Title: REVENANT
Author: Eram_Quod_Es
Warnings: AU, slight OOC-ness in the beginning, language, probably confusing content, an almost unacceptable lack of Alfred in this chapter
Summary: "So I will destroy the gods." Everything changed when Ivan began his new life alone in an unfamiliar city. When the Fae strike and a contract is formed with the apparitional anomaly Alfred, he finds himself with the power to change the world and, just possibly, the chance to save it.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Third END: the lamb that became a wolf
-o—o-
Ivan spends the rest of the day searching for a sewing kit and then contemplating the dangers of setting foot outside his house when he realizes that Katyusha has taken it with her to the Selkie Prefecture. There is still the very real danger that the wardstones might fail; it wasn't unheard of for the stones to deactivate multiple times within a week while trying to return to stable levels.
But even as he thinks of just returning to bed to sleep away the awkward twinges of pain in his abdomen, he feels the familiar pangs of hunger. Checking the old, stuttering refrigerator, he sees that the food that he had only just bought the day before has browned and spoiled; the pungent odor filling his nostrils causes him to stumble back. He clutches his nose and stares once more into the illuminated interior, watching the sticky drippings of a ruined peach as it soaks into the bottom of a sweating carton of old, curdled milk.
What has happened, he asks to himself. He swerves around and checks the screen embedded into the adjacent wall, tapping buttons on the digital home organizer to pull up the calendar. It reads February 12th, almost three weeks since he'd last checked the date.
"What…why is it…?" he mutters disbelievingly. Three weeks have passed since that fateful venture to the School. He scours his mind for any other indications that he's slept for over a fortnight. As he thinks of it, Arthur kept saying 'that night,' not making any indications as to when it happened. He peers at his counters and finds the dust layer slightly thicker than before.
He takes a shuddering breath before stepping over to the kitchen window and drawing the dusty curtains away, a watery ray of sun falling through. Outside, the banks of snow that once lined the streets has become a muddy slush thin enough to see brown tufts of grass peeking up. Winter has moved on without him.
Ivan chews his bottom lip in agitation before grabbing a bucket and a pair of rubber gloves to begin hurriedly shoving as much of the rotten food into the receptacle as possible. As he carries the biodegradable muck to the compost heap out back, he tries to wrap his head around the situation. His heart clenches.
This isn't happening to him. Not to Ivan Braginsky, the son of two simple farmers from an isolated prefecture. This is all some terrible dream. He's slipped and fallen on some ice patch in the middle of the city, hallucinating.
The old house, the torn clothes, the pain, and especially Arthur Kirkland and his mad words are all part of some delusion, some waking dream he'll awaken from in a hospital room, no worse for wear except a few stitches.
He pinches himself, then kicks the wall of his shed, letting loose a small avalanche of slush that covers his head.
He shakes off the drizzling ice and almost sobs.
He'll wake up soon. Even if everything he does hurts, everything he touches feels real—
This is a dream.
He'll wake up soon.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
The true strangeness begins as he's checking out from the grocery store.
The cashier is packing his new groceries into the large, cloth sack that most shoppers carry around. Should they forget to bring something to carry the bulk of their purchases in, it costs extra credits to purchase bags from the store.
As the teenager sets down the bread and turns to tell him his total, Ivan readily shoves his ID card into the other's hand. He could have gone with a bracelet or band, just like the modern fashions dictated, but the assurance of a scan card over a piece of plastic that can easily break should he hit something too hard was too much to pass up.
The girl slashes the card and stares at the screen, waiting for the transaction to process. Ivan stares at the loose curl of her ponytail, easily seeing her face morph from apathetically bored to startled in under a second. She gasps and swiftly turns her eyes to him, a pretty blue color just like—
Just like…he can't remember.
The cashier quickly shoves the card back into his outstretched hand, eyes and mouth trembling.
"What is the problem?" he asks, glancing at his card before pocketing it in his woolen jacket. He feels naked without the old, heavy coat; but how could he possibly wear it with that gigantic, bloodied hole?
