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dangeroustimemachinehologram · 2 years

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VAMPIRES' INFORMATION AND CURIOSITIES ABOUT THE DEAD.

Our ancestors did not have an easy life. They had to worry for months to stockpile enough for the long and often harsh winter. They fought the disease, nature, and other adversities. In addition, there were conflicts between the tribes or, worse, invasions from outside.

In all this struggle for survival, it was also impossible to forget about the creatures not of this world, the monsters of dark beliefs that always scared you when it was getting dark. Among the Slavic monsters, there were those that were especially terrifying, and they were the undead.

The undead has terrified humans since the dawn of time, and I think every culture had its own vampires. Already in ancient Egypt, mention was made of returning to life, empty mummies wrapped in bandages.

In Africa, people were threatened with zombies rising from their graves. The North American Indians also believed in their own evil beings who appeared in the world in the guise of the dead to drink the blood of the innocent.

Death is an irreversible event that we accept painfully. Therefore, when, by magic or other unclean forces, the bodies of the dead come back to life, our deepest fears are built up in us.

Since the whole world was afraid of vampires, no one should be surprised that hideous bloodsuckers, brought back to life by some cruel spell, also appear in Slavic myths.

In the distant days, when the gods interacted with people on earth, by fires burned after dark, stories were told of the undead who, instead of rotting in the ground, rose from the grave and hunted the living. Although this hysteria was often intended to frighten young people and sensitize them to the dangers of the night, it aroused fear and anxiety among all the villagers.

A vampire was described as a dead corpse that was still moving and wielding great strength. Such a creature had many traits that increased with each new story. So in turn: vampires had the power to hover in the air and hypnotize their victims. In the stories told, the unfortunates, possessed by a vampire, obediently followed the wraith into the dark forest, not having enough strength to resist the torturer.

In other stories, vampires have been able to change form. They could turn into a bat, a wolf, or look like an ordinary person. The monster was depicted differently depending on the surroundings. In Ukraine, a vampire was a living animal in a burrow he had dug, only roughly human.

In southern Europe, on the other hand, vampires lived in houses, just like ordinary people, and it was difficult to recognize them. There were also monsters that lived in trees or in caves.

The image of a vampire served to us today by pop culture has nothing to do with the creatures of tales and legends.

Even though vampires are now seen as alluring women and handsome, mysterious men, the original wraiths in tales and legends were rotting undead.

There were no jokes about vampires, and their appearance was a great danger, as it was believed that a vampire bite could turn a victim into another monster.

The fight with the undead was not easy, but first, you had to find him. According to Slavic beliefs, the vampire was a phantom at night and returned to the ground during the day. Therefore, when it was decided that a vampire might hunt in the area, the villagers started digging up the graves.

It was expected that the undead creature would not rot and can be identified by this. It happened that the corpses of recently deceased people, still not decomposed, were taken as vampires. In such a case, the body was dismembered, and the heart and brain of the corpse were pierced with nails or wooden stakes. Some tribes burned suspicious bodies or drowned them in lakes.

You know, it's always easier to prevent than to treat later, which is why many ways to protect against vampires have been developed. Legends and tales indicate that vampires did not like garlic and did not have access to holy places.

Compared to other pagan religions of Europe, the religion of the Slavs is very little known. Therefore, it is difficult to find any sources from before Christianization. However, some clues about how our ancestors dealt with evil before Christianity changed their fortunes have survived in folk folklore.

So, in pre-Christian times, Slavic priests called Żerce were involved in the ordination of households and protection against evil. They cared for places of worship and communicated with the world of the dead. With the advent of Christianity, their role was taken over by priests.

To protect themselves from monsters, people took refuge in temples and churches, ordained farmyards, and hung amulets. With time, to fight vampires, they received a powerful weapon, which was a cross and a holy vice.

To prevent the dead from rising from the graves, large stones were placed on them, and the graves were dug on the blessed ground. Another means of protection was to put a coin in the mouth of the deceased, which was to be a fee for transporting the soul to the afterlife. In extremely extreme situations, the head of the deceased was cut off and placed in the legs of the coffin.

Archaeologists also found graves in which a corpse with a sickle around the neck was found so that it would cut off the head of the deceased if he accidentally wanted to get up.

The belief in vampires has survived to this day. There are still places in eastern Europe where people who are particularly bad and suspected of dealing with unclean forces are rummaged face down. This is to confuse the undead, so that after waking up, instead of digging out of the grave, he digs deeper and deeper.

Although bloodsuckers have virtually disappeared from our lives, they have become a permanent part of pop culture and entertainment. A whole bunch of books, movies, and even computer games have been created, in which vampires play the main role.

Personal prefer to meet these monsters on the big screen instead of in a dark and damp alley.

CURIOSITIES ABOUT VAMPIRES

According to historians, the first mentions of vampires in the Slavic accounts appear in IV and come from southern Europe.

Legends say that the first vampire was the biblical Cain. For killing his brother, God sentenced him to wander on the earth forever.

Undead legends appear in every culture and at all times.

The most famous vampire is Count Dracula, known as the impeller. Vlad Tepes is a historical figure, burdened by his opponents with the title of a bloody and cruel ruler. Today we know that the stories about him are very colored.

The character of the vampire was popularized by the Irish writer Bram Stoker, considered the leading creator of world horror literature. He created the figure of the prince of darkness in 1897 and became the spark that ignited the imaginations of people around the world, bringing to life a whole lot of other monsters similar to the original.

As the writer himself said, he drew his ideas for the book from legends brought from Eastern and Southern Europe.

Made by Stoker, Count Dracula was a haughty and honorable creature in his own way. However, in folk accounts, vampires are almost animals hiding in the dark, wild beasts that only care about satisfying their hunger.

Belief in vampires and other evil creatures was often a response to all epidemics that occurred in Europe. When people died for no apparent reason, unclean forces were blamed for this.

A figure close to the accusation of vampirism was the Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bathory, known as the Blood Countess of Cechtice. As a member of one of the richest and most influential noble families in the world at that time, she could indulge in many cruel practices that she did not regret. Historical sources say that this woman, without blinking an eye, killed young girls to take a bath in their blood, which was to keep her forever young. In addition, it has been proven that the bloody tortures and torments she inflicted on the unfortunates in her castle were an everyday reality. Ultimately, the countess was captured and during the trial, it was proved that she had murdered over 600 people. For her actions, she was sentenced to death by walling up alive in one of the castle's chambers. Interestingly, the countess' servants involved in the murders were accused of vampirism.

