onewhoturns

A/N Sept 2018: So I wrote this a while back, and intended it to be part of a longer fic, with this as the ‘jumping right into the deep end’ nightmare prologue, but it works well enough as a standalone ficlet. I may end up posting on AO3/FFnet, I may not. For more of my work - AO3, FFnet, ko-fi. This one is... dark. Gory. Perhaps depressing. But, as I said, it’s a nightmare.

Title: beastly
Chapter: 1/1
Characters: Emily Kaldwin
Word count: 2289
Rating: T/M for canon-typical gore
Summary: Emily has a nightmare?

Emily felt the sting and burn of the blade cutting into her flesh even as she ducked and dodged, but, true to her training, she didn’t falter. A flash of steel and one attacker fell, grabbing at his sliced tendon, a thud and he was out cold thanks to a heavy blow to the temple. She tried not to kill them. She’d been trying. But her non-lethal ammo ran out after the first ten or twenty and they seemed to keep coming.

Her Void-given abilities had helped take them down efficiently at first, but she only had so much energy. The bodies had begun to pile up. For a fairly large room, there wasn’t much space to maneuver around the unconscious bodies that littered the floor.

How long had she been fighting? It felt like ages, though she knew it couldn’t have been that long -- time seemed to slow in a fight, but it couldn’t have been more than eight minutes. Still, eight minutes was an eternity. Most fights were over in one, maybe two. But - seven strictures - they kept coming.

She whirled, sword clanging against that of her attacker, and a careful maneuver sent the opposing weapon skittering along the floor until it was hidden under fallen men. Once disarmed, another well-aimed jab had them down for the count. Still, her focus wasn’t what it had been at the beginning of the fight. She grit her teeth, but the strangled cry of pain still pushed out of her throat as another blade bit through her defenses from behind, sinking much deeper into her shoulder than she’d initially thought, and a brief flash of horror crossed her mind as she felt the sword tumble from her grasp.

No.

No, she needed that. She needed-

Another burst of agony along her hip and she did what she should’ve done twenty seconds ago and pulled herself from the fray, Reaching, jaw tight even as the tortured sound echoed from the spot she’d just been standing. She stumbled as she took advantage of the brief moment of confusion (a blessing that they weren’t the same lot who’d borne witness to the first few rounds of using that trick -- but they’d figure it out in another couple seconds) to reassess her surroundings. She couldn’t run. She’d been trying, trying to escape, or to find higher ground, but there wasn’t enough space. She’d used it to her advantage at first, using the bottleneck at the entrance to the room to stymie the flood of attackers, but the room continued to fill. If it were bigger - if it had something higher she could perch on - she may be able to make better use of her crossbow, but everything was so close.

She targeted one of the men at the back of the pack, closest to her newly relocated position, and sent a bolt through his knee. A rustling behind her warned of a foe not quite debilitated, but they’d be hurt enough, she needed to focus on stopping this other group before they could get close.

The first time -- the fifth time, even the tenth time -- someone had grabbed her, her eyes had narrowed to concentrated slits, an angry calculating glare. But this time, as the hands wrapped around her, they were wide, panicked, and she just managed to reverse the hold and try to choke the man out. (Man? Woman? Fog was creeping into her eyes and head, every thought focused on survival, and she didn’t care who her attackers were any more.) There wasn’t time. She yelped in pain and thanked her lucky stars that the dagger now sticking from her thigh had missed an artery. At least, she hoped it had. If it hadn’t, she’d be doing something very stupid as she pulled it right back out, choking down a whimper and hesitating for only a fraction of a second before realizing she had no choice.

It was easier than she’d expected, slitting the man’s throat. More resistance than an arm or leg, but they’d gifted her a very sharp blade, and she wielded it with a quick hand. She tried to tell herself the blood, rushing over her arm that held the still twitching body against her, was the same as any other wound. But it felt hotter. It burned.

No time to think about that.

She shot a desperate glance to the doorway, and her heart leapt. Empty. Empty? A darting look around the room, at the not-unsizable crowd of enemies that were already lurching toward her. That must be it, right? So many had already fallen in this forsaken room. There couldn’t possible be more. Surely not. If she made it out the door, maybe then there would be space to run. Run? That was laughable -- not with the searing pain in her thigh. But she could Reach.

Keeping an eye on the door, Emily let her power shove the body she held toward the rush of attackers, and desperately hoped the blade she Reached for was hers. She was finding it hard to see - was that blood or sweat in her eyes? - but the warm hilt of the blade was unmistakable, and that small touch of relief was a blessing.

But still they came.

She lost sight of the door, still trying so hard to maim and not kill, but her bolts seemed to be batted away, and soon they would be at her again. As the first of them fell upon her, a blade just barely parried away with a quickly-raised crossbow, she realized she had no choice. She sucked in a breath and melted into shadow -- and tried not to hate herself as newly-formed claws rended flesh from bone. Survival. It’s me or them.

She hated fighting like this. The form seemed to call to something in her she didn’t want to indulge, each slash and tear like a dropper of euphoria, and it nauseated her. No choice. Them or me. So part of her, wound tight by desperation and pain, took a disgusting amount of pleasure in digging claws into one attacker’s mouth, wrenching their head back and ripping the jaw clean off. Her stomach heaved watching the lolling tongue that spilled forth, but luckily she had no time to stare; her smoke-like presence flowed down the body as it toppled over, creeping up the legs of the next.

