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Fic Post: Nightmares 1 - Riff
Rargh. Was supposed to kidnap ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lunalovegoddess tonight, but I didn't, because my car is a BASTARD. As if there was anyone on the planet who didn't know. *glares at Chryslerbishi*
You know, the internet is a wonderful thing. There was a line where I mentioned a zipper, andmarilla82 kindly reminded me that there weren't zippers back then. (Which is why she's my editor, and most of the time, my conscience. Heh.) And then it took me FOREVER to think of something else that would intimate them. It's still iffy, but you should have seen some of the other options. *sigh* The point being, I have Victorian men's accessories and Victorian door hardware at my fingertips. FTW!
Fandom: Count Cain
Title: Nightmares 1 - Riff
Pairing/Characters: Cain/Riff, Jizabel
Rating: R for violence
Summary: When Riff dreams there is darkness and the rending of wings.
A/N: I just finished Godchild 4 and...woah. I'm intrigued by Jizabel now and his past. You know, because I'm a WHORE for backstory. But what is with that preview page for 5!? "When I hear the music I will kill Riff!" WHAT!?! I need scans. I need translated scans and I need them NOW!! Anyway, two more parts to come. One for Cain, and one for Jizabel.
It’s impenetrably dark, and his rib cage digs into the stone floor beneath him. He can’t see, but he can hear screaming. The voice is familiar, the voice of someone he has to save. He reaches out a hand and grasps at the rough floor in front of him. Another scream rips through the darkness and he can feel every cell in his body vibrate with the sound. The ground begins to shake.
A hot breath blows across his cheek as someone leans over him. “Open your eyes Riff, are you afraid yet? Do you suffer?” This voice is less familiar, but it carries the same loneliness as the screams. He can feel the person’s presence occupying a red hot space in the cold darkness.
He opens his eyes and still sees nothing. He blinks, trying to wet them, hoping that tears will wash away whatever darkness has trapped him within himself. Nothing changes; the world is black and flat like the back of his eyelids.
The screaming stops, someone lets out a moan.
“No,” he calls out in reply to it. Don’t give up hope, he wants to scream. Don’t stop screaming. As long as you’re screaming there’s a chance someone may hear. But all that comes out is a growl from low in the back of his throat. A tendril of hair brushes his face.
“Yes,” the voice says. “I warned you. I told you there would be pain.”
“No,” he croaks weakly, his lungs struggling to work, the darkness weighing on them heavily. Another tendril of hair slides across his cheek and is followed by another and another and another. He can feel them then, countless hairs; draping, gliding, wrapping. They loop around his neck and try to push their way into his mouth.
“Stop! My lord!” he gasps. He kicks and claws at the air above him. He can’t pull the hair away and he can’t find its source. The screaming starts again and suddenly his lungs are clear. He matches the sound, fingernails digging at his skin as he rips the hair away. He opens his eyes again and this time the blackness has dimension. It goes on for eternity and he knows he is alone with the tormented one. Riff knows he has to find the owner of the voice, before it gives up entirely. Pain startles him to the realization that he is clawing the skin from his own neck and when he pulls his hands away he can see bits of it in his red stained fingernails. He…can see.
The screaming comes quicker now, a staccato of gasping and pain. Riff rolls to his feet and pushes against the weight of the darkness until he is standing. He runs. Soon, between the clips of his steps he can hear the slick, slick, slick of metal on metal. Like knives and forks in the kitchen at the manor, like a deadbolt thrown on the bedroom door, like garden shears.
He stumbles and then there is light. Torches and candelabras, and lamps create an ocean or fire that surrounds him. He feels like it will consume him, wash him away with heat. He welcomes the idea. Slick.
A hair brushes his cheek and he turns around. The doctor is there, his long, light hair tinged red at the tips to match Riff’s fingernails. He is standing over a stone tablet and holding a large pair of surgical clamps. Cain splayed across the altar. He’s silent until Jizabel reaches out one of those long, delicate fingers to stroke at the broken bones and ripped feathers of Cain’s wings, Cain shudders and emits a pitiful noise. His wings are ruined.