There is a disease called porphyria. It manifests as pallor, photophobia, and trouble sleeping. No wonder then that those affected were suspected of vampirism.

There are blood-eating bat species. Thanks to their culinary preferences, they were combined with the figure of a vampire who could change into this flying mammal.

Thanks to vampires appearing in literature and cinema, we all know today that vampires do not like garlic, aspen stakes, holy water, and the sight of a cross, and it takes a lot of courage to fight them.

In Romania, on a high rock in Bran, there is a castle considered to be the place where Count Dracula lived and ruled. Of course, this is only smart marketing, but for more information, see Michał Baranowski's article about the castle in Bran.

The first vampire movie was shot in the Orava Castle in Slovakia.

VAMPIRE MOVIES

Dracula - Vampires without Teeth (Dracula - Dead and Loving) is - Cool comedy directed by Mel Brooks and starring Leslie Nielsen.

30 Days of Night - A horror film based on the comics of the same name.

Dracula was directed by Francis Ford Coppola with the fantastic Gary Oldman and Winona Ryder.

Terror of the Night - A horror film directed by Craig Gillespie with Colin Farrell in the lead role.

Blade the Eternal Hunter - A series of action and horror films based on comic books. Wesley Snipes played the role of the title hunter.

From Dusk Till Dawn - Action-horror directed by Robert Rodriguez, written by Quentin Tarantino.

Underworld - A series of films created by Len Wiseman with the beautiful Kate Beckinsale in the lead role.

BOOKS ABOUT VAMPIRE

Dracula - Bram Stoker.

Necroscope by Brian Lumley.

Salem Town - Stephen King.

Interview with the Vampire - Anne Rice.

Moganville Vampires by Rachel Calne.

The damned ferry - Mats Strandberg.

Let me in - John Ajvida Lindqvist.

Sweet silver blues by Glen Cook.

Hotel Transylvania - Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.

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aspiring-bl-writer · 3 years

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This is a short story set in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, detailing a Death Guard attack on an Imperial world. The story is told from the perspective of an Imperial Guard lieutenant as his unit is saved by Adeptus Astartes from the Red Scorpions Chapter, who are obsessed with maintaining the purity of the Imperium and protecting humanity from any possible contamination.

They lurched forward in waves, unnatural and rancid figures, resembling the Adeptus Astartes, but their countenances blighted, sullied with the stench of decay. Swarms of flies clustered around them as the figures shuffled on deformed limbs. Their rusted suits of armor were greasy with a mucus oozing from pocked carapaces diffused with sores. They held oxidized, grime-coated weapons in twisted limbs disfigured by foul disease.

Despite their decomposing appearance, these disgusting parodies of Space Marines were formidable enemies. Wherever their weapons hit, the Imperial Guard fell, strains of crippling sickness spreading through their bodies. Weapons barely even fazed them, blasts and bolts absorbed into gnarled fusions of tissue and ceramite plate. Although the Guardsmen outnumbered them many times over, nothing seemed to interrupt the lethargic, scattered march of the Plague Marines. A discordant symphony of piercing shrieks, guttural death-rattles and the buzzing of warp-spawned pests followed them.

Lieutenant Selwyn Barras cursed the day he had ever set foot on Ephesos. His regiment had come to the feudal world in response to bombastic claims that the dead were rising and slaughtering the human population. Barras’ superiors had put down the preliminary reports to the superstitious hysteria of barely-civilized serfs toiling in dark lowlands, growing meager rice in paddy fields. Following their deployment, however, regimental commanders soon assessed the blunt reality. Epidemics had ravaged Ephesos for months, but rather than alerting Terra to the outbreaks, the planetary governor had remained doggedly focused on ensuring that the world supplied its regular tithe of rice bushels to the Imperium. The governor and his staff had been the only ones off-planet to know about the hastily-dug mass graves containing the hundreds of thousands of peasants claimed by the spreading pestilence. The governor had broken his silence only when reanimated corpses had clambered out of their crude, shared tombs, ravaging all living things discovered in their paths. Fortunately, the mindless undead could not hope to match the exceptional training and veteran leadership of an Imperial Guard regiment. Rot rendered once-human bodies into soft meat easily torn apart by laser fire. Defeating the zombie hordes had proved more time-consuming than challenging, and in a matter of weeks, most of Ephesos’ key cities had been reclaimed by the Astra Militarum.

Nature had not borne the plagues, nor their horrific creations. Unbeknownst to everyone, a Death Guard warband had instigated it all, and they were none too pleased at the disruption of their plans. They had attacked the Imperial forward positions overnight, hobbling across the horizon, a slow but thorough razing of all opposition. Regimental headquarters had instructed Barras to defend a dilapidated fortification along a stone wall running from a great river to a small inlet of a distant sea. The primitive masons who had constructed the barricade, with their limited knowledge of the larger universe in which they lived, would never have fathomed that their bulwark would someday be a citadel for the Imperial Guard against infernal demi-gods.

“Not much we can do without plasma weapons, much less armored support,” Barras murmured to himself, chewing on his lower lip. He let out a troubled sigh.

Commissar Aelia Tremelle, an ever-present face on the frontlines, could read the concern on Barras’ face as they observed the Plague Marines easily routing the forward positions. “The Emperor protects!” she yelled over the din of battle. What Tremelle lacked in persuasion she made up for in force of will. She was an ardent believer in the Imperium, and it was not hard to share her certainty, to emulate her zeal and unquestioning loyalty. Usually when Barras spied Tremelle’s peaked hat and fancily decorated coat, it bolstered his morale, reminded him that the all-powerful God Emperor safeguarded humanity, against enemies both material and immaterial.

This time was different. He reckoned by morning it was more probable he and the rest of the unit would be host to maggots rather than Tremelle’s unflappable passion.

He buried his pessimism, though, knowing he could not risk revealing it. Tremelle would have used it as an excuse for a summary execution, but that was not Barras’ main fear. He was more afraid that his despair would dishearten the rank-and-file, the men and women who depended on him for strength and guidance. Tremelle inspired them with moral purity, but it was from Barras they looked for leadership. If they saw him wavering, giving in to doubt and fear, they would resign themselves to annihilation. It was unlikely they could win against heretic Astartes, of course, but victory was not the goal now. Their objective was to offer the strongest resistance they could muster, to not give a single inch freely to the approaching traitors and their Chaos overlords.

