Futuristic deliver us to evil. ( *syns & boobs. )

[starboob]

‘Lousy god!’
‘Lousy god!’
‘Iseul is a lousy, lousy god.’

The chants ring in her ears as the silver eats away at her mind, searing itself into her brain until she cannot recognize her own thoughts from the voices around her; until the voices around her sound like they are being spoken through a steel tube; until her vision blurs and everything becomes vague shapes and splotches of color. Her heart beats like the flap of a hummingbird’s wing, feeling cornered and caged (scared). The god remembers enough to bite her lip on her screams, but they still come out in choked sobs as she tries to get away from the archbishop’s spoon.

Eventually, after eternities, he does remove the piece and she is given a moment of reprieve where she bends forward to curl herself into a protective ball. Her body trembles and the injury pulses against her skull, like it’s knocking at her door and demanding to be let in. After some seconds pass, Iseul can start to make out the conversation and her vision also starts to clear––just in time for her to hear Neamh, sweet Neamh’s, declaration that she belongs to Iseul. (Never has anyone or anything belonged to the god. She has wished for it and dreamed of it. She used to clutch her pillow tightly to her chest and imagine that it was someone special, someone whose love she could strangle and squeeze out of them if she held on tight enough.) If tears were not already in her eyes, they would have sprung forward then. ‘She wants me still. Me, the lousy god.’ This is not something Iseul will soon forget, she does not think. (She must do better to remember that Neamh has always been with her––even before she arrived, her heart had been beating for the promise of Iseul and Iseul alone. She found the god before Iseul even knew her purpose. She sticks with the god even at her lowest. She is the one true prophet and the only one who can be her usher to death.) “My––”

Her sentence erupts into a scream the second that Cortez’s blade slides against her cheek, over the previous injury, and the pain is all over again. He’s demanding something of her, she can register that much but everything in her mind is fire and it’s impossible for her to understand anything beyond the feeling that her body is trying to collapse in on itself like a dying star. (She is too young for this––too young to be handling this much silver at once and she can feel it turning her into some desperate, primal creature.)

The archbishop smirks while the god tries to get away, though her attempts are weak and it’s questionable whether or not they can be even classified as attempts. Even so this still does not seem to be enough for Cortez. In his eyes it is clear he wants blood, if only to prove his point that the creature before him is a spawn of evil. He flicks his wrist downwards and draws a deeper cut against her skin, then sinks the blade through her cheek so it punctures the roof of her mouth and fill her nose with blood. “There is no cursed one who can stand against silver forever, Iseul. If you want it to end, your exit is sitting right beside you. All you need to do is––”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he does get the satisfaction of watching the god pounce on top of her worshipper. While Iseul’s eyes always reflect an abyss, in this moment they seem truly vacant––like there is no one sitting at the driver’s seat and she’s a car headed for a cliff. Her vision is hazy, still, and the voices are still garbled around her but she understands she can be free if she just does this one little thing. (And yet, she also knows, deep, deep within herself that there is only one person in this room she can trust and it is not the man in holy garb. Her entire life the church has made its message clear: there is no hope for Iseul and they ought to have damned her decades ago. They do not love her. They despise her. They will always lie to her. She should not trust them.) The fae cannot help her instincts. Even if the church beat restraint into her, she feels entirely helpless to impulse, especially when her fangs sink into her target’s neck.

The blood flows from the wound like a rushing river and she greedily drinks from it, pulling more and more of the liquid into her mouth in large gulps. It does nothing to ease her pain or even heal her injuries, but it does help her vision and hearing return to her almost instantly. The taste of this blood is so familiar and so exquisite that she slows her pace and pulls back from her victim’s neck to take in her face, for someone this sweet must have a face to match. 'Neamh. Of course, my Neamh. How could I forget?'

While shock hits her, she feels no shame for what she has done, because the blood in Neamh’s veins is hers too and it is up to the god what happens to that blood. Her fingers curl around the end of the worshipper’s shirt, tugging her closer, desire blooming in her chest even if the silver metal demands her attention. (Nothing can pull her attention away from Neamh. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, she decides.) She dips closer to her again, feigning like she is going in for another swallow and instead she only whispers against her skin, “I would never kill you on someone else's command.”

“What are you waiting for Iseul?” Cortez smirks, “Kill her and I shall set you free.”

