Chapter 41: Loosened Up

"I'm sure I've done worse."​

Edwin had broken your arm. Again. You clutched onto the limb— trying not to scream, tears streaking down your face— as you glared back up at the monster. He was hardly bigger than you, but the kid was intensely violent. You suspected that his parents beat him (with how often he was out of their sight).

You wanted to show him Mercy. He never was able to reciprocate. He took advantage, somehow always finding a way to track you down when you were dealing with a headache. Now he's kicking the fractured bone. It elicits a proper scream from you.

You can't stand it. The years of abuse. The absolute agony. Being unable to help on the farm for months at a time. Your Father is a devotee to Flesh, and often could help with the recovery— but you can't take it anymore. You have to do something about his sniveling face, that upturned nose, and his bushy eyebrows furrowed in misplaced anger.

He kicks you again. "Get up, Richard, you scarecrow! Get up! Where's your Mercy now, huh? Where is She? They hate you too, you know! Everyone does! Let's see Her heal this—!"

You aren't crying. You're so angry— so righteously angry— that your thin limbs are trembling. There's only one thing on your mind. It's not compassion, or protection, or healing.

It's Vengeance.

Music

Dry, sage and utterly disgusted eyes glare back at your tormentor with such intensity that he actually takes a step back. You open your mouth to curse him. Not to call for help— not to beg for Mercy— but to strike him down with all of the hate you've harbored for your short life. Bile comes out instead. It's thick, black, and utterly toxic. It flows over your lips and into the soil before you.

A scream rises from Edwin. He is screaming, screaming, and Gods does it sound heavenly. Rising terror and years of pain crushes into his frame.

The screams sounds better than any hymn or litany. You reach out. Despite the broken limb, you feel something so much better than even the hot white pain.

It's satisfaction. It feels unbelievably good. You've never felt anything like it before. There's power, and a connection to something so much greater than you it robs you of all knowledge of the pain in your arm or head or soul.

There's blackness

​

A deep pit.​ A well.​ An utter absence of empathy.​

There is no Mercy.​

You vomit intensely. Blood and bile pours out onto the floor in front of you. With it, you feel all of Edwin's hatred. Everything that's driven him to hurt you so many times before.

There is a little boy, beaten and broken over and over again in a life that he cannot escape. He cannot ever hope to find reprieve. Bent and wounded by the hands of his caretakers, he has sought power and control by lashing out against the world that he hates. Through finding someone who won't fight back— who won't cry— he finds someone who won't get him beaten again.​

There's a cracking sound. It's so loud it makes you jump, despite your sickness. There's another snap, and another. The boy in front of you is on the floor— Gods, is he screaming— and you watch with complete satisfaction as his bones shatter. The reciprocation is immediate and absolutely devastating.

You feel it too. The same pain he's inflicted on you, and on everyone you know he's lashed out at. You clutch at the soil, body ravaged with the might of it.

There's something worse still. A crack. A fracture. Not in your bones— but in your very soul.

You didn't know the name for it at the time, but you instantly recognized it for what it was. What it would do to you.

The end of your humanity.

The end of everything.

The Catalyst.

You can't scream through the might of crimson and darkness, but you feel yourself slipping. Your mind races. Your heart beats so quickly it's humming. You feel yourself being pulled, like every fiber of you is crushed back together and made into something far worse than the nightmares whispered to you by your tormentors. Worse still than anything you could wish to inflict on another.​

There's more screaming. It's your mother, dropping the basket of crops she's carrying— running towards you, stricken with panic.

You crash back into yourself. The flow of liquid hatred subsides as you curl into yourself— clutching at your arm— never taking your eyes off of Edwin's utterly broken body.

His breath is ragged. Some of his bones are protruding from the skin. Others are blossoming into bruises and blood beneath. He can clearly feel everything, though he must be in too much pain to speak.