He grabbed the Aquila necklace he wore and pressed it against his lips. Readying his bolt pistol, he turned from Tremelle to face the soldiers who had fixed their wide eyes upon him, their las-rifles primed. His heart thudded in his chest in anticipation as he searched for the words. “Have no fear! We will never surrender! We fight for humanity and the Emperor! All of you: die standing! Be ready to greet the Emperor with pride!” Tremelle cheered first as he finished, a booming hurrah, which the enlisted ranks copied with raucous shouting of their own. The speech, as brief as it was, had done its job.

Barras lifted himself up, aimed toward the Plague Marines, and fired. Lasers flashed past him, hitting their targets with great accuracy, but with minimal effect. The Death Guard traitors kept up their relentless march, cascades of shells spewing from their filth-encrusted weapons. Beside him, the side of Tremelle’s head exploded in a gory mess. Her corpse toppled over seconds later. A determined Guardsman took her place. Tremelle had often spoke of her demise in hallowed, sacred terms, promising it would be a noble sacrifice. In truth, Barras saw nothing poetic or dignified about it. Instead, he just wished that he would meet his death as quickly and unexpectedly as she had.

“Look!” Barras swung his head around and saw a trooper pointing heavenward. Following the upturned finger with his eyes, Barras noticed a trail of fire blazing across the sky. It looked as though a meteor storm had suddenly broken out over Ephesos, another ominous omen to go along with the dead rising and demonic corruption. He could not long take his gaze away from the oncoming scourge; their drumming bolters would not permit them to be ignored. Each concussive shot that landed sent dirt, blood and viscera flying. It took every ounce of willpower to take decent aim and fire, and every fiber of his courage not to lose his nerve when he saw a Plague Marine disregard the shot when it landed. The only weapon he possessed still serving its function was his faith, faith in the Emperor, for it was that alone that kept him rigid to where he stood.

Providence appeared to reward that faith. As the apparent meteoroids drew nearer, gaining ever more spectacular speed, it became clear they were something else entirely. They were drop pods of the Adeptus Astartes, and with ear-popping booms they plunged into the earth to the west of Barras’ position. Rocks and rubble sailed high in the air. Almost immediately pod doors whisked open, releasing their enormous occupants.

The head of every soldier in Barras’ unit, the lieutenant himself included, had turned to gawk at the Space Marines with awe. In their power armor, they stood just over eight feet tall. To call them colossuses would barely do them justice. Despite looking their human appearance, they were nevertheless alien and threatening, exuding auras of overwhelming violence. Their faces were hidden behind their helms, muzzle-mouthed and skull-faced, with piercing red lenses. Their armor was a pale tone of gray with yellow trim, and on their left pauldron a red scorpion raised its stinger menacingly against a white circle. In fluid motions, they smacked their bulky gauntlets on the stone eagle emblazoned over their breastplates before breaking out into sprints toward the Plague Marines. It seemed absurd that giants could move with such amazing celerity.

Barras’ eyes were fixed on the goliath leading the charge. While his brothers mostly fired bolters, he carried a two-handed maul with two heads, each swathed in a powerful disruptor field. Letting out a growl that sounded distorted and wolfish through his helmet speakers, the Marine swung his gigantic hammer and pounded an unsteady Plague Marine square in the chest. The sparking force field around the hammer’s head flashed on impact, amplifying the already inhuman strike to insane levels of strength. The Plague Marine flew backwards, landing and skidding around twenty yards away. Not dwelling on what he had just done, the maul-wielding Marine shouted to his comrades: “Let free the retribution of the Emperor, my brothers! Purge the unclean!”

Unbelievably, the fallen Plague Marine rose again, a crater on his chest, dazed but not nearly incapacitated. It took a few more steps before being engulfed in a searing fireball. Many of the Marines wearing the scorpion heraldry carried flamers, and were using them liberally to submerge their Death Guard foes in infernos. The consuming blazes did little to dismay their shambling targets, and most of the Plague Marines continued firing their bolters and swinging their blades even as the flames scorched their armor and burned away their fetid flesh. Rather than seek their survival, they seemed to welcome death once it was credibly offered to them, as if it were some cherished gift.

One of Barras’ soldiers let out a whoop of deliverance, sparking a chorus of additional supportive yells. With renewed dynamism, the Guardsmen resumed firing volleys, even if it was a weak supplement to the strength and firepower of their godlike saviors.

A small quantity of Plague Marines had died, but more were closing in on the attackers. Methodical salvos of bolter, flamer and plasma fire from the loyalist Marines thrashed the ranks of the Death Guard reinforcements, but few were stopped, and eventually the two forces met. A helmetless heretic, his head resembling a moldering shriveled prune, grappled with the Space Marine commander, a humming chainsword gripped in one tremendous fist. His dark moss-colored armor leaked with an unknown sludge. The Space Marine commander tried to shove him away, but his gauntlet slid clear due to the slimy gunk. The Death Guard warrior lunged, slashing his chainsword across the commander’s shoulder and blood sprayed where the chain found purchase. The commander did not cry out; instead, he slammed his elbow into his opponent’s belly and leapt backward, trouncing his maul onto neck and head. Like the rotted fruit it resembled, the Plague Marine’s head broke open, bone and brain obliterated in an eruption of sopping carnage. The decapitated body fell away as more enemies loomed.

The scene became a festival of massacres, a carnival of blood and brutality. Barras watched as a Space Marine died, an axe plunged into the space beneath his helm, and he fell to the sound of his own gurgling blood. One of his battle-brothers swept up his dead comrade’s bolt pistol and emptied the magazine into the killer. He was instantly set upon by a Traitor Marine carrying a combat knife, which in Barras’ much smaller hands would easily have been a broadsword. The Chaos-corrupted Marine drove the serrated blade into the gap between breastplate and helmet before wrenching it out. He stabbed repeatedly, laughing a sick wet giggle, until the Space Marine collapsed. The heretic was so caught up in his mania he did not even notice the Astartes commander swinging his maul until it landed on the Plague Marine’s back, shattering his spine. The hammer rose and fell over and over, quickly turning the soldier of Chaos into mere pulp and slush.

