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7/12/2025, 11:43:57 AM
>Timeskip end III: the third one
It was, honestly, a mistake anyone might've made. You might've made it. Henry should've caught it, but he was standing in the shadows, and the glorb-light was dim. Claudia bids you to take off your shoes and your socks, and turn your hands palm-side up, and to bite down on a rag— part of the ritual? "Not really. I don't think?" She looks at Henry.
"It's to curb the screaming. Charlotte might not need it."
You eschew the rag and endure the knife silently: if you imagine yourself half-outside your body, it doesn't feel like much of anything. Claudia's hands are steady— the goo, no doubt— but her brow is lined. She is carving spirals into your palms and your heels. She gets three of them right. On the last, she stops too soon, failing to join the spiral into itself.
Until later, nobody will notice. For now, Claudia grinds your bleeding palms and heels into the dirt, then presses your palms against your eyes, and your heels against each other. Stay still. Breathe this. (The rag, now wet, is pressed against your nose and mouth.) Breathe deep. Real deep. Henry by the wall is saying something softly and without stopping. Hold your breath. Never let go. Your lungs are stone. Now turn your wrists... like this. And your heels... like that. It should be painful. It needs to be painful. It's okay if the bones crack, right, Henry? I should think the Great WYRM prefers if they crack. She's not saying anything, Henry. Steady on, C.R. That means she's cooperating. If she didn't like how this was playing out, she could break loose, just like that. A finger-snap sound. Don't you remember what she is? But I can help with the hard part, if you like.
Your hardened wrists are taken, and the back of your head. Smaller hands grasp your knees. No hesitation, please, C.R. Here, feel her cheek. Like plaster. Here, try to pry her feet apart. No budging. She'll be happier out of all that. Now, the knees, please.
Your knees are taken, and four arms apply abrupt violent force, such that your palms smash through your eye-sockets and your legs crack free at your shins and you feel cold, cold, cold air. You feel light and wiry. Your arms are frozen in casts, but have cracked at the shoulders, and wise and useful Henry is already working them free of you, and once they are loose it is simple to pry yourself out of the cage and emerge, stickily, into the dark.
"Oh fuck," Claudia says. "Oh fuck!" Henry is smiling and his eyes are dark. You are coated thickly in red everywhere. You are scaled and strong, but you were already, and your eyes are dark, and the spirals cut holes in your hands and feet. And your mind: you are lurching forward, and Henry is ahead of you, opening the door for you. And then you were gone out of it.
(1/3)
It was, honestly, a mistake anyone might've made. You might've made it. Henry should've caught it, but he was standing in the shadows, and the glorb-light was dim. Claudia bids you to take off your shoes and your socks, and turn your hands palm-side up, and to bite down on a rag— part of the ritual? "Not really. I don't think?" She looks at Henry.
"It's to curb the screaming. Charlotte might not need it."
You eschew the rag and endure the knife silently: if you imagine yourself half-outside your body, it doesn't feel like much of anything. Claudia's hands are steady— the goo, no doubt— but her brow is lined. She is carving spirals into your palms and your heels. She gets three of them right. On the last, she stops too soon, failing to join the spiral into itself.
Until later, nobody will notice. For now, Claudia grinds your bleeding palms and heels into the dirt, then presses your palms against your eyes, and your heels against each other. Stay still. Breathe this. (The rag, now wet, is pressed against your nose and mouth.) Breathe deep. Real deep. Henry by the wall is saying something softly and without stopping. Hold your breath. Never let go. Your lungs are stone. Now turn your wrists... like this. And your heels... like that. It should be painful. It needs to be painful. It's okay if the bones crack, right, Henry? I should think the Great WYRM prefers if they crack. She's not saying anything, Henry. Steady on, C.R. That means she's cooperating. If she didn't like how this was playing out, she could break loose, just like that. A finger-snap sound. Don't you remember what she is? But I can help with the hard part, if you like.
Your hardened wrists are taken, and the back of your head. Smaller hands grasp your knees. No hesitation, please, C.R. Here, feel her cheek. Like plaster. Here, try to pry her feet apart. No budging. She'll be happier out of all that. Now, the knees, please.
Your knees are taken, and four arms apply abrupt violent force, such that your palms smash through your eye-sockets and your legs crack free at your shins and you feel cold, cold, cold air. You feel light and wiry. Your arms are frozen in casts, but have cracked at the shoulders, and wise and useful Henry is already working them free of you, and once they are loose it is simple to pry yourself out of the cage and emerge, stickily, into the dark.
"Oh fuck," Claudia says. "Oh fuck!" Henry is smiling and his eyes are dark. You are coated thickly in red everywhere. You are scaled and strong, but you were already, and your eyes are dark, and the spirals cut holes in your hands and feet. And your mind: you are lurching forward, and Henry is ahead of you, opening the door for you. And then you were gone out of it.
(1/3)
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