You get to your feet, clutching your head as the pain redoubles. It's somehow worse than your broken limb. The blood and bile subsides enough for you to spit on Edwin's broken body. You feel no pity for him. Not when you know with absolute certainty that he never felt any for you. Not when you know beyond all doubt that this is nothing he hasn't done to anyone else before. Not when you know that the Gods are Merciful, and Vengeful, and that they worked through you and you survived.

"Richard?! What's— what's wrong with you?! Oh, by all the Gods—! What have you done?!"

Yech's mouth hangs open, with a fair bit of wine trickling out onto the table between the two of you. You skewer another slice of meat, digging into it greedily as you finish the story.

The demon lord just stares, and stares.

You swallow your satisfaction— the catharsis— of finally being able to voice the entire tale. "I've never been able to t-talk about thish before, for— for obvioussh reasssonsh. I m-mentioned it to Malimossh, but he didn't sheem to care. My friendsh... Gwen asshked why they hadn't killed me outright. People have been trying, Yech. Ever since. People don't forget Vengeanshe."

Picking his feet back off the table, Yech slowly gets up, comes around the table, and sits in the chair adjacent to you. He's looking at you with something you've never seen before.

You realize it's admiration.

"That's— that's incredible. You're fucking incredible. Seriously? Just like that— as a fucking kid?"

Another swig of wine. You're way past the point of restraining yourself. "It wash a long time c-coming, Yech. I had sshuffered a lot."

"So you— you don't regret it? I mean, how could you, you survived the fucking Catalyst— and—" The demon lord splutters for a moment, unable to finish his sentence.

You finish it for him. "And Vengeanshe, yeah. I d-don't. I wisssh more people would undershtand." You're so full and intoxicated that you can barely stay upright. Slinging an arm around Yech, you lean forward. "Thanksh fer bein' sho undershtanding."

He doesn't pull away, looking back at you with what you almost imagine to be a slight grin. He seems utterly floored, though not at a loss for words. "I mean, fuck, what can I even say to all that? I wish I could have done the same to a few people myself—! Ahaha!"

You lean back while stretching, look sidelong at the demon lord, and take a bit more wine from him. "Enough 'bout me! Letsh hear about you!"

"Oh, no. No fucking way!"

You offer the same goofy smile as before, settling back down into your seat. "I wanna know. Did y-your fantashtic knowledge of alcohol and s-spiritsh come from your Catalysht?"

Yech can't help but smirk. The compliment did the trick. He can't stop himself from boasting. "Are you shitting me? I've always had taste, Richard. Always. My subjects were always treated well, and my dinner parties were the talk of the— wait. Fuck you. I said I wasn't answering any questions about me—"

"Alwaysh, huh?" Your smile broadens. "Who w-were you, then?"

Another groan. "You're so fucking annoying. Fine. Fine! If it isn't fucking obvious, I was a Lord. Very well respected, might-I-fucking-add. I was Lord Yarbury, of quite a nice fucking bit of land. Some vineyards. My wife called me Eric— may her cheating, back-stabbing, worm-riddled ass rest in peace— but my friends called me Yech. And by friends, I mean the bastards who were grabbing for my land and title and pretended to want to drink with me."

You nod your head, accepting more wine. You can't ever remember feeling this full, and want to loosen your belt again. (Only) sipping at your drink (for the first time in what must be hours), you look up to Yech with a fair bit of sympathy. "Shorry to hear all th-that. How did ssshomeone like you end up down here, th-then?"

"Same as the rest of these fucking losers. I fucking lost it. Having the only thing you care about burned to the fucking ground, your wife stabbing your damn back and not knowing who you can trust has a fucking way of pushing a guy to do some twisted shit."

Another nod. You're nodding a lot, but you don't want to sleep. This is vastly more interesting than reliving bar fights or trauma. "Like w-what...?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to say. You're pretty fucked up too, maybe you'd appreciate it. I don't fucking know—"

You try to reassure the demon lord, not caring in the slightest for the jab at you. "Of courshe."

