[ he can feel the flowers crawling under his skin as he approaches. all that pain, all that trauma. that's what sets the mara off, right? one more heartbreak. one little trigger.
hoolay huffs out a laugh. ]
I saw. You nearly blew our cover, boy. [ it's a little hoolay. it's a little caris. mingled together, mixed. ]
I didn't tell you that you could speak to others. Do you know what happens to slaves who disobey?
[ it's a little hoolay. it's a little caris. caris was always so kind. she never said such words to him. she never laid a hand on him, not once. your highness, you nearly blew our cover. it's alright. you'll stay here, and you won't have to be scared. i'll take care of it. you'll be safe.
he lifts his chin and looks up at - hoolay, he thinks. his head hurts. hs heart hurts. he thinks of huohuo. he thinks of himself, a ticking time bomb. ]
With all due respect, sir, [ taair says - and this time, his smile is serene. ] you never told me I couldn't.
I am not very smart, you see. No one has ever kept me near for anything other than my looks.
[ this creature, this mix of things, watches him. ]
You didn't answer my question. [ he growls, stepping closer. looking down at him. he takes taair by the face. lifts, just a little, so taair is on the very tips of his toes, almost enough to choke. somewhere, a little girl starts crying. ]
Things that don't obey are useless to me. And I could use something to eat before we head out. Lucky for me, I've got a roasted bird right in front of me.
[ borisin partake in bloodwine and flesh, before every battle. you know this. you've studied this. they make a mess of their victims, tearing into them to get to the marrow. hoolay will not hesitate, here. his maw opens, and for a second - it's caris, eyes bloodshot, teeth sharp and mouth too far wide. and then it's him, it's her, it's both ripping into taair with the intention of tearing the flesh off his bones.
mara is caused by several things. one of those things is extreme pain.
as he's being pulled upwards, taair realizes very, very quickly that there's not anyone coming to get him out of trouble, this time. miguel's voice in his ears. you should learn to behave, prince. you're worthless if you're dead.
he was right, is the thing. what worth did he ever have? lost prince, kept in a gilded birdcage. less of a person and more of a bloodline, a pawn to win a chess game he was never allowed to be a part of. he's coming up, off the ground, and the fear is so virulent that it feels like his heart might explode out of his chest before his captor even takes a bite. maybe it's the gingko flowers. it must be.
in the end, the only way that taair khalisa nasir escapes fate is to die.
(but even then, did he escape it? even then, heaven beckons. heaven says we chose you to go back, if you redeem yourself. because he's disobedient. because he thought he could be free.)
caris' birdcage was always kind. his death at home was quick. relatively painless. this is the opposite. a little prey bird stands no chance in the maw of the wolf, and when hoolay bites down, he connects. any noise is choked out of him - taair doesn't even scream, because he can't, he can't even react, because the bones in his shoulder crunch under jaw pressure and flesh rips free, all feathers and blood and torn sinew. there are claws on his face and on his body, and taair has never known pain enough to be anything other than fragile. every bite hoolay takes for sustenance is a bite of succulence. well raised. well fed. well kept and well groomed. what else could you want for a meal?
his other hand flutters, scrabbles, desperately, as if he could - what? fight back? when has taair ever fought back - but it comes up. up, where all he can do is throw his arm around his shoulder, desperately. it seems like he might be trying to push this thing, this creature free, because - well, why wouldn't he be, the desperate push back of a prey animal trying to survive, but it's not survival instinct.
he's holding on, instead. arm wrapped around the shoulders of caris, of hoolay, as he, she, they consume him, like always. it's like maybe he's submitted to it, powerless in the fate of being anything but a resource, an embrace of death from a powerless little bird who knows his purpose no matter how many times he wanted to break free.
but the agony of flesh rended, over and over, starts to numb to something else, and the world around taair smells like flowers in all the blood. his mind is going and in the end, this is all he can do. all he can do is let hoolay-caris-the papal states use him, cling on in good obedience -
(and think of princess innana, still in hiding, ready to ruin caris' plan to take over iria once more - and think of a tiny little foxian girl who he has to leave alone)
[ feathers and bone and blood, a gore of a mess, splattered all across the pavilion. it's not a peaceful or graceful death.
hoolay is, to say it plainly, a messy eater. he rips into taair with no finesse. claws and rips at him, long gashes down his front, exposing bone. exposing a rib cage, a still beating heart, sluggish though it may be. he licks the blood from the wounds like a deranged animal, eyes dilated and wild from the rush of bloodwine flooding his mouth.
but there's something wrong.
... Those who have no secrets... are no more than prey... cut open and waiting for death...
