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shifted_prompts2010-06-19 02:37 pm
dreaming, i
Author:
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preseaCharacter/Fandom: Emil Castagnier/
pactumPrompt: 09. Deus ex machina;
Word Count: 1,536
Summary: More on Emil’s declining mental state, especially as he croaks, courtesy d3!Master.
Author Notes/Warnings: Blood, spoilers, things that are under his personality section. Also, CLIFFHANGERS. Because that's how his dreams are.
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Emil was a coward, through and through, and yet he continued to get wrapped up in things that would most certainly kill him. His friends had the most unshakeable faith in him, but he never knew if that was because they actually believed he could contribute or because he was too pitiful to say otherwise. Those thoughts were only the beginning of the dark spiral that led to the center of Emil’s fragmented soul. With a good amount of focus, he managed to banish the negativity for a short amount of time, but he spent months with a physically and emotionally abusive family and he was told every single day that he was a worthless waste of space.
It was hard to come back from something like that.
Oh, but he was so much greater than he used to be. He actually tried to fight now. He had goals. He had something to protect. And he had… friends. Somehow they always came through for him, even when he failed at being what he swore to become - a Knight of Ratatosk.
But what did that even mean? He had someone else’s power coursing through him, something they called a Demon God. Ratatosk didn’t seem like a bad deity if his powers could restore the world, but there was something inherently vicious in the way he fought while under Ratatosk’s influence. His friends had explained Ratatosk Mode to him, but not in the amount of detail that made it seem true. No, he had the nights and the nightmares to solidify that concept, flashes of red and finding himself covered in blood that wasn’t his own. That was real.
The first time it happened was in Luin. He came to his senses almost too late. He was so close to taking Magnar’s life with his own hands, but someone’s voice - Marta’s - shook him out of it. “What did I do?!” Frightened by his own strength, Emil took off to spend some time alone. It wasn’t the seething hatred coursing through his veins that shook him, it was someone else’s blood on his knuckles, under his nails, sticking to his clothes. Emil had never taken a human life, and the monsters he’d killed were only in self-defense.
He thought - no, he knew something was wrong with him, and that was when he began to seek help. The dreams only worsened, and Richter’s advice grew more cryptic. So he found Dr. Crane. He seemed like he understood. He seemed like he could help.
And that, too, ended in disaster.
Yet throughout all of this, Emil lived. Even though he’d killed innocent people, even though he’d been an absolute monster and drawn the blood of his most special friends, people continued to regard Emil the same as always. It was both disconcerting and oddly comforting, because - he felt - no matter how crazy the events on Aselia became, he would be able to come to the Astral Plane and have someone to talk to. Marta was his lifeline, but when he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth, there was always someone else he could open up to.
He’d made a lot of progress, considering the unresolved state of his soul and all of the confusing signals he’d been given after he fell apart on the Plane. He knew a little more about sword-fighting, though Ratatosk Mode still seized him in the most dire of situations.
But he feared that wouldn’t be good enough.
The other Emil had to agree. He wanted to be in control all the time, rather than his less-than-intelligent counterpart. He hated playing second fiddle to that wimp. But Marta didn’t like that side of him. When they fought, it was usually due to something he said. (Which was stupid, in his opinion, since he was always right. Maybe Marta just liked arguing.)
It was disappointing to be weaker than someone who could barely hold a sword, but he needed more power. They’d tamed so many beasts, but they had to bring legions more under their control in order to restore the balance. Until then, Emil would be unbalanced, too.
He was unbalanced in a different way when he appeared on the Plane, though. He was reeling from Marta’s almost-death, trying to keep it together, though his anger flared hotly at any disturbance. He found himself on the Plane even though he never considered it to be home. It was too far away from the energies he fed on. It was alien and scentless and he hated it, but Emil - the wimpy one - wanted to come.
So far, Emil had lived through everything. But this time, Marta nearly died.
He wouldn’t let Richter get that close again. He’d rip that bastard’s teeth out of his skull. That half-elf, that waste of flesh would answer to him and so would that traitorous little Centurion, and all their power would be his and—
—and there was noise. That vaguely dangerous man in the strange suit was talking to him again. Annoying. Didn’t he have something better to do? Making fun of Emil inflated his ego, and if there was one thing this Emil hated it was flattering other people while demeaning himself in the process.
He wasn’t going away.
Emil turned, meaning to ask him if he understood basic Common, but then something terrible flashed in his eyes. It cut through him as easily as a sword through air, and as he fell he realized this was not the first time he’d died. But his killer this time was remorseless, driven by nothing resembling revenge. The Master’s eyes were cold and dead inside, and he seemed faintly amused.
His grip was slipping. Get up. Get up and fight back. Get up! He tried, but he couldn’t see anything. It was all red and fire, and then there were voices - Marta’s voice, cutting through the nothingness. She was there. And he would be gone. Who would protect her when Richter came back?
Who?
Idiot.
Idiot! Wake up!
Emil gasped and shuddered and nearly trembled himself right off the cold metal slab. He was still thrashing around when something cold slithered into his veins. It calmed his body immediately, but his mind raced rebelliously. His grip on the sides of the medical bed loosened, the last thing he was aware of before sliding back into unconsciousness.
When he opened his eyes again, his body was lethargic, but he could feel. He could feel. Experimentally, he squeezed his fingers and his toes, and then he opened his eyes. The rest was a blur. The Twins were there, offering him tea and no answers, and soon he was shooed away. He actually walked back into Aselia of his own accord. His own two feet. Marveling at what had happened, he touched his stomach.
He died. Emil remembered it now, though only vaguely, and from the point of view of his other self. It was like looking through someone else’s eyes, but it was his body, too. He died. He died terribly and slowly, and Marta - oh, Marta.
But he was back again, and by no natural means. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right! But he had no choice. He was given a second chance. Or maybe a third. He didn’t know, but he had to go on. He had to go on. He had to find Marta. He had to protect Marta.
Emil no longer dreamt of his parents, dead, with their eyes wide and white and cold. He only dreamt of dying himself. In place of Richter’s fierce expression, there stood the Master with an axe and a sword, grinning coldly down at Emil as he bled out onto the floor. Emil reached toward his killer, red-stained fingertips clenching around air as if it mattered.
And then it shifted. A boy in a white coat lay dead upon the stairs, and his darker-clad other self - the one with angry red eyes - stood over the body. Trapped by spectator’s horror, Emil saw the same wine-colored fingertips reach down into the mortal wound, then lift to grinning, cracked lips.
The red-eyed demon turned to Emil, who’d been rather transparent until this point.
“Your life is mine. Forever.“
“N… no! My life is my own! And so is my body!”
“This body isn’t even yours, moron.” The demon’s grin faded to a grim expression, and he actually looked somewhat sad, though it was difficult to tell beneath all that blood. “No matter what happens, we’re stuck together. You and me. So it’s high time we decided what we’re gonna do about that.”
Emil shifted uncomfortably. “But what about him?” He wasn’t sure where the question came from - wasn’t even sure he asked it. His eyes fell to the bleeding boy at the foot of the stairs, and he knew he was right to ask.
“He’s—”
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