She swallows thickly before shaking her head, "N-no problem, sir. Just, uh...just please sign!" She whips the display around so he can sign with the attached stylus. He grabs the plastic pen, readying to sign, when his eye catches the sidebar of information displaying his picture and basic info. A pulsing gold symbol of what looks like a filled circle, a crescent moon resting its greater curve along the top, pulses idly on the screen next to his ID code.
He has never seen this sign before. Its presence strikes something in him, a hard ball in his stomach that feels like anger and despair clinging to each other.
"S-sir…?" he smiles. He signs his name, and then neatly places the stylus back into its holster. He glances at the girl, smiles wider, and chuckles.
"Are you sure there isn't a problem?"
He turns the screen around, and she shakes her head, "Good. That's good to know."
Even as he takes the heavy bag of groceries, he smiles. And even as he leaves the store. And even as he returns home.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
I am dreaming
I am dreaming
I am dreaming
I am dreaming I am dreaming I am I am I am—
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
It only gets worse, of course.
In the days following the incident at the grocery store, he begins writing applications for temporary jobs, things to hold him over until he finishes school. He's not in danger of running out of savings, but he hates relying on the inheritance of his parents.
He accesses the online job bank and searches for jobs that he can easily do alongside his schooling, painstakingly fills in the applications, and creates video interviews for the AI questionnaire. Usually it would take a couple days to hear back, but within the hour he receives letters giving their condolences and apologies about not being able to accept him as a worker.
He makes a request asking why, but receives no immediate reply. He waits for a few days, checking his messages every couple of hours, until he finally grits his teeth and phones the stores and services he's applied to. Each time he phones a place, after speaking his name to the electronic call screener, he is immediately disconnected.
On his last call, he manages to catch a human call answerer. He requests to see the manager about an interviewer, saying that he's already sent out an application. The woman on the video screen smiles at him and doesn't even bother to check before patching him to the manager of a small gardening store a couple blocks from his house. The manager greets him easily enough, but immediately scowls upon hearing Ivan's complaint of not receiving a reason as to why he was rejected from his application.
He pulls up the files and Ivan can visibly see his face purple in a silent rage. Before he can quite adjust to the manager's abrupt color change, the middle-aged man is spitting at the screen, "YOU! YOU'RE THAT PUNK!"
Ivan refrains from rubbing his ears; even if the speaker rests a foot away from him, the sheer volume is enough to make him cringe. He can faintly hear the secretary from before calling to see if the boss is alright.
The manager arrests Ivan with a cold stare before biting out, "We don't accept your kind here. Don't even think of stepping foot within my store. I'll shoot you dead, you fucker."
The video cuts to black, and the end-call tone rings through his ears like a siren like a siren like a siren like a—
He punches redial, and finds himself immediately blocked from the number.
Ivan can feel a buzzing in his head, like angry, vicious hornets.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
And in the interim he dreams of terrible things.
Like monsters and shadows and worlds beyond his human eye.
And always they are grasping at him. He feels his body on higher ground, the gravity of a dense star pulling relentlessly at his heels, and inch by grating inch it pulls his haven down.
Closer and closer and closer and closer and—
Then the blue eyes come. They look familiar, and at once he can breathe again because they disperse the darkness and pull forth a sense of calm Ivan is sure he's felt before, but cannot place.
They stare up at him, two simple eyes, as if waiting for him, and though he tries to speak, he cannot find his voice.
He thinks he hears a voice, calling his name…
Closer and closer and closer and—
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
The final straw comes on a Sunday afternoon, when the sun is milky and the air damp.
A sudden rainfall in the early morning has left the sidewalks sheathed in a heavy layer of ice, and overcast skies constantly drip a small, unpleasant drizzle. February may be warmer, but the nights are cold enough to freeze the rain where it sits in stagnant puddles.
Ivan attempts a stroll to stretch his legs. A stint of bad weather the week before had left him cooped up within his silent house. Even if before he had said he could stand being within that house alone, so long as he didn't have to interact with the outside, now it just feels oppressive. He can always sense something within the home, like shifting shadows and phantasms, though he's never seen any truly positive evidence. His dreams are even worse. He hasn't felt well-rested since he awoke to Arthur Kirkland in his abode.
Ivan is sure he must be going crazy. It's all he can do to force himself to sleep, and when he does manage to sleep, he has such a difficult time waking up it's almost as if he's fallen into a coma. More often than not, he'll find himself falling asleep at nine at night, and only just able to wake up at seven in the evening the next day.