The battle was even, with the Space Marines winning slightly, but Barras wondered how long that would go on. The Death Guard Marines, though few in number, were only stoppable by extreme use of firepower or overwhelming brute force. In a conflict of pure attrition, the advantage lay with the nigh-invulnerable plague-bearing juggernauts. They were, Barras thought to himself, avatars of the inevitable entropy in the universe, the unpleasant but nevertheless harsh truth that all things, no matter how glorious or precious, would someday collapse and congeal, falling to ruin. Even the Imperium of Man, for all its splendors and righteousness, would at some point vanish from the universe, just as the brightest suns in the galaxy would someday be extinguished….

He was shaken from these heretical thoughts by the rumbling sound of Thunderhawks howling above him, their wing mounted guns blasting away. As the shells landed, the Plague Marines exploded in a series of detonations. With almost stoic passivity, the more distant Death Guard survivors were also torn apart by over-sized battle cannons spewing high-explosive rounds, others shredded by the shrapnel created by the rounds’ shell casings. The aircrafts banked around as they passed overhead, coming in low to the ground. When they landed, they unloaded streams of Space Marines, around twenty in each. From one, an enormous war machine strode clumsily down an exit ramp, roughly thirteen feet tall and just as wide. It moved in thumping, lazy steps, and its arms were weapons: the left was a steel arm capped by a wide chainsaw fist the size of an adult human, and the right was a long cannon with coils along its length that glowed dull blue.

The battle ended soon thereafter. Barras’ men, exhausted and mortified by their brush with certain death, relaxed their discipline and slouched against the walls, some leaning on their firearms. The only thing keeping them warm and energized was the relief of surviving, of having won a gamble with fate and come out the victor. They had earned their rest. Barras felt the urge to join them but stopped when he spotted the Space Marine commander with the maul moving towards him. He snapped to attention, as nervously as he had done in the officers’ academy. He did his best to remain composed, but reflexively blanched at the noisy bluster of servos from the Marine’s armor joints.

The Astartes set aside his maul and with gauntleted hands removed his helm. Beneath it, his head was bald and leathery tan, marred with crisscrossed scars. His eyes were a light and watery blue, blank, unfocused. Barras smiled softly, hoping a relaxed and warm expression would obscure his uneasiness before one of the God-Emperor’s chosen. Of course, he knew the galaxy contained more futile tasks. “I’m Lieutenant Selywn Barras, my lord,” he managed, “and we’re extremely glad to see you…”

“I am Brother-Captain Creon Mindarus,” the Astartes interrupted, “of the Red Scorpions’ Fourth Company. My orders are to purge this quadrant of the planet. Inquisitor Xanthus of the Ordo Malleus informed us that the traitors of the Fourteenth Legion were attempting to summon a powerful daemon, a harbinger of rot and ruin.”

Barras nodded. “Well, it would appear your mission was accomplished.”

“Not yet,” Creon said quickly. “Our orders were to cleanse this planet of Chaos taint, Lieutenant, and for us, that means all who were exposed to the corruption on Ephesos. Your unit has been deployed on the planet for several months, has it not?”

Barras arched an eyebrow. “Y-Yes, my lord, to wipe out the walking dead…”

“A task you did satisfactorily,” Creon replied with a cold monotone. “Yet, it was an error sending your regiment here. Despite its many commendations, you have one inherent flaw: you are mere humans.” He titled his head to one side briefly and clicked his tongue. “Well, most of you, at least. Your regiment has squads of abuhumans, yes?”

“Y-You mean the Ogryns?” Barras stammered. The Imperium of Man believed in the supremacy of humanity over the universe, but it nevertheless utilized near-human creatures in parts of the Imperial Guard. This included the gigantic mutants known as the Ogryns, as loyal as they were big and stupid. They made excellent shock troops, even if their very existence suggested tolerance of genetic mutation, which in turn may have invited spiritual corruption. “My lord, I have nothing to do with…”

The Astartes captain raised a hand to halt the protest. “It is irrelevant. Even without the presence of abhumans among your units, your regiment has been exposed to plagues and poxes your unmodified immune systems could not resist with guaranteed success. Rather than risk allowing you to leave Ephesos and potentially infect others, spreading the Chaos taint, we will have to liquidate your regiment as part of our operations.”

Barras went ashen as the blood drained from his face. His jaw dropped several centimeters and his eyes grew wide. “T-This is wrong! We did our duty!”

“As was appropriate,” Creon responded with indifference. “Nevertheless, you cannot claim direct descent from the Emperor himself, as we can. Even few Astartes chapters truly do.” There was no pride on his lips; he spoke matter-of-factly. “To protect the Emperor’s faithful, we must cull those susceptible to the insidious corruption of Chaos. You have always been told you may give your life for the Emperor; today, you will.”

On instinct, Barras moved to run. Obviously the Astartes was faster. He reached out and clutched Barras’ neck in his gauntleted fingers. The Guardsman struggled in the grip, choking for air. Creon tightened his hold, crunching bone and cartilage with barely a tensing of his muscles. Lifted off the ground, Barras’ feet kicked for solid contact, but soon went limp. The Astartes dropped him to the ground, where he fell with a thud.

By this time, the worn and weakened soldiers of Barras’ unit had noticed the execution of their commander. As they struggled to process what they had witnessed, they failed to notice that the charcoal-clad Space Marines had encircled them–and were now pointing their bolters, flamers, and plasma guns in their direction. Creon made a small motion with his hand. The Marines fired, cutting down the surviving Guardsmen with no mercy.

As las-fire and flame reflected in his blank blue eyes, Creon said: “Purge the unclean.”

#warhammer #warhammer 40k #wh 40k #40k #40k fanfic #40k fiction #red scorpions #adeptus astartes #space marines #death guard #chaos space marines #imperial guard #imperium #black library

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clueless-grunt · 3 years

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Ask (simplified): A poet/singer reader that gets kidnapped by pennywise and forced to tell stories and sing.

First public writing, please be nice.

Pennywise x gender neutral reader. Kidnapping tw. Don't like it, don't read it. For @charliedawn

The day had been quiet. The house had been still, not even the wind being separated by the eaves penetrated the deafening silence. Cobwebs hung limply from the ceiling, creating sheer walls that did their best to block anyone from entering.

You shifted slightly, and the floor cried out beneath you, warning you to leave now, before you discovered for yourself wether the legends of monsters and ghosts surrounding the house were true. You felt a weight clinging to you that you didn't notice before now.

