Corner
The Fourth Seal
The second we stepped out of the bathroom I should have noticed things had started to go sideways again, but as it was, Sig was wearing only a towel and still damp and flushed from the shower and a man can only be expected to concentrate on one thing at a time, in my opinion. At the moment my mind was concentrating mostly on getting Sig out of that towel and into his nice warm bed, and then just kind of taking it from there.
We enter the bedroom and it's kind of one of those moments as we stop stock still in the doorframe. I think I hear Sig murmur something along the lines of, "Oh god, no no no..." and I have to concur with his assessment. The room looks like it's aged about ten years in the last thirty minutes; the paint is peeling, and rising damp is starting to attack the corners. The colours are... wrong, too washed out and faded, the posters are faded and scuffed. Tellingly, the TV -- which we'd left off -- is showing nothing but snow. But worse of all, there's a ratty-looking cardboard box sitting on Sig's bed. It's about a foot square, the lid is closed, and the bottom is starting to stain...
Why does shit like this happen to me. It's not the box I mind so much -- I knew it was coming and I've gone through my grieving and arrived at a point beyond filled in with swirling, pounding red-on-black -- but why now and why here. Damnit.
I push past Sig and into the room, probably a bit too roughly, but by this stage I'm starting to get a wee bit pissed off, which I'm sure is showing. Sig tries to follow but I throw a red-fingered claw out to stop him.
"Stay there," I snap, and he obeys wordlessly.
I pull open the box, and sure enough, it's a head. A human head, or a good approximation thereof; topped with silky raven-black hair that I know to be long, but on this has been cut off abruptly with the same blow that severed the neck. Underneath is the face of a woman; one half a picture of pale-skinned-black-lipped gothic beauty, the other of black and twisted corpse-flesh.
I lift it out and look at it, Hamlet style, and try my goddamn best not to cry. All gone now. Motherfucking all.
Sig has a different response. "Holy fuck, is that--!"
"My daughter," I almost whisper, and Sigmund quiets. And then, because I know it to be true. "He's here."
A gasp. "Dad!"
Which to be honest I hadn't thought of. Shit.
"Shit!" And I'm barrelling past Sig out of the room and down the hallway, still clutching Hel's head under my arm. I extend my perception and there he is, down in the living room and I'm amazed I didn't feel it before. Distracted... too damn distracted.
I burst in, probably doing irreparable damage to the nice French doors as I do so, but I'll bloody well pay for them later and, really, it's not that important right now.
The first thing I see is a pyjama-clad Mr. Sussman, sitting on a lounge chair and looking about ten years older in fright. My appearance does nothing to calm him, nor does Sig's a few moments later.
"Sigmund! You have to get--" He's cut of as a chain-gauntleted hand cuffs him around the head, hard enough to draw blood. My feet move out to a fighting stance, which I'm sure probably looks comical to some degree since I too am still only wearing an amusingly appalling floral towel.
"Silence, old man." And then he turns to me -- the source of all my fucking problems -- and smiles. "A bit lax of you, don't you think, to lead me right here?"
I really hate it when other people are right. I especially hate it when other people are right and I can't think of a witty comeback, so I just growl in what I hope is a scary way. It seems to work on Mr. Sussman, at least.
"I see you found your present..."
Ooh I hate this little motherfucker. "Fuck you, Baldr." It looks like my mouth has started working again.
He just looks amused. "Yes, well. I am dearly trying not to repeat the mistakes of my father on more than one level, don't you think?"
I can almost feel Sig's eyes boring into my back on that one, but now is not really the time.
"My dear father made oh-so many mistakes when it came to you. I intent to rectify them. Preferably in one fell swoop, as it were. You're the Last Seal, uncle."
I grip the head of Hell even tighter. I'm going to beat this motherfucker to death with it; she would've liked that. "You killed my daughter."
"Oh please, that frigid corpse?"
"She was still my goddamn daughter!" and as I say it, parts of the room start burning.
Amazingly, Baldr looses his cool. "She kept me locked in that frigid hell-hole for a thousand years, do you know what that's like?" His grip is white-knuckled on the back of the lounge-chair, and it too has started to smoulder. The light in the room is starting to get painfully bright, and it's hot.