He had attempted to see a doctor and a psychologist, though he was immediately refused to be seen by both upon the verification process of his ID.
He's at his wit's end about what to do. No matter what he tries, whether it be candles and incense, hot baths before bed, meditation and the recitation of positive thoughts, warm milk, any healthful herbs he could think of—it all fails to assuage his tormented mind.
He doesn't realize he's stepping onto an icy patch of pavement in the middle of an intersection, following a crowd of people, before it's too late. Three others fall with him; two girls, and a man that had previously been chattering away on his compaqboard. If Ivan recalls correctly, he had dully noted a couple of other people falling off in the distance, a few minutes before he had physically arrived at the street.
He offers a hand to the man, who is brooding over his cracked board screen, while the two girls pull each other up.
A horn sounds, and Ivan can only watch in a sort of horrified fascination as a car skids through a turn, right in front of where the stalled group is standing. It's like a siren, he thinks, like a siren like a siren like a siren like—
Glass breaking and bones bursting apart. Blood on the street, oh help me I want to live to live to live—!
He blinks at the crushed hood of the car in front of him, the driver screaming as she touches a gash on her forehead from slamming into the steering wheel. His group of once-fallen comrades is silent behind him, staring in awe as he pulls his mangled hand out of the grill.
The pain doesn't register, only the sight of the car and its sleek design, pushing into his form like butter, only to be stopped as though it's hit a brick wall. He wants to scream, but finds his words swallowed in the sudden realization.
The two girls whimper and clutch at each other, while the man with the compaqboard backs away, muttering quickly into the mobile phone about 'the man that had just single-handedly stopped a car.'
In his mind, all Ivan can think is monster. In his heart, all he can feel is hopelessness.
He looks in their eyes and can only see himself, twisted and warped and fading away like a wraith into the night.
And so, he walks. Away from the gathering crowd of onlookers. Away from the wreckage of a scene that should have killed him. And away from a life that tried desperately to cling to 'normalcy.'
He's in front of his neighbor's house before he's pulled from his daze. The call of his next-door neighbor catches him off guard, and he can't help but turn around to face the man whom he had never officially met, though had seen outside on occasion, walking a dog.
The man was short, with light blond hair and gentle violet eyes that held a strangely enticing iridescence. Currently, the man was holding onto the leash of his small white dog, and glancing worriedly at Ivan's hand.
"What happened?" the other asks, reaching for the mottled limb. Ivan allows him to take the appendage, too numb to care much what the other did. He didn't know what to do anymore, where to turn.
Maybe he wanted to savor the kindness of someone before they realized what he actually was.
The man asked something, to which he nodded, though what he'd agreed to he had no clue. The other pulled him inside his house and through a foyer before entering into a kitchen area. He was set down at a small, wooden table and told to wait while the man bustled around, searching in a cabinet for a first aid kit.
The kitchen area was clean and warm, gleaming in the overhead lights. Ivan could only look and think that this is what a home looked like; lived in, unlike his own sterile version.
The man bustled over after a minute and placed a white box on the table, opening it to reveal several packages of bandages and gauze, along with antiseptic. He readied a wet cloth with water and held Ivan's hand, splaying the bloodied fingers, before gently smoothing the towel over the digits.
The towel stains pink, but only pulls away to reveal smooth, pale skin. The other's eyes widen a bit, but continue to work diligently until the entire hand is clean. Ivan can only stare, before retracting his hand and holding it in front of his face.
Nothing is there. No cuts or gashes, scars or bruising. He is sure it had been sliced apart and mangled beyond recognition. But now…
"I figured this would happen," the man says, taking his hand again and smiling. He kneads the appendage, digging in to feel the muscles and bone. Giving it a clean bill of health, he sets it down on the table. "I knew something was bound to go wrong. I worried that it might involve others to a negative extent, but…"
"How do you know that that wasn't someone else's blood?" Ivan breaks in. Ice runs down his spine at the realization that this man is, he—
"Because. Our blood smells different from theirs', y'know. It's a unique scent for everyone. To me, all of our kind smells like mint. I pity one person I know; he says that everyone smells like—!"