Turning your head sharply to the left, peering over your shoulder to the door, making sure it was still there. But the dread that melded your heart and your stomach remained, and slowly, slowly you strained your eyes to look directly at your shoulder blade. You knew you wouldn't see anything, yet something about the home made you feel like you weren't alone.

You looked at the floorboards behind you, looking for a beast that clinged to your back like a myling, one that grew heavier with each step towards the heart of the house. You saw nothing.

Yet still the feeling of your sins crawling upon your back unnerved you.

Turning back to face the dark pit of the house, you consider taking heed to the advice of the legends, and turning around, running far and fast away from the dilapidated house at the end of an equally abandoned street. The only visitors to the street were lost or curious children and occasionally a morbid adult.

Your legs ached to move, to leave and never come back. But stubborn as you were, instead of turning towards the door, you steer yourself towards the living room. The light sound of crushed tin cans reaches your ears as you kick them aside.

The living room, although likely the best illuminated, was still dismal. Making your way further into the room towards the damask drapes, you wondered wether your fear wasn't of being alone, but rather the fear that you were here with someone, something else that was discreetly watching just past your line of sight.

Drawing the fabric to the side with a slight rustle, you were momentarily blinded by the light. Turning from it, you looked to the fireplace. Carved into the wood above it read the words, "Good cheer, Good friends".

You thought it ironic, since all cheer and friendly hospitality seemed to have left the confines of these walls with the last owners. You wonder what happened to them.

You sat on the crushed velvet of the sofa and pulled out a small journal. Looking at the floor, you observed how far the light from the grimy windows reached into the shadows before succumbing to the drab void that emanated from the far corners of the room.

Nothing came to mind. You had been sure that you would have found inspiration here. The few short poems you had wouldn't put food on the table for much longer, and you made next to nothing from your songs.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to think about your financial situation. You payed more attention to the uncomfortable feeling that you weren't alone.

"Ghouls and ghosts that crawl and climb,

That fly and slither, to seek and hide.

Creeping through the window,

and underneath the door,

dancing in the shadows,

Tapping across the floor.

They hide behind your jackets, underneath your bedded frames, waiting for their time to strike with hungered eye and fang.

Satisfied with this, you jot it down in your notebook and move on. You come upon a faded kitchen table and cracked ceramic tiles. Here the dust hung like a thick fog, weighing down anything within the confines of the rotted plaster and decaying wood.

The weight of the room was too much, if you stayed, you would end up running far away from this forsaken place, only to return once the last of your meager savings had been completely dried. Only then, it would be permanent. You would become another one of the slightly more believable tales meant to scare children.

Bracing yourself for whatever you may see next, you turn towards the staircase, and hoped the brittle wood could hold your weight.

The floorboards underneath you mourned your foolishness as you acended the stairs.

Upstairs, the first thing you come upon is a bathroom.

Reflected in the dingy mirror was yourself. Behind you, the hideous wallpaper clung loosely from the damp drywall. It's odor polluting the air.

You recalled as if from nowhere all the old superstitions that you had always blown off as nonsense. The ones that told young children that seeing their doppleganger was bad luck, that the mirror held a piece of the onlooker's soul, that the other side of the mirror was another world. And you wondered if you would ever find the truth to these tales. You wondered if you would ever watch yourself blink, or see someone walk by the doorway when you were certain you were totally alone.

Your double looked back at you, terrified.

Focusing on the legends, you thought for a moment, this is what you needed.

"The sound of the violin is clear,

The dancer's waltzing showed no fear.

Her heart beat faster as they drew nearer,

A single reflection swayed in the mirror."

Looking back to the mirror, the fear was too much. But you came here for a reason.

However, you had gotten a few poems down, and there were less terrifying places to find inspiration.

You let yourself move forward into the suffocating shadows, moving ever closer to being lost completely.

You come upon a solid ebony door. It's polished exterior gleamed even in the faint light. When you started to push, it easily, yet gingerly swung open with a soft sigh.

The room greeted you with a bright, but not harsh, light. It was softened by the yellowed curtains that concealed the room from the outside, warming the room with it's buttercup hue.

You passed the threshold, nothing but the sound of your footsteps following you inside. No boards creaked, the wind didn't mourn your insipid ways. Just the dust falling after being dormant for years, disturbed by your sudden intrusion, your boots on the silent hardwood, and your slowing breath.

You felt safe.

To your right, a lofted bed. The blankets looking half eaten by moths and rodents that plagued the walls with their festering disease, running up and down the plastered confines with their frantic pattering.

To your left, a large coal burning cook stove. The cylinder was blackened with soot and layers of dust. When you touched it, it stained your hands,turning them black as pitch, a reminder of this house's unclean repute.

Straight ahead, just under the window, was a desk. It was painted a faded emerald green, that showed the wood underneath through the chipped colouring. The top was littered with small jars and brushes. Also on the desk, reflecting the light into a colourful array on the wall, was a small mirror.

You turned it towards you, your reflection now calm and serene.

Then you looked behind you, directly at the door.

The one you swore you had left open.

You turned, certain that the light off the mirror was tricking your head into thinking that it was closed. And it could have been a trick, if there had been a door there at all.

In front of you, in place of the sturdy oak door that you had entered through, was a solid wall of light brown planks, shelves cluttering the surface, sparsely decorated with small trinkets and instruments.

You dashed up to where the door had been, and pounded, the vibrations throwing the odds and ends from the shelves, breaking the glass and making a horrid sound.

Your heart beat against your ribcage, threatening to break free. Panic hit suddenly, punching your stomach and weighing it down. You were hyperventilating, and we're quickly becoming lightheaded.

You felt as if you would pass out if you didn't get some fresh air. You turned, looking to open the window, and feel the cool, sweet air fill your lungs.

Your weakness and lack of breath made it a struggle to lift the curtains and the stubborn window. It opened with spastic jolts, opening only a few inches each time.

But those few inches allowed a gentle breeze to upset the curtains and let new air into the room. The ancient air left the room, breathing the soft, sweet smell of early summer in like a lung.

You stumbled over to the bed, hoisting yourself up to meet the stiff pillows and threadbare comforters.

Your mind races, thinking of how you would leave, of the fall from the window, and of your family. Thinking of these, you began to sing. Softly, gently, your voice ebbed and flowed like the gradual change of the seasons. Barely noticable, barely vocal in its words, a casual whisper just to guide you, you sang.