His wings?
Riff remembers his beautiful wings. The wings he cared for. He had brushed them and washed them, stroked them with his fingers and his tongue. Jizabel had said he would remove Cain’s wings. Riff wonders why he hadn’t believed him, why he had dared to think he could protect Cain. The doctor stands opposite him, watching him. His fingers lightly tremble with his hatred as they ghost over the red tinged tips of white that reflect the light of the fire and shine in the darkness.
Cain opens his eyes.
“Riff,” he says, and reaches out a hand. Pale fingers swim through the dark and emit the glow being absorbed by the feathers.
“Your light, sir,” Riff whispers. “It’ll leak out all over. You’ll lose it.”
“Are you suffering yet?” Jizabel asks. He slowly brings a wet finger to his tongue and tastes the blood. “Are you in pain?”
“You’ve always been by my side,” Cain whispers. Riff can hear the words echo from inside himself and emerge to clash with Cain’s. “You think you can just leave me?”
“No matter how much heaven wants you for itself,” Riff says. He reaches out his fingers to meet Cain’s. Cain sighs and closes his eyes. Jizabel laughs and slicks the shears again; the sound of hollow bone crumbling shakes Riff’s soul. Another piece of wing falls off and lands in Riff’s hand. He looks at it, trying to discern where the red ends and the white begins. When he looks up again he is alone in the sea of white. The stones at his feet shine black and wet.
~*~
Riff gasped into the darkness and squeezed his arms tightly about himself. The panic carried over from the dream caused him to shiver in spite of being drenched in sweat. He was alone. He was alone, and he’d always be that way. Then there was a small sigh in the darkness and he slowly unfolded himself. He reached across the bed and his fingers lightly traced their way from the nape of Cain’s neck to the small of his back. White, marred skin, lines for his fingers to trace. Each scar a memory of pain, but each scar was real, solid, proof that Riff was not alone. A sob wracked his body and he let it escape. It slowly rose and joined the sigh in the canopy above them to wait for a time when it would be needed again.
lunalovegoddess tonight, but I didn't, because my car is a BASTARD. As if there was anyone on the planet who didn't know. *glares at Chryslerbishi* You know, the internet is a wonderful thing. There was a line where I mentioned a zipper, and
marilla82 kindly reminded me that there weren't zippers back then. (Which is why she's my editor, and most of the time, my conscience. Heh.) And then it took me FOREVER to think of something else that would intimate them. It's still iffy, but you should have seen some of the other options. *sigh* The point being, I have Victorian men's accessories and Victorian door hardware at my fingertips. FTW! Fandom: Count Cain
Title: Nightmares 1 - Riff
Pairing/Characters: Cain/Riff, Jizabel
Rating: R for violence
Summary: When Riff dreams there is darkness and the rending of wings.
A/N: I just finished Godchild 4 and...woah. I'm intrigued by Jizabel now and his past. You know, because I'm a WHORE for backstory. But what is with that preview page for 5!? "When I hear the music I will kill Riff!" WHAT!?! I need scans. I need translated scans and I need them NOW!! Anyway, two more parts to come. One for Cain, and one for Jizabel.
It’s impenetrably dark, and his rib cage digs into the stone floor beneath him. He can’t see, but he can hear screaming. The voice is familiar, the voice of someone he has to save. He reaches out a hand and grasps at the rough floor in front of him. Another scream rips through the darkness and he can feel every cell in his body vibrate with the sound. The ground begins to shake.
A hot breath blows across his cheek as someone leans over him. “Open your eyes Riff, are you afraid yet? Do you suffer?” This voice is less familiar, but it carries the same loneliness as the screams. He can feel the person’s presence occupying a red hot space in the cold darkness.
He opens his eyes and still sees nothing. He blinks, trying to wet them, hoping that tears will wash away whatever darkness has trapped him within himself. Nothing changes; the world is black and flat like the back of his eyelids.
The screaming stops, someone lets out a moan.