Enjoy the taste of my fresh blood... Hoolay. Unfortunately, I am not a man without secrets. I still have one little secret hidden up my sleeve.
taair's vision erupts with white.
the transformation is not a pleasant one. it's probably overwhelming, on top of the claw and fangs. it hurts. the flowers rip out from under his skin and bloom bright and shiny, glowing in the shaded pavilion, and it's fast - it's overwhelming. his skin is shiny and green, carapace-like, and harder to scrape through. hoolay stops, confused for a moment, but not for long. because he's drank too much of your blood, taair, and it's tainted, infected blood, ready to spread. vines start in his stomach, crawl up through his mouth and eyes, burst through with a spray of gore, writhing. it's like a tree is sprouting from inside him, fast forward time lapses - he's overwhelmed by the mara, and he's dead before he hits the ground.
but, taair - honestly, so are you.
even a mara-struck soldier cannot withstand this amount of damage. you are fading away, bits of you shimmering and dusting as you collapse. you can hear screaming, outside, you can hear guards coming to investigate, but none of that matters to you anymore.
or maybe it does? maybe the fact that the luofu will be safe from hoolay counts.
do you have any last thoughts before you die, taair? ]
[ when the gingko flowers start to overtake everything - when his vision begins to white out - it is a strange feeling of... satisfaction.
through all of the pain and misery, through horrible, wet gasps for air from a shredded throat, through the agonizing, white-out pain of a still beating heart and a cage of a different kind, something flickers like a firelight.
the infection is taking.
caris always thought that taair's little studies were a simple way to pass the time. she even let him out, the first time, because he wanted to see a site of ancient ruins - and in that first week of freedom, he saw those ruins and started to plot a revolution against himself. the histories he writes are not the papal states pretty lies, but the true history of iria - the messy, fierce history that cuts through the propaganda of the states, exposes their mistreatment of his homeland to the open air. this quiet form of revolt was all he ever had, and he's been building it, brick by tiny, precious brick, for years.
and now, here, hoolay too - he was just a baby bird. just a meal, made to be eaten. just a prey animal, meant to be hunted. just a little puppet on a string, a mouthpiece for caris' greed, for the papal states power. but taair is much smarter than either of these predators ever gave him credit for.
and more than that, they severely underestimated just how willing he is to die.
so in the moments when his vision starts to go white, when he catches the sight of flowers bursting from hoolay's skin, he closes his eyes. the mara-struck gingko weaves through his ribcage and into his veins and out from his pores, and his last thoughts are of green, rolling hills. of the vlder mountains. of the irian river from sea to sea.
taair's last thoughts, delirious from mara-struck madness and pain, are of sitting around a campfire on a rainy night, telling stories with the king's army, connecting across enemy lines. only this time... this time, there's a little girl in his lap, telling stories with her small, chubby hands, opening her mouth and letting the future flow free.
with this, he has given everything - flesh and blood included - to his country. with this, maybe, at last, he can finally rest. maybe his life could be worth something. maybe, instead of harming the people and the nation he loves so much, maybe he can save them.
in his last moments of life, a smile on his face; with one shuddering, final breath, taair thinks of home. ]
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holyspirits) wrote2025-02-16 05:05 pm
no subject
hoolay huffs out a laugh. ]
I saw. You nearly blew our cover, boy. [ it's a little hoolay. it's a little caris. mingled together, mixed. ]
I didn't tell you that you could speak to others. Do you know what happens to slaves who disobey?
no subject
he lifts his chin and looks up at - hoolay, he thinks. his head hurts. hs heart hurts. he thinks of huohuo. he thinks of himself, a ticking time bomb. ]
With all due respect, sir, [ taair says - and this time, his smile is serene. ] you never told me I couldn't.
I am not very smart, you see. No one has ever kept me near for anything other than my looks.
no subject
You didn't answer my question. [ he growls, stepping closer. looking down at him. he takes taair by the face. lifts, just a little, so taair is on the very tips of his toes, almost enough to choke. somewhere, a little girl starts crying. ]
Things that don't obey are useless to me. And I could use something to eat before we head out. Lucky for me, I've got a roasted bird right in front of me.
[ borisin partake in bloodwine and flesh, before every battle. you know this. you've studied this. they make a mess of their victims, tearing into them to get to the marrow. hoolay will not hesitate, here. his maw opens, and for a second - it's caris, eyes bloodshot, teeth sharp and mouth too far wide. and then it's him, it's her, it's both ripping into taair with the intention of tearing the flesh off his bones.
mara is caused by several things. one of those things is extreme pain.
even your death has value. ]
no subject
as he's being pulled upwards, taair realizes very, very quickly that there's not anyone coming to get him out of trouble, this time. miguel's voice in his ears. you should learn to behave, prince. you're worthless if you're dead.
he was right, is the thing. what worth did he ever have? lost prince, kept in a gilded birdcage. less of a person and more of a bloodline, a pawn to win a chess game he was never allowed to be a part of. he's coming up, off the ground, and the fear is so virulent that it feels like his heart might explode out of his chest before his captor even takes a bite. maybe it's the gingko flowers. it must be.
in the end, the only way that taair khalisa nasir escapes fate is to die.