"Yes, actually I fucking do, you psychotic sonovabitch, so don't pull your martyr's paradise bullshit on me." An idea occurs to me that I'm surprised hasn't occurred to me before. "Fuck, this is just some stupid revenge trip for you, isn't it? To get back at me because your father didn't kill me in punishment for you!"
When I'm right, I'm right. "If he'd done what the laws dictated I would have been free!"
Surely he's not that stupid. "At the price of breaking the Fourth Seal? You really think he would have risked the world just so you could spend an extra thousand years in the sun?"
"I was his son!"
"And what about my sons! That I watched bound and killed and cast into servitude, because unlike you I knew the importance that the Seals be kept!"
He barks laughter. "Spare me; such monsters as those deserved their fate, and you should have joined them!"
I really. Really. Really hate it when people rip into my family. especially self-righteous little assholes like this one. The next thing I know I've lunged across the room and landed square on top of Baldr, claws digging into his shoulder and teeth deep in his throat. He gurgles a bit and stumbles back hard against the wall, but it doesn't take him long to regain his momentum, and I find myself being roughly thrown off and back into the couch which shatters under my weight. Fortunately I see a terrified-looking Mr. Sussman on the ground a few feet away; he must have taken his opportunity when I lunged. Good man.
I roll to the side just as Baldr's sword buries itself in what's left of the helpless couch, which instantly begins smouldering. I launch myself again before he has time to pull it free, summoning my own curved blades to me. I'm at him in a white-hot whirl of rage; two quick slashes shred his mail but leave only superficial wounds underneath, and a hind claw to the gut sends him staggering back.
I folow him down; one knife goes through his shoulder, the other harmlessly into the floor and I bite again, this time his eye, feel it tear free from its socket with a wet and juicy pop. I haven't tasted the blood of gods in so long, and it is oh so sweet.
And so my bloodlust gets the better of me and feel the eyeball in my mouth and pop it with a sort of gleeful abandon. The ichor slides down my throat, and I realise just a little too late exactly what it means to eat someone's eyeball...
(... green green grass under a soft blue sky warm sun oh so perfect and this is nothing short of heaven and I love it love it want everything to be like it forever...)
(... dark dreams of death and blood and I know I know I'm going to die to spend an aeon in the cold cold wastes and I don't know why and I'm afraid...)
(... mother beautiful mother makes everything promise everything and all that no harm will come but mother forgets the smallest the weakest for surely such a pitiful thing could not harm her strong and good son...)
(... and to him it's like a challenge and I see him watch me with cat-slit eyes of toxic green and I feel what he is thinking he wants me dead for revenge or sport or maybe just because he can and I'm afraid because he's close to father all wise all knowing father but I think this time he may have made a terrible mistake...)
(... they try and kill me but it's a game and I don't mind and sticks and rocks and metal do not hurt me and I know this and they know this and they're just having fun it's just their way...)
(... he doesn't play just watches me with green green eyes...)
(... oh my brother my poor poor brother your arrow hurts it hurts and your shot was good far too good for a blind man and the last thing I see is him and he's smiling slightly looks so so innocent but I know...)
(... and my brother is punished and joins me in my Hel but he is free and good and it's not fair...)
(... she makes a deal but she is of his blood and I hold no hope for it...)
(... he will not cry for me not do such a small thing and still he lives and my father does nothing and I don't understand this isn't right he's a murderer and everyone knows but does nothing and this world is wrong wrong so wrong...)
(... oh father what evil have you wrought within us...)
(... I have a long time a long long time to plan and plot and dream and I know I know my time will come and when it does...)
(... when it does I will fix everything and the world will be beautiful and green blue and warm sun again...)
(... I will fix everything...)
(... starting with him...)
When I next open my eyes I'm staring at a peeled-plaster cieling in a room that smells of blood and burnt paint. Someone is calling a word I don't recognise,
("... Lain! ... Lain?")
but that face I do recognise. And I hate it because it is precious to him and so tainted and must be destroyed.
"Whore!"
My hand is around his throat and these humans are so flimsy all I have to do is squeeze and...
"... Loki!"
Ah, there it is. The proverbial kick to the soul.
He never says my name anymore, and I drop him as if burnt, scuttling myself backwards until my back hits the remains of the couch and I curl in on myself and try and remember who I am.
"... fuck..."
"Are... are you alright?" His voice still sounds a little hoarse, but he has crept closer to me again, and I'll be damned if I don't deserve such trust.