"What do you mean?" Ivan cuts in, standing from his chair.
The man smiles and stands as well, looking him square in the eye. Those iridescent, violet hues laugh at him, "I've been watching you Mr. Braginsky. Waiting for you to crack."
The man gives a wistful sigh, "That's the sad thing, I guess. We have to break you before we can make you better, right?
Ivan snarls and attempts to loom over the other, the task easily accomplished as the much shorter man tilts his head back.
"Ah, Arthur said you'd be a little volatile. I don't blame you, though. I think I was the same exact way when I found out! But yes. I was watching over you to make sure you transitioned smoothly. I can't say it has, but at least you're getting there," the man steps out from under Ivan's shadow. "So what will you do now?"
Ivan blinks at the brush-off. This little man is not as easily intimidated as the bushy-brows that came before him. He sighs, and feels all his anger dry up with it. Now all he is, is hollow; a ship adrift without wind or sail.
"I don't know," he finally mumbles, shifting to stare at the bloodied towel. Everything feels too surreal at the moment. Like a dream he can't wake up from. The image of his death replays in his mind, and how, at the very last second, something within him said, 'yes, I want to live.'
"Might I suggest going to the Gathering Tree? It's where Arthur has been waiting for you every night. He'll show you what to do."
He remembers the card that he was given so many weeks ago.
"But where is this Gathering Tree," he decides to ask, mind hesitantly approaching the idea like a spooked cat. What would he be signing his life away to if he came around to Arthur's side…? "I've never heard of it."
"It's a special place in the park, in the middle of the city. Normal people can't see it, but we can. It's pretty…interesting to look at…but it gives off a weird feeling. But, I don't know how to explain…it's like it's calling us. A lot of magic-conjurers are drawn to these trees. They pop up all over the world, from what we can tell. We've got only one in this place, but I hear that in other cities, there can be as many as twelve."
Ivan glances at the clock displayed by the other's home organizer, and sees that it's only just edging into six o' clock, "Will he be there tonight?"
"Yes, of course."
He smirked, "I almost feel like not doing it, just to make him wait there for eternity."
The other laughed, "I take it he didn't make a very good impression?"
"Not by a long shot."
"I see. He can be rather prickly, but he's a good guy…well, when you catch him in a good mood," the man smiles, and then widens his eyes in realization. "Oh! I forgot! I never introduced myself."
He quickly throws his hand out, saying, "My name is Tino Väinämöinen, a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Tino. I already know who you are, Mr. Brginsky."
Ivan hesitantly takes the hand in his own. It is small and warm, and he feels as though he might crush it should he press too hard. He's always had a problem with his hands; always too rough and strong to be delicate with anything. A farmer's life has only scarred and roughened his palms, and he's sure the calluses act like armor against human touch.
But suddenly in this moment, despite all his rebellion and fear, of the future and destiny and everything that's damned him since his parents died and his small family drifted apart, he feels like it might be okay.
He gives the hand a firm squeeze. And maybe he's a bit resentful that the other's one of them, but…"It's nice to meet you, Tino. Please, just Ivan is fine."
Arthur's words echo in his mind, "You are alone now. Reach out to others before it's too late."
Ivan is deeply, desperately alone. He is a conjurer, through and through…a monster. No one can love a creature like him.
But he must survive somehow. He wants to live.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
I had tried so hard to block out all the noise around me. That cacophony which told me that the reality I did not wish to see must be seen.
You mustn't close your eyes and pray that the truth will just wander off.
Now all I feel is empty and resigned.
How do I fight against my very being?
I am nothing but a monster now.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
He arrives at the park at nine o' clock sharp, staring around the area in search of the tell-tale blonde hair of one Arthur Kirkland. But there is nothing.
He wanders further in, kicking at the accumulated slush on the ground and feeling out the slick parts of the path to avoid ice. He searches for a tree, any tree, out of the ordinary. The park is sparse, very few trees dotting the spit of land.
He almost gives up when a dark corner catches his eye, dark and shadowed away from the streetlamps that dot the normal pathway. He wanders off and edges into the black of night, blinking to try and adjust. The moon above him is weak, a mere crescent.