"Upon one summer's morning,

I carefully did stray,

Down by the walls of wapping,

Where I met a sailor gay.

Conversing with a young lass,

Who seem'd to be in pain,

Saying 'William when you go, I fear,

You'll never return again'.

My heart is pierced by cupid,

I disdain all glittering gold,

There is nothing can console me,

But my jolly sailor bold. "

Your heart slowed, bumping at a steady pace, accentuating each word you sang. You lay on the bed, catching your breath, listening to the whisper-quiet rush of the breeze through the window.

You opened your eyes to darkness.

How long had you been sleeping?

You looked around you. The house once again was quiet, formless shapes danced to the sound of wind, a discordant violin.

There was nothing recognizable to focus on on the lightless room. You could feel nothing but the coolness of the air and the scratchy feel of the blanket under you.

You listened, and waited, wondering what had awoken you. And then you heard the rustling of fabric from next to the stove. Frozen, hoping you had heard wrong, hoping you had moved without noticing, moving the fabric under you.

Hope however, is only there to be crushed.

A fabric covered hand covered your mouth, the thick fingers muffling your terrified and confused whimpers, the other wrapping its long digits around your throat. And the shape across from you was gone.

Struggled to no avail against the limbs pinning you to the bed. You became light headed, and your lungs ached, prying at themselves for air.

Sitting there for just a few minutes, knowing that a soft breeze of sweet smelling air was just out of your grasp.

You began to see colours, even in the deep dark. Blue, then green, then yellow, and then nothing at all.

You woke in a damp cavern. It's walls curved inward, creating a basin shaped room. In the center, a very old circus cart sat, covered with tattered clothing and toys.

Circling around the top of the pile, were children. They stared blankly, emitting only a soft song that dripped with melancholia. They were all in different conditions, from in tact to... unnatural. The words 'half eaten' come to mind.

The walls were slimy with mold and algae. It smelled of rot. Telling of something very old, and very slow.

The top of the basin, where the ceiling should have been, was a pipe that let in a cylinder of light that cast itself like a spotlight down onto the mountain of what can only be described as garbage.

The sound of rushing water struggled to reach your ears with its violent thundering. Somewhere, far away, there was an opening. You would never have the chance to persue it however.

A repetitive thundering boom drew nearer, and you scrambled to the centre of the room to the circus cart.

The door was open a small ways, letting a slim wall of light slip down onto the stairs. You threw the door open, All the while trying to make the whole of your movement as quiet as possible. The room was nearly empty, except for a few scrapboard props and a few oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The deep yellow of the dancing and jumping flame gave the room a comforting, hearty glow.

The room around you began to shake and the deep pattering, booming footsteps became thunderous, ground shattering pulses. The shadows rushed and swayed with the swinging lanterns, darkening corners for mere seconds before inverting its course, only to return to its dizzy dance, unable to make up its mind.

A frantic and hurried melody drifted through the air, singing the highs without the slightest effort and bellowing the deepest lows with a thick and cool voice.

The jittering tune came from everywhere, surrounding the cart like the air itself was full of vibrant colours.

A childlike, tittering voice sent shockwaves through the air that made your stomach fall to its knees.

It was incomprehensible, a mash of all languages. Some you could make out, child, lost, afraid. Some were only understandable in foreign languages, and some didn't sound like anything you've heard before. Growls, chittering, whistles, and screeching rang through the air, bouncing off the walls like bullets.

Then there was silence once more. Nothing could be heard except for your erratic heart and deep, dizzy breath.

A light sound reached you, the cheerful twinkling of bells, a sound that made distant memories seem so close. It was almost comforting, or it would have been, if the sound wasn't right outside the door.

A quick knock on the door.

"Pretty thing... Such a bright young flower. Did you really think you could get away from old Pennywise?"

The lanterns blew out without a noise. No beat. No melody followed. Nothing broke through the dark. At some point, you were asleep.

You awoke in a large brass bird cage. You looked up to see a lock on the cage door, and a bell.

What a sick joke.

You couldn't make out much in the suffocating gloom, that could almost be smelled. And yet, in the corner, a silver form could be seen staring. Two bright green orbs could be seen though the dark. Then the beast who had been staring, the one who called itself Pennywise, spoke a simple demand.

"Sing."

You were stunned. You had no clue what had happened over the past hours. (Days, weeks?) You sat, staring back at the beast, returning their favor.

"If you don't sing for me, my little songbird, I can personally promise a fate far worse than this."

You wanted to scream, to run, but both would end terribly. So you straightened yourself, letting the wind pass freely through your vocal chords, and you sang.

It wasn't original, but even so, your voice came in waves, drifting though the rank air, bringing a sweetness that could not be smelled, but could be appreciated all the same, taking to the breeze and wandering through the chamber, seeking only a soft heart to settle upon, to give the strings only the softest of tugs.

The beast's eyes became a nearly slate coloured blue, less than half open as they reclined, their breath becoming as light as the fluttering melody that escaped you.

The song ended all too soon, much to the shape's displeasure. It glared at you with both the deepest anger and the most heartbreaking care.

"Why did you stop?"

You scrambled to explain yourself, to try to make it understand that you were trying. But nothing except a mess of pleas were loose enough to come tumbling from your lips.

The being stood up, and began to walk towards you. You tried to fit through the bars of the cage, to no avail.

They were standing at the cage door, seemingly amused at your attempt to escape. You looked over your shoulder at it, pleading without words, hoping that your life would be spared.

The lock fell off the latch and clattered on the floor with a deep rattle. The door swayed with a scream, slowing them inside. They wandered over to your quivering form, as if you were trying to shake the thing off you.

It crouched in front of you and took your arms from in front of your face. They forced your legs down from in front of your chest and into a crossed position. All of this surprised you, as although it definitely wasn't being rough, it was making a point not to test it. However, its credibility was immediately tarnished when it laid its head in your lap. It spoke directly to you for the fourth time, speaking its wishes once more.

"Tell me a story, or yours will end."

It didn't seem too serious with this threat though.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

#oof this took longer than expected #sorry #pennywise #pennywise fanfiction

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ofgoodmenarchive · 4 years

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Blighted Empire: Ch. 1

Sins of Our Fathers

Dorian hated travelling by sea.

It was a long, lurching journey between Tevinter and Ferelden. He lamented Orlais rejected their ship- Orlesian Circles already overburdened by the first wave. Now all of Thedas struggled to house them.