Iseul has every reason to believe that Cortez is lying and it’s not like she ever would kill Neamh like this––not in such a way where she would leave this world in vain (for no reason other than to prove some sick bastard’s point). Still, she smiles against her love’s skin before she turns and pounces on top of Cortez, tackling him into the roaring flames. “Why don’t I just kill you and free us both?” she hisses, reaching for the iron poker and driving it into the man’s shoulder, twisting it so that it stays in place. She then raises her hand and strikes across his face––leaving him with three deep claw marks that span from the side of his head down to his cheek bone.

She wishes she could relish in his scream, but she knows that now is not the time to take pleasure in his pain. It is not even the time to end him––not when they are surrounded by enemies. Not when Ego is gone. Not when Neamh looks like a bruised peach. Though her body is a weak and pathetic thing, especially now, she must rise beyond this if is not to be a lousy god anymore. If she is to save them both. She rushes over to Neamh and gathers the woman into her arms, hugging her body close to hers. (Can she feel her heart?) Frantically, her eyes search for the exit and by the time she has spotted it, David and the others, along with some guardians, storm into the room and surround the pair of heretics.

Iseul bares her fangs, and clutches Neamh tighter, like her arms might be her shield. Somewhere she knows this is a losing fight, but for someone who has only just learned how to use her fists as weapons she is not ready to give up. Too bad the choice isn’t really hers, however, when the men (and Melissa) rush the pair and tackle them to the ground, trying to pry them apart.

“You wenches will pay for attacking a holy man!”

Cortez, who has been helped up, seethes where he stands, his eyes filled with rage. “Both of your souls are damned and we shall send you to Hell at once! Michael, inform the knights to prepare the square for an execution.”

 

[Syntra]

Again. Again and again and again, the grotesque pattern emerged from the all-embracing chaos of reality-- by now, Neamh could draw it even with her eyes closed, even if she didn't want. And, you know what the pattern was? Others hurting her Iseul! "Don't you dare to lay your filthy hands on her," the not-fae hissed, struggling against her chains. (Spoiler alert: they stayed in place. They were chains, and such was their job.) "Do you hear me, Cortez? You don't even know how to hurt her right."

"Is that so?" The man's lips barely moved, making it look as if the words were being said by someone else entirely. A malevolent spirit, perhaps? Something hiding in the shadows, poisoning the earth, the skies, everything. The source of rot, spreading from the essence of humanity. "Luckily for me, practice makes perfect. I shall learn soon, god be willing. And if not... well, I have the whole eternity! In that regard, I am a fortunate, fortunate man. One blessed by our Lord." (Was he, though? Was he? The mistresses had always said that the false god had... abandoned them, really. Stopped caring. To Him, humans were little more than a failed art project-- macaroni that had been glued on the paper way too sloppily, with the white spots still showing. A proud mother might still keep the picture, but god? Right into the trash they go, he'd probably said! That was why the sky was an illusion; why nothing grew in the earth; why the children crawling their way into existence cried tears of blood. The Earth was living on a borrowed time, and that time was only getting shorter. Heh. Oh, how Neamh would love to watch it burn! Along with the righteous assholes like this guy, wrapped in his expensive silks.)

"You will regret this," she promised. (Each of Iseul's gasp, each of her moans, filled her with rage deeper than any ocean on this godforsaken planet. Still, though, still.... Was she too sinful for imagining whether her god would sound just as lovely in other contexts? You know, while lying beneath her? ...the answer was yes, of course. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes! And that, that was the whole reason why she deserved to be Iseul's prophet-- why she had to guide her hand, and shield her from danger. The human heart was a treacherous place, you know? A place Neamh knew, but her god didn't. A guiding star had to soil herself so that Iseul didn't have to.) "Nobody hurts a god and gets away with it. Did you not learn your lesson with your precious Son?"

Smack!

Her cheek was burning, with flesh peeling off where the whip had landed, but not even that managed to extinguish the fire in the man's eyes. "I realize that you were raised by the cursed ones, but even you should never speak like that. Do we understand each other? The Son is untouchable. Immaculate, and full of virtue, while the wretch over here is a vessel for sin. I do not fault you for not knowing, but I need to discipline you still."