"I got so fed up with the shit— the pillaging, the purging, the fucking woman— I sort of, well—" Yech downs his goblet's entire contents. He doesn't look to you, but rather looks past you as he finishes. "I might have killed all of those bastards that were stabbing me in the back. And the wife. With my hands. Not the soldiers, though. They were fair game for the explosives."

You push your goblet away. "I shee."

"Oh don't give me that shit. I'd never— I mean, you're— shut the fuck up. Shut up, Richard. You don't even know what you're talking about. You're drunk off your ass and wouldn't know a killer or an assassination if it hit you in your busted face."

A heavy silence sits between you both. You feel heavier. The call of sleep is hard on you— but you stay upright, knowing that you can't rest now.

Yech seems to come around on his own, clearly uncomfortable with the silence as he looks back at you. "I wouldn't fucking kill you. Don't insult me."

"I don't mean any offenshe..." You jerk your head upright, nearly drifting off. "Thish hasss been great." Looking around the cave, to Ray, and back to Yech, you offer yet another goofy smile. "Y-you're great."

Your gaze settles on your taut robes. The collar is smeared with wine from Yech grabbing you, there's a reek of liquor and skeletal demon lord all over your body, and you can feel your shirt underneath straining from the huge meal you've had. Has your stomach ever not been flat? You don't want to sound ungrateful for Yech and what he's done for you, but your frown returns quickly. "I— I look awful. Thish ish a bad look for me. Can I s-shtay here? For the night...? Can you shend one more n-note to Ofelia and Shelegwen?"

It's almost as if the skull next to you is frowning as well. "You can't be serious."

"N-no. I'm sherious. They c-can't shee me like thish."

"You're fine. Really. Go knock 'em dead. Literally, for all I care."

"Am I making you unc-comfortable?"

"Very, you fucking creep. I don't want to babysit your ass, and I'm not letting a fucking psychopath sleep here with me, no matter how decent of a guest you make—"

"Lishten here—" Standing upright for the first time in what has likely been hours, you stagger. The floor gives out from under you.

You grasp onto the table adjacent to stay on your feet— swiftly finding your balance— and whip your head back around to Yech. "I haven't harmed anyone— n-no demon in theshe ruinsh— that hashn't threatened my life firsht."

Yech stands up as well. He really is much shorter, as his skull reaches just to the top of your chest. The demon's voice somehow becomes higher pitched through his bristling and disgust. "Oh, yeah, sure. Sure you haven't. And I bet Malimos fucking around with you and the dog was absolutely deserving of—"

Eager to shut down his accusations, you spit back, "nothing. He wash far too powerful. Too ancient. I've called on Vengeanshe sho many timesh before, Yech, and never like that."

There's a pause. He registers the implication, but asks anyways. "You what now?"

You lean in a bit, and poke at your chest, absolutely loving how healthy it feels. You could really get used to this, but take even more satisfaction in your next few words.

"I didn't shurvive the Catalysht just onshe." The demon lord leans back slightly as you move closer. "I've shurvived it thirty-one timesh now, for every. Single. Time that I've invoked Vengeanshe." You prod yourself with each stressed syllable. He looks like he's going to pass out from the shock of what you're saying. You straighten up— looking down your busted face at Yech— as you stress the point home.

"And I'm still standing."

You corner Yech as he collapses into a chair. He puts both skeletal hands to his head as he looks away from you. "That's impossible. That's fucking impossible. You're lying."

You're far too drunk for this. You collapse in the chair across from him— but maintain your self-respect— staying upright and glaring at him with the utmost intensity. "It'sh true. It hash to be. I'm s-still here. Unaffected by the Catalysht."

Yech is speechless. The demon lord passes several moments in silence, simply digesting what this means. He keeps glancing up at you, then back to his wine goblet, and back to you again.

"Excuse me for a moment—" he murmurs, walking over to one of the casks across the cave. His back turns to you for another moment as he fills a new pair of glasses with something smoking.

You watch him intensely as he sets down two flaming shots in between you both. He raises one, looking to you with more admiration than you've ever known in your entire life.

He doesn't need to say anything.

