Before I make more specific comments, I should note that I read this chapter while listening to
Clannad's soundtrack for the classic Robin of Sherwood BBC show, as a soothing link to my childhood and a steadying reminder of how this kind of commoner-vs-oppressive-state story narrative usually plays out. I felt I needed it, because
@TenfoldShields is just... deeply,
affectingly skilled at writing atmosphere. When you write Shadowrun, dude, it's like I can
feel the neon light playing over my skin. You can imagine the sense I get from this story.
Corpse-child, born of dust, born of filth, born of the unloved and the unwanted, torn from your mother, ripped from your father, your past obliterated and your future turned to ash, tell us all: how does it feel?
Scarecrow stuffed with straw, branches for bones and thread for nerves, garbage of Creation, open your mouth and say it, proclaim it with as much pride as you can because everyone wants to know: how does it feel?
Dead man walking, how does it feel?
Are you happy, carrion-thing? Are those tears of joy that trickle down your cheeks? The Sun is setting; the shadows stretch long and your liberation is at hand. Aren't you glad? Carcass, why do you cry? You're going to be set free, freed of each and every burden, every shackle shattered, every sin scourged clean in a single red instant. You're going to be reborn and no, birth is never clean but if you're lucky maybe it'll be quick. Lift your throat and be glad. Kneel and give praise. What did you have before you but another thirty, forty empty years? Everything good you've ever had is gone, gone so long that even the memories of happier times are lost, smeared across your subconscious into a bleary, blurry nothing. All you have left is the horror. All you have left are the ghosts that haunt you. Why fight on for the sake of such obscene things?
[SCREAMING INTERNALLY]
I quoted this passage to a friend and was told, "It feels like the one being spoken to is kneeling, raising their head to look at their executioner, who is a gloating, wicked thing" and... yeah, pretty much. That's the sense they got just from that passage, all out of context. I
have context. I am mired in it, drowning in it, choking on this ashen earth as Lookshy fills in the grave around me.
why must you use your powers for evil, tenfold
Y-you are not...you are not sick. You are not sick, it's the world that's sick. You are not wrong, it's the City that's wrong.
Hold on to this, Alexiuss. Whatever else, hold onto this. It is a true thing. Let it be a compass.
Despite the cost, despite his own fear, his own helpless, twisted up fury and you don't know what love is, but you think that...maybe one day you could love him.
"My commanding officer won't call off the attack. I'll have to claim you as a conscript, but they won't touch you as long as you're with me."
And for a second, for one, treasured second you don't understand.
I'm sorry for ever doubting you,
@ZerbanDaGreat.
Tell the world you shadow, you shade, how does it? How does it feel to realize that the one thing you hate more than yourself cares about you more than you ever could? That there isn't a trace of anger or clever, calculated, cunning on his face? Just agony for what he's done to you, regret and apologies and so, so much hate and none of it for you. All of it because of you.
...
In this moment, there is a story. Another path is sketched, a future writ in hope. Jason and Alexius walking away from a bloodbath, washed in each other's tears. Jason the noble scion, Alexius his bondservant, one with a voice, one with a heart, both awoken to the horror around them, resolved to change it. And bit by bit, maybe they do. Maybe they make something good, between them, grasp the cogs of the engine that is the City and turn them, grinding, a different way. Maybe.
Turn your head to stare at him, spine all but creaking like ancient hinges and hundred year old wood. Vertebrae almost squealing as they slide across each other, something snapping wetly in your brain. You don't know what he sees on your face but Jason releases you, flinches back as if scalded. Arms raised as if to shield himself from you, to ward you away. Keep moving, another step, another two and then you're lost in the crowd. Melting away into the press, one helot among the masses, and you hear him swearing, moment of misery forgotten as instincts kick back in but by then it's too late.
"ALEXIUS!"
You're already gone.
"Alexius please don't-"
You don't look back.
"(-I'm sorry)."
The door closes. The mist parts. Only blood and fire will remain.
Do not weep. It's better this way, more honest. Some things don't deserve saving.