She felt it, that grim satisfaction, dragging her form over the man’s shoulders and twisting his neck like it was the easiest thing in the world. If she’d been cognizant of it, she may have noticed the hesitation of the attackers, but that part of her that may have cared was too distracted looking on in horror witnessing this other side of her, this shadow side, that seemed morbidly curious, viciously detached as it did things that tested Emily’s own resolve. The feeling of a throat tightening around her arm as the inky talons plunged deep was -- she lost control of the reins, the shadows seeming to swarm frantically, and her head swum at the sheer amount of viscera that could fit in one smoke-like hand. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. She didn’t realize -- it had never been this bad before.

She felt her mind drifting even as muscles moved and responded. She was going numb. The heat of it, the blood that this creature seemed to revel in, she let it scald her. Shadows tore through flesh, managing a precision that would’ve been impressive had it not been set on such gruesome masterpieces. Flayed skin papered the ground around the next corpse, thin wet sheets, and one of her enemies slipped on it, crashing down with a cry of terror when they tried to flee.

Was that the benefit, then? That her enemies were fleeing? So terrified of this sadistic beast that their own survival became paramount?

If Emily had been in control, it would’ve been more than enough. She would’ve stopped, allowed them their flight, taken the time to recover. But she had no strength, no will left, and this thing - this monster - hungered for something more.

Let them run. They wouldn’t escape.

She’d lost all agency, but she still saw it all. The fallen runner was dragged onto her back and treated to a pre-mortem autopsy, and Emily wasn’t sure who was screaming as felt claws cracking the ribcage open.

The worst part was the glee in it. A childlike curiosity as organs were plucked from the body like fruit from a tree. Luckily it seemed to have no cannibalistic desires. If it had, she would’ve surely gone mad.

Or was she mad already?

Images blurred to a white fog, and every trembling part of her psyche stilled, trying to forget even as she experienced every sensation. She heard the screams, felt the raw muscle and woven sinew, the bone that seemed too dry for being so fresh, the soft snap of membrane before an organ would pop. She couldn’t see it, but she could smell it. She didn’t think she was breathing, but she must’ve been or else she’d already be dead. Everything was blood and bile, an acrid metallic scent, with something salty and bitter in it, and she felt thoroughly steeped in the stench.

She would never be clean, not after something like this.

She wasn’t sure how long it lasted. It couldn’t have been that long. There had only been, what, ten enemies left? And the shadow self seemed to make quick work of the first few. But it felt like ages before the storm that was shadow claws seemed to calm. When finally she felt the vibrating molecules of herself tightening, becoming denser and denser, returning to a body almost identical to those she’d just mutilated, she didn’t want to look.

Instead she tried to feel for her limbs. Fingers tapped cautiously and she realized she was standing, leaning against something. She reached out and felt the other side of the door, then shifted her head this way and that until she could point away from the fetor of death. She steadied herself for a good long while before finally opening her eyes.

She expected to see a hallway of some sort - something leading far into the distance before her, or perhaps to either side - but that wasn’t it at all. She supposed it was a hall of sorts, but all that was visible to her was the suggestion of direction, with only fifteen feet of corridor before both ends made sharp right turns to… somewhere else. Where, she wasn’t sure. But she tried to focus on the hall instead of the tangible pulse she imagined from the room behind her. She tried to think of a strategy of some kind, but her head was still fogged.

Attempting to step into the hall made her tense and suck in a harsh breath at the shock of pain up her side, and her hand immediately flew to one of the many wounds she’d acquired. She didn’t think to stop herself from looking down at it. But as she peered at the gash that had ripped through her clothes and carved into her hip, something else caught her eye. Her gaze shifted past the plum color of her bloodsoaked trousers and to the movement on the ground below. A sluggish ruby stream, spreading slowly but steadily, lapping the edges of her boots as it seeped from the room behind her.

Emily’s muscles seemed to have locked as soon as she realized what it was. She shouldn’t look. She should just go, not turn back, and let the bloody footprints mar her path as she got as far from this hell as she could.

She felt the defeat that weighed on her, the morose futility of it, and her eyes dulled as she let them close.

Did she have a choice? Had she ever had a choice?

She must face the truth of it.

Even with eyes closed she felt the liquid pool as she lifted first one foot, then the other, and could hear the slightest slap as she placed them down again, turned to face her deeds.

As she had hundreds of times in the throne room, her spine straightened, shoulders back, head high, chin up before she finally opened her eyes.

There was nothing left in her to be surprised. No scrap of hope that it wouldn’t be exactly what it was. No wonder it had felt like ages trapped in that monster. All of her efforts in the early fight - every blow to the temple, every sleep dart - had been completely undone. No life stirred in the room now. Just piles upon piles of corpses.

Emily stared dumbly, sheer habit the only thing keeping her on her feet. It was grotesque, the whole scene. It put the crown killer to shame, the amount of gore that seemed gleefully strewn about the floor. Just glancing at the various well-crafted tableaus brought back things she hadn’t even realized she remembered. The feeling of thumbs digging into eye sockets, of carefully arranging scalps by hair length. It was something far beyond obscenity. The disgust was paralyzing.

She wasn’t sure when she finally heard the sounds from the hall behind her, but as soon as she did she knew it was over. She wouldn’t fight them. Not if this was the inevitable conclusion.

Her ears rang, reducing the approaching attackers’ demands and threats to a muffled roar.

Her stare was blank, haunted, and somehow relieved as she fell to her knees.

It was a mercy to give up. To know whatever was in her would never escape again.

And as the sword pierced straight through her heart, she was glad to die.