’t know better, he would say that The King sounded nearly desperate to have some sort of an attachment again. The King wanted – needed – another worshipper. Another believer. He needed a man to be devoted to Him.
Maybe it was indeed desperation. Maybe this temptation, this intense and overwhelming craving that D3rlord3 felt towards the golden glow of silk was all just a byproduct of His need to be liked. Maybe that hypnotization was purely out of His deep desire to be seen and wanted and needed.
Give in to Me.
This wasn’t right.
D3rlord3 clenched his hands into fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and yanked his head back.
He fell to the ground. Cold floor, devoid of any light, cradled his form. Yellow swirled around him, calling him back with the sweet, haunting sound of birdsong. It echoed in his head so loudly that D3rlord3 felt like his very soul was ripping itself apart. The King was singing to him, reaching for him, trying so desperately to lure him back into the tight hold of His many arms.
It was all in his head. That was all D3rlord3 allowed himself to think. He repeated it over and over and over again as he dragged his bleeding and cracking body across the floor. Yellow whipped around him. Closing his eyes did nothing.
D3rlord3’s helmet was on the ground. He forced his arm out to grab it and yanked it back on, hard enough to rattle his brain in the cage of his skull. It did nothing to block out the cold yellow. It did nothing.
This didn’t feel right, but D3rlord3 knew that it was. His body was burning with every single microscopic smidgen of space that he put between him and Him, and that’s how he knew it was right. This was what he needed to do, because this was what He couldn’t bear.
The whispers only grew louder. The King In Yellow was not singing anymore, but crying. It was a horrendous sound of pure pain and agony, so loud that it was physically painful. D3rlord3 grit his teeth. He did not stop moving.
Lord, Lord, give in to Me, let Me help you, let Me save you.
The King was weeping desperately. D3rlord3 had crawled far enough to retrieve his nearly broken pickaxe from it’s place on the hypothermic tile.
I am the only one that can help you. You are smart. You are smart, Lord, please, won’t you–
D3rlord3’s hands did not shake as he lifted his pickaxe.
D3rlord3 did not hesitate as he brought the point down on his head in a smooth, clean, hard strike.
The sound of metal against metal echoed in the room. All D3rlord3 could feel was the profound, dilapidating pain that shocked his skull and spread down his spine. All D3rlord3 could hear was the ringing of his own ears.
And then, nothing.
Vast, empty nothingness.
The pain was not nearly as bad as it should have been. When the ringing had stopped, so had the whispers. The King In Yellow was no longer making a sound, not speaking nor laughing nor weeping.
D3rlord3 opened his eyes. The ground was smooth stone, warmed by the light of a few torches. He pushed himself up on trembling arms. A wooden chest sat in front of him. His pickaxe was badly broken now, handle cracked and head split into thousands of unmendable shards. He brought a wavering hand up to his helmet and felt the deep dent in its side, right over his temple.
“Okay.” D3rlord3 pushed himself up. His legs shook badly and something deep inside of him throbbed with bright red pain.
He turned his back on the chest and walked away.
His legs still felt like lead. He did not stop, not once, to check for footsteps. It was not a smart decision. D3rlord3 could no longer bring himself to give a single fuck.
His abandoned base from last night – or was it two nights ago? Three? Did time even pass? – did not house a bed. D3rlord3 brushed the ash off of the singular square of burnt yellow carpet before curling up onto it.
The rush of his mind was endless yet again, but exhaustion seeped into every single inch of his body, through each crack in his armor, dragging down his very core. He could not control the last few fleeting feelings of longing, of temptation, each curled up in his heart like an apologetic cat.
D3rlord3 brought his fist up to knock the thoughts out of his head. He stopped, or something stopped him, at the very last moment.
His hand laid, uncurled, unharming, on the golden metal of his helmet. When he closed his eyes, he could hear only the distant creak of dying branches.