The Sun is gone, the blackness above immutable and absolute.
I hesitated before opening this. I have a lifeline in this choking mire, and this will sever it.
...
Then the soundtrack ran out. I've spent half an hour reading and re-reading and ordering my comments on, what, half this chapter? Well I guess it's a sign. Here we go.
You thought...you thought you could warn someone, that you could save someone if you were fast enough, that maybe you could run or hide and wait it out. But walls of Ivory Bones hem you in. Past them? The fortifications you broke your backs raising, fully manned by an army thousands strong, encircling the settlement utterly; finally completed.
they make us dig our own graves. it's too much for them to pull our heads aside; they have to make us bare our throats for the blade ourselves.
You tilt your head back, half expecting to see Listener Karatzas there, impaled on the wall but no, no you suppose not. Even if she is an enemy agent, guilty of crimes against the City, she's still a holy woman. Summarily executing her would be no small thing. Do you blame her? For bringing this upon you?
No. No you don't.
oh Alexius
even at the end? even here, you have this in you?
Blinking away tears as you watch tendrils of fire slip through the seams, windinding around seasoned wood.
gentle typo, happy typo, thank you for coming, a burr in this spell, a snag on the hem of my cloak, a sign of the illusion. What would I be without you? Please, don't tell me.
There's a touch on your cheek, gentle and kind. A child's hand, you open your aching eyes in faint surprise to see a boy just...standing shin-deep in the surf. His skin grey, his throat banded by scales that might have been blue once upon a time. You can see the start of webbed spines at the back of his neck, fleshy, fanlike things along skinny arms. Ears pointed and feathering blue towards the tips, teeth sharp and sharklike. A young Dragon; with a crown hammered in the shape of laurel wreaths on his head, all but slipping down over his brow. The boy himself swallowed up by his vast, purple robes, gold trimmed and beautifully ornate. The hem floating in the water around you, billowing just beneath the surface.
Hello. You were always going to be here, weren't you? Of course you were.
I know you. I know your maker.
"Where...am I?" You ask, exhausted, too worn out to be terrified. Too ground down to be surprised.
"Dead," he replies quietly, "you died when the roof collapsed. Your body is still there, or- what's left of it. I mean. This is just a place for choosing."
"If I'm dead why," he takes his hand away and your head sags, feathery hair hanging in front of your eyes, your voice a hoarse croak "why do I need to choose anything?"
"Because you don't have to stay dead."
You laugh a little at that, a wet, unhappy sound. "Why wouldn't I rather be dead? All I did when I was alive was h-hurt-" Mother, Father, friends, family, Jason gone all...gone, everything's gone. Everyone's gone. Even you're gone now. "-I'm so tired, I don't want to keep trying."
"If Aikaterine Sidonia was on her knees before you and you had a blade in your hand, what would you do?" The boy asks.
"(Kill her)," it comes out in a whisper, a rasp from a smoke-roughened throat, but there's no hesitation.
"And if Lookshy was on its knees before you and you had a blade in your hand, what would you do?"
You swallow, shoulders rising and falling as you draw in a breath. As you slowly exhale.
"I'd kill it."
"Why?"
It's interesting, here, what this vote
isn't. We don't get to choose what Alexius wants to do, going forwards. We don't get to choose what he feels about Lookshy. That was never going to be in doubt: abused ex-slave that he is, he was never going to turn around and decide "maybe Lookshy had a point, if not for these few institutions-" no. Kill it. The whole rotten edifice is founded on forcing the menial work onto a slave class, then brutalising them to keep them in line and define the line between the castes by who gets to hold the whip. It is bullying, the kind of person who can only feel big by making others feel small, writ large as an entire social order. It deserves only the fire.
[X] Because it's the only way for this to end. Because the only freedom you or any helot could ever have would be on the backs of a million Lookshyan dead. Fine then. If you had a choice you'd buy it with their blood.
Drive the blade in deep, and let the hot rush of blood wash away the marks of chains.
Sic semper tyrannis.