Big Book of Rythna One Shots

And Poppy Fields And Daisies And... (N)

TW: Psychological Torture, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

He sings, sometimes. Rythian can't describe it, when he sings. It's idle song, idiot song, sweet and meaningless against the blood on his hands. Songs about poppy fields and daisies and kittens out to play.

Rythian hates him, when he sings. Rythian hates him all the time but especially when he's being playful and sweet and kind. Sometimes, the scientist kisses his forehead after surgery, after an especially painful experiment, and Rythian's blood courses with anger and hate, bright as a thousand suns. If he could, he would rip him in two.

Lalna. Rythian has seen his name a thousand times, heard it a thousand more. Lalna's handwriting is tiny and cramped, a doctor's scrawl, and when he catches Rythian reading his papers he smiles and laughs and shakes a finger. It's a game, to him. Something fun. Rythian can no longer count his scars on fingers and toes alone.

Sometimes, Lalna sedates him, when he's making too much of a racket. Rythian grows to hate sedation: he cannot sense time passing, does not know what the scientist does in the period between one blink and other. Sometimes, Lalna doesn't sedate him, and Rythian screams and cries (he can't help himself he can't help himself he can't stop) and he hates that, too.

When Rythian cries, Lalna wipes away his tears, and his tone is agonizingly gentle as he describes what's going where and what's coming away. Lalna sinks scalpel into flesh and it hurts, words cannot describe how much it hurts, and sometimes he sings little lullabies. He runs gloved fingers through Rythian's hair and shushes him softly and kisses away his tears and Rythian growls, sometimes, or shows his teeth, but mostly he is too tired. Sometimes Lalna's kisses feel good, comforting, and Rythian hates that most of all.

What Lalna is interested in, he says, is how. And why. Rythian's eyes glow purple in the dark and sometimes when he is angry or upset enough black tendrils pulse over his skin and Lalna wants to know: why?

He has machines to rebuild, he explains, as Rythian cries, one hand over the empty socket of his eye. Not to worry, he says, peeling off bloody gloves, a day and you'll be right as rain! Rythian hates crying, but he cannot help it sometimes, and it is pitiful. He knows. He cannot do magic, in the depths of Lalna's labratory. Lalna has secured things to him to be sure of this, painful things, things buried deep in the meat of him. A collar around his neck, heavy and metal and burning with something darker than Rythian knows. Something in his spine.

He is not a mage, not surrounded by wiring and sharp things and Lalna. He cannot-- see. He can see with his eyes, of course, when he has them, but with his magic gone, the world becomes flat and colorless. Crackles of energy attempt to fizz out of him and die on his skin. He cannot touch Lalna with the tendrils of magic he would like to, to see the true shape of him.

The true shape of Lalna, he is sure, is something massively dark and deep, something with a thousand grinning teeth and glowing goggle eyes.

Sometimes Lalna forces open his mouth, shoves gloved fingers inside. Rythian bites down and tastes plastic and dirty skin beneath, and Lalna does nothing but pry open his mouth and laugh and admonish, gently. No. Bad boy. Like he is a dog, an animal, something dirty and inhuman. Lalna strokes fingers along his tongue and they taste like polymer and blood and Rythian wants to puke, wants to lean into them, wants to die.

Sometimes he has moments of weakness. Lalna touches his bare hip with an ungloved hand and the touch is warm and inviting, instead of repulsive. Lalna strokes fingers through his hair and Rythian leans his head back before he can stop himself. He thinks about kissing Lalna and the taste of blood in his mouth and he wants to die.