Curled up on his cot in the gloom, he twitched and turned as his vision spun. There was nothing left in his stomach to heave and the shakes were so intense, in his delirium he worried he'd caught Blight. He wasn't one to run scared for his father and the constant groaning and swaying of the ship did not welcome him- but he felt desperate for a second pair of eyes.

Do I look sick? Are there sores? Everything is dancing, I can't see.

Stumbling out of the cabin and into the narrow hall, he rocked with the ship and more fell than walked. Magister Pavus couldn't have gone far. He listened intently for his voice through the ceaseless noise of their vessel. The boxed environment had an eerie, dream-like quality. He was unnerved almost beyond reason but couldn't understand why.

“It can still be done. Take him now- there's no reason to wait.”

He froze, straining to process hushed conversation.

“The boy has lost his mother and is being taken far from his homeland. This is not the time for such a discussion.” He wasn't certain on the identity of the first voice but this was his father.

“What discussion? Simply take him now and have it done. Whether in his homeland or Ferelden, he will still be cursed by this affliction. You would prefer he embarrass us in front of outsiders by flirting with inferiors, as he does everywhere?”

An exaggeration to be sure but it still stung. His stomach churned, especially unsettled as he pieced together their discussion. They weren't just griping about his rebellious nature- his father aimed to rid him of his rumoured predispositions before they had a chance to shame his bloodline more than they had.

“I doubt such things will be on his mind.” He defended his son that much.

“A fixation of this extent is a disease, Magister Pavus, it does not reason. If he's brought with us as he is he'll be a nuisance at best and at worst, a complete embarrassment.”

Unable to support his weight any longer, knees buckled and he slumped against the door. It held but as his mind spiraled he heard his father.

“Is someone there?”

Insides tied into knots, time slowed. Habit told him to run but an outrage was stirring. How could his father even consider this? Was it so impossible to love his son as he was? His pulse in his ears, he shoved open the door and stood there, uneven.

What he saw made no discernible sense and he knew something was terribly wrong.

Magister Pavus was present, a statue in the small, dank space. But the disembodied voice belonged to nothing but black- an inky mass that lurked in the corner, watching without eyes. Everything was still, as if the ocean itself had been swallowed.

This can't be real.

When he'd overheard his father speak of this plan, he'd retreated and hid for the rest of the voyage. The voice was never identified so the demon simply did not know what to replace it with. Perhaps it never expected Dorian to confront his father.

The reflection of Halward Pavus glowered at Dorian, sinister lines ageing his face. Dorian's heart leapt from his chest as he backed into the hall, seasickness replaced by fear.

“Dorian! Please- wait!” It almost sounded like his father. Tone too exaggerated in concern, intentionally plucking at emotion. Even in such circumstance, his father certainly would not be so frantic. A puppet of Halward Pavus, features seeming to sprout in webs and distort.

Devoid of thought, he ran. He had to get away from that ghoul, that's all that mattered. Mania took him away from the unnaturally lifeless ship- up several ladders and above deck. Retreat gave him time to compose himself, noticing and being thankful that even the ship was built to a rough specification of his memory.

If there had ever been an ocean, it was indeed swallowed. The ship was half-buried in endless piles of scorched stone. Destruction stretched as far as the eye could see; buildings ravaged by green flame, noxious clouds blotted the sky, rot covered a land strewn with bodies.

The Tevinter Imperium.

They said that on the final retreat, half of the Imperium burned. It could not even be estimated how much was caused by Darkspawn and how much was a defeated army laying waste to everything as it fled.

Dizzy, he steadied on the edge of the ship. If this was the Fade as he suspected and forgetting was a part of it, the Black City should be visible. Nauseous, he scanned the polluted sky and made out dark towers floating in mist.

The good news, this is certainly not real.

He consoled, straightening himself. Banishing the demon was his only priority and the easiest way was with a weapon from the Fade to channel his will. He could possibly locate one from the ship but didn't want to risk a trap within the narrow space. Feeling more decisive, he hoisted himself over the side and skittered down rubble.

“Don't you want to speak to your father, Dorian?” A voice taunted as he went.

Trudging through the decay was difficult, it stuck to his limbs, tar-like. He tried not to think of the layers of decomposition he waded through or how many people comprised that sludge. He reminded himself incessantly it was not real. Even if Tevinter looked something like this now, it was a nightmare enhanced by his unconscious.

Toppled structures around him took shape- he recognised fragments of architecture from Minrathous and home- even pieces of the Ferelden Tower, different times and places stitched together in awful tapestry. Legs met less resistance now, a solid ground littered with corpses in place of a swamp.

“Ah, if it isn't the very fortunate Dorian Pavus! To escape the cleansing of his deviant homeland with limbs, health and sanity while so many fled with nothing! For many, even less than nothing.” It echoed from everywhere, from inside. The unending landscape felt small.

Dismissing it, he plunged onward. He couldn't entertain the demon, not for a moment. His path was clear- it had to remain so.

“You don't want to talk to me, Dorian?” The voice chided, warbling as it fought for consistency.

“No, not really, thank you!” A nervous whisper escaped. His next step met an obstacle, something cold and unrelenting around his leg. Yanking, he refused to see but it was so tenacious he had to steal a glance to thump it in the face with his opposite boot.

Maybe it had been the face of someone he knew, back at the 'Forgotten District of Minrathous', he dared not allow the image to set. Perhaps the voice that scratched from tattered chords would be familiar if his thoughts were not persistently screaming to drown it.

“You wonder what makes you so much better, don't you? You wonder why you deserved to live.”

“It wasn't my choice!” He couldn't help yelling while he kicked, over and over until the arm severed. He broke into a sprint.

“None of it was my choice!” He had to scream it. He needed it to be known. He needed to believe it. The demon would not relent, striking before he could recover.

“And what of your choices, my son?” Unmistakably familiar though she croaked so dry.

They said on the final retreat, half of the Imperium burned.

Dorian, I don't think she'll be there.

Mournful words as the great silhouettes of the harbour stood almost grandly against blood-streaked horizons.

There was no escape from it, was there? With a grave turn, he faced the blackened corpse of his mother. Grief buried so deep the demon failed to reconstruct her appearance. How fortunate most of Tevinter lay in ashes.

“Fooling around while your betters prepare, shirking responsibilities, drinking and joking, losing your amulet, fraternising with inferiors. And do you think people can't tell why you look at Felix that way? Why you drag him into playing house and act like it was his notion?”