(but even then, did he escape it? even then, heaven beckons. heaven says we chose you to go back, if you redeem yourself. because he's disobedient. because he thought he could be free.)
caris' birdcage was always kind. his death at home was quick. relatively painless. this is the opposite. a little prey bird stands no chance in the maw of the wolf, and when hoolay bites down, he connects. any noise is choked out of him - taair doesn't even scream, because he can't, he can't even react, because the bones in his shoulder crunch under jaw pressure and flesh rips free, all feathers and blood and torn sinew. there are claws on his face and on his body, and taair has never known pain enough to be anything other than fragile. every bite hoolay takes for sustenance is a bite of succulence. well raised. well fed. well kept and well groomed. what else could you want for a meal?
his other hand flutters, scrabbles, desperately, as if he could - what? fight back? when has taair ever fought back - but it comes up. up, where all he can do is throw his arm around his shoulder, desperately. it seems like he might be trying to push this thing, this creature free, because - well, why wouldn't he be, the desperate push back of a prey animal trying to survive, but it's not survival instinct.
he's holding on, instead. arm wrapped around the shoulders of caris, of hoolay, as he, she, they consume him, like always. it's like maybe he's submitted to it, powerless in the fate of being anything but a resource, an embrace of death from a powerless little bird who knows his purpose no matter how many times he wanted to break free.
but the agony of flesh rended, over and over, starts to numb to something else, and the world around taair smells like flowers in all the blood. his mind is going and in the end, this is all he can do. all he can do is let hoolay-caris-the papal states use him, cling on in good obedience -
(and think of princess innana, still in hiding, ready to ruin caris' plan to take over iria once more - and think of a tiny little foxian girl who he has to leave alone)
-- and destroy them both from the inside out. ]
no subject
hoolay is, to say it plainly, a messy eater. he rips into taair with no finesse. claws and rips at him, long gashes down his front, exposing bone. exposing a rib cage, a still beating heart, sluggish though it may be. he licks the blood from the wounds like a deranged animal, eyes dilated and wild from the rush of bloodwine flooding his mouth.
but there's something wrong.
... Those who have no secrets... are no more than prey... cut open and waiting for death...
Enjoy the taste of my fresh blood... Hoolay. Unfortunately, I am not a man without secrets. I still have one little secret hidden up my sleeve.
taair's vision erupts with white.
the transformation is not a pleasant one. it's probably overwhelming, on top of the claw and fangs. it hurts. the flowers rip out from under his skin and bloom bright and shiny, glowing in the shaded pavilion, and it's fast - it's overwhelming. his skin is shiny and green, carapace-like, and harder to scrape through. hoolay stops, confused for a moment, but not for long. because he's drank too much of your blood, taair, and it's tainted, infected blood, ready to spread. vines start in his stomach, crawl up through his mouth and eyes, burst through with a spray of gore, writhing. it's like a tree is sprouting from inside him, fast forward time lapses - he's overwhelmed by the mara, and he's dead before he hits the ground.
but, taair - honestly, so are you.
even a mara-struck soldier cannot withstand this amount of damage. you are fading away, bits of you shimmering and dusting as you collapse. you can hear screaming, outside, you can hear guards coming to investigate, but none of that matters to you anymore.
or maybe it does? maybe the fact that the luofu will be safe from hoolay counts.
do you have any last thoughts before you die, taair? ]
no subject
through all of the pain and misery, through horrible, wet gasps for air from a shredded throat, through the agonizing, white-out pain of a still beating heart and a cage of a different kind, something flickers like a firelight.
the infection is taking.
caris always thought that taair's little studies were a simple way to pass the time. she even let him out, the first time, because he wanted to see a site of ancient ruins - and in that first week of freedom, he saw those ruins and started to plot a revolution against himself. the histories he writes are not the papal states pretty lies, but the true history of iria - the messy, fierce history that cuts through the propaganda of the states, exposes their mistreatment of his homeland to the open air. this quiet form of revolt was all he ever had, and he's been building it, brick by tiny, precious brick, for years.
and now, here, hoolay too - he was just a baby bird. just a meal, made to be eaten. just a prey animal, meant to be hunted. just a little puppet on a string, a mouthpiece for caris' greed, for the papal states power. but taair is much smarter than either of these predators ever gave him credit for.
and more than that, they severely underestimated just how willing he is to die.
so in the moments when his vision starts to go white, when he catches the sight of flowers bursting from hoolay's skin, he closes his eyes. the mara-struck gingko weaves through his ribcage and into his veins and out from his pores, and his last thoughts are of green, rolling hills. of the vlder mountains. of the irian river from sea to sea.
taair's last thoughts, delirious from mara-struck madness and pain, are of sitting around a campfire on a rainy night, telling stories with the king's army, connecting across enemy lines. only this time... this time, there's a little girl in his lap, telling stories with her small, chubby hands, opening her mouth and letting the future flow free.
with this, he has given everything - flesh and blood included - to his country. with this, maybe, at last, he can finally rest. maybe his life could be worth something. maybe, instead of harming the people and the nation he loves so much, maybe he can save them.
in his last moments of life, a smile on his face; with one shuddering, final breath, taair thinks of home. ]