“No,” he calls out in reply to it. Don’t give up hope, he wants to scream. Don’t stop screaming. As long as you’re screaming there’s a chance someone may hear. But all that comes out is a growl from low in the back of his throat. A tendril of hair brushes his face.
“Yes,” the voice says. “I warned you. I told you there would be pain.”
“No,” he croaks weakly, his lungs struggling to work, the darkness weighing on them heavily. Another tendril of hair slides across his cheek and is followed by another and another and another. He can feel them then, countless hairs; draping, gliding, wrapping. They loop around his neck and try to push their way into his mouth.
“Stop! My lord!” he gasps. He kicks and claws at the air above him. He can’t pull the hair away and he can’t find its source. The screaming starts again and suddenly his lungs are clear. He matches the sound, fingernails digging at his skin as he rips the hair away. He opens his eyes again and this time the blackness has dimension. It goes on for eternity and he knows he is alone with the tormented one. Riff knows he has to find the owner of the voice, before it gives up entirely. Pain startles him to the realization that he is clawing the skin from his own neck and when he pulls his hands away he can see bits of it in his red stained fingernails. He…can see.
The screaming comes quicker now, a staccato of gasping and pain. Riff rolls to his feet and pushes against the weight of the darkness until he is standing. He runs. Soon, between the clips of his steps he can hear the slick, slick, slick of metal on metal. Like knives and forks in the kitchen at the manor, like a deadbolt thrown on the bedroom door, like garden shears.
He stumbles and then there is light. Torches and candelabras, and lamps create an ocean or fire that surrounds him. He feels like it will consume him, wash him away with heat. He welcomes the idea. Slick.
A hair brushes his cheek and he turns around. The doctor is there, his long, light hair tinged red at the tips to match Riff’s fingernails. He is standing over a stone tablet and holding a large pair of surgical clamps. Cain splayed across the altar. He’s silent until Jizabel reaches out one of those long, delicate fingers to stroke at the broken bones and ripped feathers of Cain’s wings, Cain shudders and emits a pitiful noise. His wings are ruined.
His wings?
Riff remembers his beautiful wings. The wings he cared for. He had brushed them and washed them, stroked them with his fingers and his tongue. Jizabel had said he would remove Cain’s wings. Riff wonders why he hadn’t believed him, why he had dared to think he could protect Cain. The doctor stands opposite him, watching him. His fingers lightly tremble with his hatred as they ghost over the red tinged tips of white that reflect the light of the fire and shine in the darkness.
Cain opens his eyes.
“Riff,” he says, and reaches out a hand. Pale fingers swim through the dark and emit the glow being absorbed by the feathers.
“Your light, sir,” Riff whispers. “It’ll leak out all over. You’ll lose it.”
“Are you suffering yet?” Jizabel asks. He slowly brings a wet finger to his tongue and tastes the blood. “Are you in pain?”
“You’ve always been by my side,” Cain whispers. Riff can hear the words echo from inside himself and emerge to clash with Cain’s. “You think you can just leave me?”
“No matter how much heaven wants you for itself,” Riff says. He reaches out his fingers to meet Cain’s. Cain sighs and closes his eyes. Jizabel laughs and slicks the shears again; the sound of hollow bone crumbling shakes Riff’s soul. Another piece of wing falls off and lands in Riff’s hand. He looks at it, trying to discern where the red ends and the white begins. When he looks up again he is alone in the sea of white. The stones at his feet shine black and wet.
Riff gasped into the darkness and squeezed his arms tightly about himself. The panic carried over from the dream caused him to shiver in spite of being drenched in sweat. He was alone. He was alone, and he’d always be that way. Then there was a small sigh in the darkness and he slowly unfolded himself. He reached across the bed and his fingers lightly traced their way from the nape of Cain’s neck to the small of his back. White, marred skin, lines for his fingers to trace. Each scar a memory of pain, but each scar was real, solid, proof that Riff was not alone. A sob wracked his body and he let it escape. It slowly rose and joined the sigh in the canopy above them to wait for a time when it would be needed again.
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