That, of course, was the moment Iseul pounced on her. Neamh couldn't fight, not with her hands bound and her magic locked away, thouh if she could? She still wouldn't have. This was Iseul, her Iseul, and... well. Hadn't she wanted this all along? (Yes. Yes, no, and yes still. To kill her or to be killed by her-- what difference did it make? They were both saints, just as they were both sinners. Two halves of the same coins, really. As long as one got what she needed from the other, things would be just fine.) "Ah," she gasped, shivering when the teeth broke her skin. (It had been made for breaking, the not-fae knew. That was why it healed so fast in the first place.) "Iseul, sweet Iseul, just... take what you want. Please." Her hands may have been tied, but her legs were not. So, you know what she did? She embraced her with those, forcing Iseul closer, closer, closer, to really enjoy the enticing aroma of her blood. "Do I, ah, still taste the best? Tell me that you've never had anyone better, Iseul. Please, I... I need to hear it." (It did hurt, alright. It did, and that was what made it all worth it. 'Do you think you deserve anything else, useless bitch?' Which, no, Neamh didn't think that! For all her crimes, she deserved to have her heart ripped out of her body. ...still, though, maybe she wasn't that useless? Because Iseul certainly saw a use or two for her.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Neamh did her best to hold on-- not to survive, mind you, but to enjoy every moment, and to look Iseul in the eye as she took what was hers. Yes. Yes, please! This is all I wanted, all I ever needed. Naturally, that alone should have been a hint that the treat would be taken away from her. Ugh. Just, did Iseul have to have her epiphany? So selfish, to dangle her heart's desire before her and then take it away! Damn the fae and their games, really. "You... will have to make this up to me when we get out of here," Neamh complained, trying (unsuccessfully) to sit up. "I suppose that... that we can kill the old man first."

Except, the issue with that? They couldn't. Neamh's magic was still a dried out river, waiting for a rain to fill it once again-- a rain that never came. The priests did come, though, and between the sea of arms, they stood no chance. (Soon, they found themselves wrapped in chains. They felt... sort of pleasant against her skin? Cool and grounding, even through Neamh would never admit to it. So this is how I die? she thought, still light-headed, as they tied her to the pyre. (Wood was rare these days, and so they'd used a half-melted lamppost as the center of it. Many witches had met a similar fate here, Neamh guessed.) Not by Iseul's hand, but by her side? No. No, that was wrong! They'd fucking promised, and... and no human could take that away from them.

"Iseul," she gasped. "Iseul, can you hear me? We won't die here. We can't. There's... there's still too much for us to do! Just don't succumb to the flames, and we will be fine. It's too weak to stop us."

"Hah, delusional bitch!"

A sizable crowd had gathered in front of the impromptu pyres-- corpses with dead eyes, dead smiles, dead souls. Neamh only noticed the taunt because the one who said it, a nondescript woman, also flung a tomato at her. Pff, how original.

"Silence, good people!" Cortez shouted, his voice booming over all the others. (The moment he spoke, dark clouds covered the sky. A nifty trick, Neamh guessed? But a trick was all it was, for it was digital and listened to its master's commands. A mere illusion of power, hastily put together by one who had no idea what its true definition was.) "Before you, you see two sinners that have forsaken the god. They had numerous options to choose the right path, or at least to stray away from the one that was cursed, but they insisted on their own self-destruction. Only fire can cleanse them now. Pray for them, good people, so that Our Lord has mercy on their souls!"

A liquid that had to be gasoline was poured on their feet, and then someone lit a match. The cheering of the masses was overwhelming, until... until it wasn't? Because everything, everything slowed down to a crawl-- the humans all around them, the fire being born somewhere beneath, even the concept of sound itself.

"She won't survive," the dark flame announced to Iseul, into the complete silence. "You will, because you are a fae and thus not so easily breakable. Your Neamh, though? You will see her burn to ashes. Unless..." it smiled, despite not having lips, "...unless you finally take up the mantle of a dark mistress. What do you think? Ready to stop playing, so that you can rule for real?"

 

[starboob]

The god thrashes against the arms that dare to restrain her. She bares her fangs and gnashes her teeth, doing everything she can to free herself from these filthy cockroaches who disrespect the actual god they should be fearing. (When it comes time for them to sink to their knees and beg for her mercy, she will show them the exact amount of mercy they deserve when she rips their tongues from their mouths and lets them choke on their own blood.) Her resistance earns her a series of blows to her skull, back and ribs, but Iseul does not seem bothered––the fight is strong within her and it is stronger still when they chain her against that melted lamppost so that her back is to Neamh’s. (How dare they keep her from gazing at her one true disciple, the wise woman among all the fucking sheep.)

