(( cw: child death/experimentation, general trauma, possible gore later ))
When he feels that dig under his skin, that disquieting pull that winds around him, he knows exactly what it is. He can't say why it's happening again, why it is that damn place, but it is. He's already tired of it. He wants to ignore it, but he can't, and something about the feeling makes his blood run extra hot.
So he goes inside. Steps past the snow that's now soaked dark with blood, the bones, pushes open the scorched doors of the keep. His need to find out who's prodding about where they shouldn't supersedes his absolute aversion to going down those stairs.
His boot lands on the dusty ground at the bottom of the stairs. The stench is thick and heavy: blood and death and rot and sickly sweet herbs. The screams are deafening.
He does not go inside. He has never gone inside. Even now, he won't, he can't. But the heavy iron door is cracked open. This is the first time he's seen it cracked open. (How even...?) Who the fuck—
He shoves it, swinging it wide. The dim torchlight in the corridors catches on the blood, making it shine. On the rusty chains hanging from the walls, the broken beds that are much too small for a grown man.
Perhaps it's a lost stranger. That's simpler. He can deal with a stranger. He needn't explain himself to a stranger. They will not have any knowledge of him to understand what they see.
It is not a stranger. Not a friend, either.
There's a roughness to his voice, like he can't breath. "What the fuck are you doing."
jo (+ dean)
When he feels that dig under his skin, that disquieting pull that winds around him, he knows exactly what it is. He can't say why it's happening again, why it is that damn place, but it is. He's already tired of it. He wants to ignore it, but he can't, and something about the feeling makes his blood run extra hot.
So he goes inside. Steps past the snow that's now soaked dark with blood, the bones, pushes open the scorched doors of the keep. His need to find out who's prodding about where they shouldn't supersedes his absolute aversion to going down those stairs.
His boot lands on the dusty ground at the bottom of the stairs. The stench is thick and heavy: blood and death and rot and sickly sweet herbs. The screams are deafening.
He does not go inside. He has never gone inside. Even now, he won't, he can't. But the heavy iron door is cracked open. This is the first time he's seen it cracked open. (How even...?) Who the fuck—
He shoves it, swinging it wide. The dim torchlight in the corridors catches on the blood, making it shine. On the rusty chains hanging from the walls, the broken beds that are much too small for a grown man.
Perhaps it's a lost stranger. That's simpler. He can deal with a stranger. He needn't explain himself to a stranger. They will not have any knowledge of him to understand what they see.
It is not a stranger. Not a friend, either.
There's a roughness to his voice, like he can't breath. "What the fuck are you doing."