"... I don't know..." And my voice is rough, too. It feels like I've been screaming. I swallow. "... how long was I out?"
"Not long. What the hell happened? One minute you're getting stuck into... y'know, and the next you kind of freak out and collapse. And then just now..." He trails off.
More importantly; "Where'd he go?"
"You did a bit of a number on his face. After you freaked out he said something in that language you guys always use to yell at one another, but I... I don't remember what it was. And then he just... vanished."
I nod.
"... are you sure you're alright?"
"I ate his eye. It's been a long time and I... I forgot. It's powerful blood magic, shows you... part of a person's soul. Getting lost in someone else's memories is... not fun." My head is still in my hands -- I haven't dared look up in case someone else's homicidal urges suddenly overtake me again -- and I'm still trying to sort myself out from Baldr in my own head. Self-righteous sociopath little brat that he is. Honestly, you'd think he was the only one trapped in hell for a thousand years the way he constantly carries on.
I feel Sig's hand tentatively touch my shoulder and, you know, I'm a pretty hardass barstard most of the time, but damn this has been one fucking crappy day. The next thing I know I'm clinging onto him for dear life, and he's just kind of rocking me gently and stroking my hair. This has happened precisely once before, and my hand inadvertently goes to the stitching in my lips in memory.
I really, really do not want to move, but someone clears their throat next to us.
"Um, excuse me. Would someone mind telling me what's going on?"
Ah, Mr. Sussman. I hate bystanders.
I gently uncurl from Sigmund and pull myself to my feet. I'm currently naked, but it doesn't really make much of a difference in this form since most of me below the navel is covered in shaggy coal-and-ash coloured fur. Sussman, I feel, meets my eyes quite bravely for a guy who's never come face-to-face with an Eater before.
"It's a long story, dad," Sig says before I can. He too climbs to his feet, though I'm annoyed to note he's retained his towel. "Can we tell you later?" He looks around the burnt-out room. "Right now I think we need to get somewhere safe."
I nod in agreement, and pad my way gently over to where Hel's severed head is still lying on the ground, relativley intact. I pick it up, swearing to give her a proper burial when we get back home.
"Is that... a severed head?" Mr. Sussman's voice hardly wavers.
"Yes," I say, because it is.
"Oh."
"Dad, we should probably get some things together, okay?" Sig's voice has the kind of soft candence people use to talk to the particularly old or deranged.
"Yes, alright. That sounds... reasonable."
Sig peers out through the destroyed living room doors. "It's still freaky out here, Lain. Lain?"
"Hm? Oh, right..."
I walk out of the living room, Sig and his father following close behind. There shouldn't be anything particularly untoward lurking in the house, but you never know...
We have to pass through the kitchen to get upstairs and as we do so I'm reminded sharply of why, exactly, I loathe flourescent lights. The damn things flicker like strobes, but faster than the brain of your garden variety human can notice. Usually I can ignore it, too, but as I am currently I've got a jotun's senses as well as appearance and I'm kind of teetering in that edge state where I'm conflictingly both too hyped up and too exhausted to go back to something more human. Which, to cut a long story short, makes the kitchen appear something not unlike a demented domestic rave-party. The real pain in the ass thing, though, is that unlike my two more human companions, I can actually see what's surrounding us in the darktime between the flashes.
Like I said, I really hate flourescents.
We hit the stairwell and the lights decide to go on the fritz, dimming and flickering and buzzing in that way dying lightbulbs do. Sig inches a little closer and I reach out and squeeze his hand reassuringly, but in the end nothing particularly dangerous happens and we begin the task of gathering clothes for the Sussmans. Sig's room is first and he goes about packing himself a small bag while I pull my own clothes back on. They don't look like they did when we came here, and Mr. Sussman keeps surreptitously trying not to look at me while I wriggle into the corset and leather and velvet skirt; which I'm glad of, because my current legs don't do pants very well, and that's not even mentioning the tail. The bathroom is next -- more floursecent lights and I start to find myself getting really on edge -- then the master bedroom. It takes about twenty minutes, but finally we seem ready.
"Wait!" Sussman senior has been pretty quiet up to this point, but now his eyes are blazing with a kind of deranged fire. "Let me get my gun. I-it's in the drawer in my study."