“Neamh! Neamh!” she calls, still struggling against the chains in hopes that they might give enough that she can break free from them. (This is not how they will end. It is not!) “This is not how we die––we promised and that means something. It has to––”

And it seems her Neamh agrees–– of course she does, for they are a mirror and always move in unison. “Yes, yes––we will survive this, because the strength of our promise––”

At that moment a rock strikes her head and interrupts her speech. Her eyes flame as she searches the crowd for the culprit, for the first time noticing the impressive audience the archbishop has managed to gather on a moment’s notice. (Then again, she guesses they all might have been enticed with the promise of communion afterwards, for their dead eyes seem to reflect that of any other eucharist addict’s gaze.) There are faces she recognizes and faces that are strange. It’s not shocking to see most of the holy men and women are present––including the convent that more or less housed her (because those animals did not raise her). They stand off to the side, looking excited and whispering among themselves. (She imagines they are taking bets on whether or not this will be the execution that finally, finally ends Iseul.) They all look like a bunch of school girl ninnies. Except for sister Joan, who is smoking a cigarette and appears bored (typical sister Joan).

Thanks to her distraction, she forgets what she had been saying to Neamh and barely registers the gasoline being poured over her feet. It’s not until the match is dropped that her attention comes back to herself, Neamh, and their predicament. The fire jumps up from their feet, licking up their calves and taking vicious bites of their flesh; the air fills with the smell of their charring meat sacks. (It has a sweetness to it, she notes, and wonders if that comes from Neamh or herself.) Her jaw clamps shut to ease the searing sensation and for as concerning as this is, with no Ego to protect her as it has so many times before, she is relaxed. She knows that all she has to do is resist. Her promise to Neamh is stronger than these flames and she will not be reduced to ashes. She will walk out of these flames the indisputable god, she decides.

Then the flame whispers in her ear, slowing down time, and confirms that she will walk out just fine but her Neamh? “You lie,” she spits, “She wouldn’t abandon me. She wouldn’t. She’s not allowed.”

“Is this really a risk you wish to take, my mistress? You know she’s fragile. She’s human.”

The god doesn’t want to believe the flame––there is just no way it can be true, because Neamh wouldn’t lie to her. Neamh will resist the flames. (…Neamh is still human.) All of these things are true, she realizes, and the truth becomes more real to the god when she recalls the memory of her follower stuck in that two week slumber with those slow healing wounds.

Neamh is a fragile thing. Neamh is going to die.

Her jaw tightens. Her eyes widen as tears threaten to spill down her cheeks and she struggles against her chains once more. She cannot lose Neamh. She will most certainly remain a lousy god if she lets her lousy follower perish and as much as she hates this flame, who keeps following them like a lost duckling, she does recognize that she has no choice in this matter. Either she fails her promise to Neamh and allows her to be burned alive or she accepts the flame’s offer and serves as a dark mistress, ensuring that Neamh’s life is still for Iseul to take.

“What is your answer, Iseul? I can free you, but you must take the helm as a dark mistress and stop playing these children’s games. You are worthy of more than wanton destruction––let me give you the tools to be the new god to these helpless sheep.”

“F-fine,” she agrees and then adds, “No fucking horses, this time. Just free us, before it’s too late––I swear if she harmed––”

“Hush, my mistress,” the flame coos with a smile, disappearing a second later. Iseul doesn’t know how she knows that, but she feels alone for a moment and then the world speeds up again. The crowd cheers loudly from all sides and, maybe it’s the haze of smoke, but Iseul swears she can see them frothing at the mouth as they watch the true god and her prophet burn. (She will smite them all for this.) At first the god is convinced that the flame has lied to her, but then she hears a gentle triple beep, followed by a click, and feels the silver manacles loosen around her wrists. Their inhibitors fall to the floor and a crazed grin splits across her face.

Like a dam breaking, power surges through the god’s veins and she wastes no time in welcoming her magic back. She expels a pulse of energy outwards, shattering the rest of her chains and shooting bits of metal into the crowd. Screams erupt from the front row as the audience is hit with shrapnel and confusion ripples through the masses. The fire at their feet changes suddenly from orange to digital blue as the flame takes over and creates a tall curtain around them, obstructing the dark mistresses from view. (To those on the outside, it may appear as though the mistresses are being further consumed by a hotter flame. Cortez seems to think such and makes an announcement, urging the audience to pray the heretics are purged.) “Make your grand entrance, my mistresses. Announce yourself to the world and bring in new converts to your faith. Your flock is waiting."