All That Remains: Part I

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[Image Description: A looping pixel art gif. Bunny Link sits next to Wolf Link, who is laying on the ground. Wolf Link sniffs and licks Bunny Link, who looks displeased, ears falling. Bunny Link glares while Wolf Link wags his tail. End ID]

The “The dark world/twilight turned me into an animal” team

quick novelization of the 3 days left scene with basil and sunny in grandma's room. i wrote this because... i saw another one, got annoyed, and decided to do it myself. oops. anyway bpd!basil rights

word count: 1k

tw: suicidal thoughts

He’s in Grandma’s room, isn’t he?

Basil tries to open the door gently, but it always makes the loudest screech and no one’s ever fixed it. He cringes internally as his presence is announced. Realistically, Grandma is deaf to the world and she won’t realize Basil is beside her… but that thought is worse.

Looking up, he sees that Grandma isn’t alone. Basil’s intuition was right - in front of the egret orchid stands Sunny. The stiffness of Sunny’s stance is akin to a statue; he’s just as well gone as Grandma is.

Sunny makes no acknowledgment of Basil’s entrance. Regardless, anxiety trickles up Basil’s twitching fingers, and he finds himself stuttering out a greeting.

“Oh, Sunny… I didn’t expect to see you in here… Haha…”

Basil bites his lip. Of course Sunny would be in here. He had circled Basil for five minutes, staring at every piece of the living room, searching for reality. When he couldn’t find it there, where else would he go? 

Basil had listened to the doors open and close while he stood on the carpet, lost. He’d realized what Sunny was doing before long. Basil has known this feeling before. He’s performed the same dance, stumbling around his house, desperately trying to catch onto something, anything that will ground him, anything that will clear the fog-

“H-How are you doing, Sunny?” Basil blurts. “Is everything okay with you?”

Sunny turns to Basil, stares at him blankly. Unresponsive. Blind. Basil’s finger taps faster, faster on his leg. Why are you looking at me like that? Are you mad at me?

“...Okay.” Basil’s brow sets. His mouth curls into a frown. Even him? Sunny won’t even recognize him? “N-Nevermind, then.”

Something inside Basil needs to scream. Something inside Basil yearns to weep. Basil does neither. He matches Sunny’s eyes, almost threatening him to say something, anything. What is logical thinking with a glare like that? How could Sunny, even as untethered from reality as he is, look at Basil like this if he doesn’t hate him?

Sunny’s chest rises and falls. The movement is so small that it almost looks as if he isn’t breathing. Basil feels like he can’t breathe, either.

The room is so, so quiet.

Basil forces himself to walk before his feet become his hands and the floor becomes his face. Something drips through the walls. Teeth gleam at Basil, hungry. Basil threatens them with a broken photo album and Polly’s garden salad.

Across the sludge lies Grandma. Something wraps around Basil’s ankle and nearly trips him. He chooses to stop moving. He stares straight at Grandma’s bed, unwilling to see how far Something has covered Sunny.

“Grandma can’t hear us, you know?” Basil’s speech is hollow. Grandma may never hear him again, certainly won’t ever reply. Less than a month. That was what the doctors said. Less than a month before the cancer completely overwhelms her. Can he tell Sunny how long she has? No, that’s more of a reason to hate Basil. “She hasn’t been feeling very well lately.”

Basil tears his eyes away from Grandma. She’s just making him feel worse, too. Everything makes him feel worse. The photo album burns in his arms.

“It’s already been four years, hasn’t it?” I never expected to live this long. I won’t live much longer. I don’t think you will, either. Sometimes I wish we were both already dead.

His glance shifts to Sunny, he can’t help it. Why aren’t you dead already? Do you plan for it, like I am? Is that why you’re here? Will you clean her grave, too, apologize to her? Or are you just here to tell me how much you hate me before we both kill ourselves? “It’s nice to see you’re still around… even if it’s only for a little while.”

…Will Sunny forgive him if he proves how much he cares?

There’s only one reason why he wanted the photo album back, anyway. 

With agonizing steps, Basil approaches his friend. He tries not to throw up. Basil can’t be near Sunny without feeling blood dripping through his fingers and Something choking his neck. He shoves out the photo album. Just take it. Please, take it. Please, please, forgive me.

“Here. Take my photo album… I want you to have it.” But if Sunny’s killing himself, too, or if he still hates Basil after this, won’t Basil’s gift mean nothing? “...I’m trusting you with it, okay?” Basil tries to meet Sunny in the eyes, get his silent plea across. Sunny’s irises are vacant. “I just think… you could use it more than me.”

Sunny cracks the book open. Finally, his face flutters with the smallest sliver of recognition. Basil wishes that he was already dead. His mouth is dry.

He tries to sound chipper as he says, “A lot has happened since these pictures were taken.” Sunny flips through the photos. Basil’s pathetic attempt at optimism drops. “...Sometimes, it feels like it was all a bad dream.”

It’d be better if they never met. It’d be better if Basil was just dead already.

Sunny shuts the album with a soft thump, and his vision catches Basil’s. Does he, does he forgive Basil? Do you hate me? Don’t you hate me? Could you please just fucking tell me!?

“It’s hard to remember now, but…” Maybe if he explains himself… “I think… at the time.. I took photos of what I was most afraid to lose.” Why is he doing this? Why does he open these wounds larger, when he already knows Sunny will never stop hating him? “Flipping through this album, you can still see the good times… Maybe one day… things can go back to the way they were before.”

Once he’s gone, they’ll all be happy. If nothing else, he hopes Sunny will forgive him then. He hopes Sunny will appreciate Basil’s sacrifice enough to excuse everything else.

Basil continues to stare at Sunny. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m going to do for everyone?

And Sunny stares, and it’s agonizing. He hates this, he hates this so much. Something is blocking out his face. Something makes the world turn to eyes and jet-black ink. Please, just understand. Please-

Kel calls them both for dinner. Basil practically sprints away, tearing himself from Something’s grasp. His head pounds. He feels as though he’s bleeding, about to pass out, but only one of those is true. So, Basil forces himself into the hardwood chair, and he waits.

Soon. Soon, he’ll do what’s needed for everyone to be happy.

Soon, everything will be okay.

There’s fanfiction…. And then there’s FANFICTION. The kind of shit you happen upon at like 3am or some other ungodly time because you were trying to find a fix for ur fixation at the time and you are just SUCKED IN and every sentence feels like a line of cocaine and it has quotes and imagery that permeate your brain and it’s the shit that sticks around in your consciousness forever and it never goes away and it’s always going to be one of Those Fics.

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