He shuffles a bit and then—yes! He feels a tree with the oddest bark he's ever laid his hands on. The sensation is smooth and rough at once, with grubby, bulbous nodules that bulge from what he believes to be a stalk.
A light suddenly flickers on, revealing Arthur in all his regal glory, holding a large lantern with a green flame flickering away inside and effectively chasing the shadows back. The tree, now illuminated, looks like a tall, chalky outcropping of roots from the earth. The stalk shoots out above him, a reminiscent of a stand of seaweed, the thin, stringy branches hovering in the wind like ghosts caught in a phantom current.
"Ugly, isn't it?" Arthur pipes up from the side, standing tall from his leaned-back position on the tree.
Ivan frowns. Yes, it is ugly; but he isn't about to agree with Kirkland over it.
"Oh, come now. Don't be like that, lad. We're going to become the best of friendsies now, aren't we?"
He scowls further and wishes he could wipe the smug smirk from the other's lips.
"I suppose you're just a little bit angry. It's not my fault you couldn't accept things without reality slapping you in the face first. Ah well. There's nothing left to do but go on with our lives now," Arthur's smirk widens.
"How do you plan on going about that, Braginsky? Willing to listen to my little proposal, or well…I should say the School's proposal."
Ivan furrows his brows, "What do you mean by the School? What do they have to do with this?"
"You'll see. All in good time, sir. For now, just follow me," Arthur says, waving the lantern casually and beginning a swift walk from the Gathering Tree.
Ivan starts to follow him, mind trying to reason why the School would be involved, when he feels the inexplicable urge to look back. The Gathering Tree waves at him awkwardly, despite there being no breeze to speak of. The pale branches float and bob, and he finds it almost mesmerizing how easily they dance in the sky. Now that his eyes have adjusted, he sees a faint luminescence in the white silhouette of the tree, even as Arthur's lantern fades away.
He feels the distinct desire to not leave the tree, like a leash on his mind tightening with every step that he takes away from it.
But, no. He shakes his head and hurries to catch up to Arthur. Now is not the time for whimsy over some ugly tree. There is business to attend to.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o
It's time to make the sacrificial lambs into demons, isn't it?
And demons into gods.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Notes:
Selkie Prefecture: Selkie is another mythical creature. It is said to take the form of a seal and a beautiful woman. The seal can take off its skin to transform into a beautiful woman, but cannot return to the sea unless it has its seal skin on. Oftentimes in stories, lonely fishermen will find the skin of a selkie, hide it, and make the woman become his wife. He'll have kids with her, and all the while, the selkie will attempt to find her missing skin.
The symbol: I am referring to the horn symbol. It's a circle with a crescent moon on it, which looks a lot like horns. It's a symbol for witchcraft, specifically for males. The gold color also represents masculinity in witchcraft. Females have the moon and the color silver to represent them. See [here] for a sight that has the symbol on its page.
Digital home organizer, compaqboard, ID bracelets and cards: you know. All that stuff that seems to be commonplace in the future. Like I said in the previous chapter, this does take place in the future. Not very many technological advances have been made, but things are far enough along and in such a state that it's common for everything to be computerized, even clocks and calendars in central computer outlets in a home. Think of a digital home organizer as like a computer for a house, controlling all sorts of things like temperature, and information files and such, which also acts as a calendar, clock, and phone. Compaqboard is akin to a very computerized smart phone. ID bracelets and such are pretty self-explanatory, being an ID card with all personal info and a credit card all in one.
The Gathering Tree: pretty funky, huh? Keep these suckers in mind. They're IMPORTANT.
You lucky dogs. :) If you consider it a treat to read this story, then here you go. In honor of my birthday being today, the 21st of July, I'm posting this chapter about 2 days earlier than planned. Things are getting down to the wire in real life, so don't expect another update until after August 2nd. As I've said before, I first post chapters on my LJ, and then one week after, I post it here. :)
I'm sorry it's uninteresting right now. Hopefully it'll pick up soon for you guys. If you're confused, feel free to ask questions, and I'll answer so long as it doesn't spoil too much of the story. Also, sorry Alfred wasn't too much in this chapter, though it should be fairly obvious where he was. He'll show up properly next time! ...maybe.