The idea makes me nervous, since there's not realy anything that this stupid broken reality can throw at us that I cann't get rid of. Yet. And letting an obviously terrified man carry around a loaded weapon...
On the other hand, sometimes a little bit of lead can bring a strong sense of control.
I nod. "Lead on."
Sussman jumps a little and does that thing where he stares at me while simultaneously pretending that he's not. There's a tense moment in which no-one does anything in particular, but eventually he turns and takes us down the hall a short way. The door we arrive at is closed and that really creeps me out. Sussman opens it; it's dark inside. Utterly dead pitch black, and I should be able to see in the dark like this. Sussman goes to reach around the doorframe for the lightswitch.
"Wait!" I grab his hand away before it can touch the darkness that seems to pool in the door's surface. He starts badly and rips his hand out of mine so fast he catches on my claws which leave five shallow scratches down his knuckles. He gasps a bit and looks between us, eyes hinting on derranged.
"Sorry," I say quickly. And then, "Have you had a tetnus shot recently?" Because you never know.
He laughs a little, nervous tension, and suddenly everything seems okay again.
Except the study is still giving me some wicked bad vibes.
"I'll get the gun," I say. "You said it was in the drawer?"
Sussman nods. "It's locked--" he begins, but quickly adds, "But I don't suppose that will be a problem. Har har..." More nervous laughter.
I turn to Sig. "I'm going to shut the door after me. I promise I won't be long, just stay here and look after your dad alright? Everything's cool."
Sig chews his lip nervously, but nods all the same, and I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
And then I turn, and plunge headfirst into the study.
I don't even have to close the door; since it creaks shut of its own accord the second I step over the threshold. As soon as it shuts I'm overpowered by the sheer stench of this place. Not rotten per sei, but sick somehow. It's indescribable but terribly powerful, and I swallow with an audible click in the blackness. Cautiously I feel the wall behind me -- it's sticky-damp and I try very hard not to notice -- for the lightswitch, which I find and which is, conveniently, not working. I flick it impotently a few times; just in case.
It very definatley isn't working.
"Damn."
The air feels clammy and close and full; there's something else in here, except it's not moving. And somehow that makes me want to turn on the light even less.
Clutching Hel's head like some kind of demented security blanket I hold out an arm (but not too far, just in case) and summon a small flame in the air in front of me. My world is shot through with blurry blood-red veins and it takes me a few moments to realise that I've screwed my eyes shut.
"Get a hold of yourself you piece of fucking chickenshit." My pep talk to myself is, on the whole, largely unhelpful, but I plough on regardless. "It's just a study. C'mon, this is the oldest trick in the book; set up the mood then when push comes to shove there's nothing there and everyone has a bit of a nervous laugh over how silly they were." And then, "There's nothing in here that can hurt you."
I open my eyes, braced to see a flame-lit but otherwise perfectly study, or...
Well. That answers that question. Sigmund once told me about his mother, that she had died when he was very young; suicide, since she'd never been a very well woman. After she'd died Sig's father had taken to spending a lot of time locked up in this study, and it was during this time that he'd really descended into the depts of his work. I really hate coming face-to-face with someone else's emotional trauma. On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't send Sussman in here himself.
"Fuckit," I say to no-one in particular, and very carefully pick my way over to the desk which -- thankfully -- seems to still be fairly normal-looking. I force the drawer, which makes a bit more noise than I'd hoped and for a moment I'm frozen as a kind of wet sliding moan comes from behind me. Nothing here can hurt me, true, but that sure as hell doesn't mean it can't scare the fucking bejeezuz out of me.
Eventually it dies down and I gently slide the drawer open, pick the gun out from its resting place on top of a bunch of old photos I'm trying very hard not to look at, and tiptoe as quickly and cooly as I can to the door. For a moment I have an internal panic as I think what if it doesn't open?, but it does, smoothly, and I'm staring right back into another one of those black pitch portals.
"Fuck." I tell the portal what I think of it, and dive unceremoniously through. I fancy I can feel a ghostly touch on my back as I do so.
I stumble into the coridor quite unceremoniously armed only with severed head and low calibre pistol. "Oooh-kaay, I've had just about enough of this spookhouse shithole, let's get the fuck out before--"
And realise I'm talking to an empty corridor.
"Oh fucking hell!"