You blow out the flame of your respective glasses together, taking the shots back and looking to each other: him with extreme respect, and you, for once, with some self-worth.

A few long minutes pass in silence as you both quietly appreciate the company and mutual understanding.

Yech finally breaks the quiet. Leaning back, he looks to the seemingly endless ceiling and stairs with his mouth agape. "Does anyone else know this shit? They have to, right? That doesn't just happen. That— that's never happened, has it? Even you're not that crazy. No one is that crazy. This is crazy."

"The chursch," you murmur. "The firsht many timesh were their doing. They f-forced me to. Mershy, too, but it was never as bad with Her."

"That's really fucked up. How can you fucking stand to, you know?" The demon gestures to your holy symbol, your robes, and your scars.

"They're shtill my f-family. The King and hish court knowsh t-too, of courshe. I wouldn't be able t-to hide, even if I w-wanted to."

A sudden, dark realization crosses over Yech's face. He puts a hand on your shoulder. "You really wanted to die down here, too, didn't you? You sorry piece of shit—"

Angst lances your smile. "It'sh pretty obvioush, right?"

The bones on your shoulder tighten reassuringly. "I want to hear about it. All of it. Thirty-one times. You're amazing. I can't believe you. I need to hear it. Let's get you a fucking bed and something that doesn't reek like death and good wine. I'm not letting you sleep until I hear all of it."

The sorcerer produces a comfortable change of clothing and some proper sleeping accommodations for you while you see to Ray. Another note is dictated for Ofelia and Celegwen.

You stay up for several more hours, at least. Elaborating on all of the invocations is absolutely grueling. You were only eleven years old when you crippled Edwin. That very same year your "training" had started.

Gradually, you warm up to the effort of talking about your prior encounters with the Catalyst. The demon is absolutely riveted with the ordeal. He barrages you with questions throughout the story, and altogether stops plying you with liquor after the second and third account. He seems to favor giving encouragement when it's too difficult to go on.

By the end of it, your eyes are heavy, your words are faint, and you catch up to your time in the ruins. Yech is particularly disgusted with your invocation of both Flesh and Vengeance to carve up and create a living bridge out of a demon, but he's equally impressed that you didn't immediately die from the attempt.

"Her name was Nehliht, Richard. She wasn't a fucking carrion beetle. Looked like one, maybe. A cannibal and a twisted, overgrown bitch, maybe. But she had a name. Show some fucking respect."

"Nehliht. Sshe wassh more f-formiddable than any of them. Gwen wassh sho mad. Thought I wash crazy for what I did..."

"You are, Richard. You're a fucking lunatic. You shouldn't be alive. Try and get some sleep. It's a fucking wonder that you still can."

"Wait—"

Before Yech can protest or pull away, you do something you've never done before.

You give him a hug.

The demon's bones audibly click as his spine completely straightens. "What are you doing, Richard? What is this shit? I had a wife, Richard, and I don't care how much of a pervert you are—"

"I'm jusht hugging you. It'sh okay. Th-thank you."

"Stop it. I hate it. I hate you. Get some fucking sleep."

"Hug me b-back, Yech. Don't m-make me show you more Mershy."

"You sick fuck, you'd like that, wouldn't you—"

"You're shmiling, Yech. I can see your teeth."

"My teeth are always visible, Richard, you fucking asshole."

"Don't make it thirty-two timesh, Yech—"

"I haven't done shit to you. What are you going to do, show me a good time? "

You frown and pull away, realizing that the demon lord is altogether too stubborn to return your fleeting affection. Yech stands back up, wiping his vest off as if you had soiled it. "I hear you sleep like the fucking dead. Confetti okay as an alarm, or do you prefer the sound of your victims' suffering...?"

Straightening your new shirt— which fits properly— you offer a frown instead. "Neither."

"Confetti it is. Sweet fucking dreams."

You slide back under the covers, vaguely aware that you smell like liquor again thanks to hugging Yech. You can't really care.

You'd consider this a success.