“You're very chatty for a woman who burned to death.” He mocked with an edge of hysteria and in equally hysterical motion, threw his hand, willing a shape that obliterated the area. Shards of ice pierced the land where the nightmare once stood. Dorian hadn't even realised what form he cast- reflex became his strategy.

“Why don't you want to talk to your family, Dorian? Don't you miss them?” The voice underwent more grotesque transformation, sampling whatever fruits Dorian's vulnerable mind bore. The spot of ice pulsed and grew, temperature falling dramatically, unforgiving winds howled through the nightmare. He tried to outmaneuver the frost and slipped.

“But you would speak to me, would you not?”

Keeper Lavellan cast a long shadow. Lightbringer's sharp glow aimed at Dorian's throat. His reaction to this was more visceral than towards the ghoul of his father. Heart drummed painfully against rib cage as he swiveled on ice and skid over harsh terrain. He couldn't find a grip but managed to swerve behind a spire.

The real Lavellan was already uncompromising and only half-reasonable, he could only imagine a demonic figment to be merciless. Thoughts screamed as he tried to organise a plan of attack.

Relaxed steps clicked after him. One set, two set, three sets.

“Does it shame you to face me, Tevinter?”

“Does it make you feel small, stupid, unworthy?”

“Does it make you feel unclean?”

Hands clasped ears, blocking the trio of Lavellans as best he could. Of course there would be three! Except these brothers were the same person and all their malice crept towards Dorian. He risked a glance around; poor mimics of Lavellan, really. He was not quite that sharp, not quite that towering, not quite that cold. Lightbringer wasn't even accurate!- He couldn't recall the runes seamlessly but enough to know they were wrong!

Listing these discrepancies brought little comfort. How could he face three demonic, mad elves on his own, even if they were fade-forms?

It dawned on him- he didn't have to. The Fade wasn't just home to nightmares but benevolent spirits. If he chose cautiously and inscribed correctly, one might give aid.

They were edging towards him but no matter how Dorian scribbled on ice, he couldn't remember the rune for Valour. It was like trying to recite a melody and losing yourself in another, akin but different. He couldn't comprehend these intruding runes but they were all he could think as he drew summoning circle after summoning circle.

“Tell me something.”

He was out of time.

Tearing his gaze away from cryptic doodles, he met the nightmarish Lavellan in the eye.

He remembered the last time they spoke, Lavellan grieved his people. Now he loomed like a harbinger of death, an immense figure with a triplet at each side and mockery of a celestial blade.

“Do you ever consider that what was left of my family died so that the rest of yours may live? Do you ever consider that I may die in your place, reclaiming your homeland? Does your existence not shame you, Dorian Pavus?”

Despair strangled him, an incredible weakness overpowered his limbs. Through tears he looked between the fake Lavellan and his juvenile circles.

“Lavellan...I shame myself...” Delirious and sapped of reason, he placed fingers on the initially-drawn summon. It felt right, somehow. All of his will poured into those etchings until they came alive, submitting himself to the Fade.

Light blinded him. He processed the outline of a straight-backed figure atop the circle, rejuvenating warmth shielding them both.

“How repulsive.” It stated tepidly and there was a slice of movement. With discoloured vision, it looked as though the demon Lavellans were squeezed by invisible hands, causing them to burst like firecrackers.

His mind swirled, colour tinted the scene in patches.

“Valour?”

“No.”

When eyes readjusted it was still Lavellan but the contrast between him and the others was night and day. The chill was present but did not overwhelm and Lightbringer rested, the weight of it at his belt much less threatening.

“You're not Lavellan either.” He thought aloud. “Lavellan is fighting Darkspawn in Tevinter.”

It was not, could not be Lavellan but still the familiar scrutinisation was uncanny.

“I am remembered here. Why do you summon me?”

Whatever he'd drawn, Dorian concluded it reached not only into his memory but into those of the Dalish turned Circle Mages- it was the only way to account for the accuracy. He wondered if the spirit who answered was aware of its situation.

“To defeat the demon, of course.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I was trying to summon Valour.” He repeated and considered that spirit Lavellan was still rather draining.

“You are a bad liar, Dorian Pavus.” The way he said it was so human it caught him off guard, going on the defensive.

“I won't stand in this Fade-pit and be lectured by a fake Lavellan! Tell me your real name and I might oblige you!”

The imitative spirit became static, pupils unmoving. He wondered if he'd broken it, if it was searching within the Fade, or struggled with the conundrum on whether to respond to a question the true Lavellan rejected. Well, good!

Eyes blinked into animation, a name finally decided upon.

“Evallan.”

“You made that up.” He said reflexively and the spirit only looked at him, humourless. Though he might have wanted to continue testing, a darkness crawled over everything. He made some sound in alarm but the spirit's voice hushed him, gentle.

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#dragon age #dai #dorian pavus #apocalypse au #m!lavellan #pavellan #da fic #dragon age fic #blighted empire #my writing

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dear-wormwoods · 6 years

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Eddie Kaspbrak and Faith

A stupidly long essay about religious guilt and acceptance for @eddiekasprzak.

Okay, so I’ll start by saying that I feel as though Eddie’s religious guilt is a fundamental part of his character and his growth arc, but it’s only explicitly referenced a few times - once in passing, once in depth, and once in a more spiritual way. Each of these moments is paired with something having to do with Richie, and I think that was intentional on Stephen King’s part, to include that sort of juxtaposition multiple times. So I’ll do my best to explain a part of Eddie’s character that I don’t think is talked about all too often.

The first appearance of Eddie’s religious thoughts being juxtaposed with thoughts of, or interactions with, Richie happens in Ch. 7, pt. 1. This is the ‘cursing the faithful’ moment that original post was about. Eddie is on his way back to Derry and thinks of Richie (not for the first time), “He laughs seldom these days, and he certainly did not expect to find many chucks (Richie’s word, meaning chuckles, as in “You had any good chucks today, Eds?”) on this black pilgrimage. But, he supposes, if God is dirty-mean enough to curse the faithful with what they want most in life, He’s maybe quirky enough to deal you a good chuck or two along the way.” First of all, Eddie chooses his words very carefully, more than any other Loser, I think. Richie chooses his words carefully in order to conceal the truth in full, during his chapters, but Eddie’s word choice is used to carefully construct certain imagery. Eddie’s inner monologues are FULL of poetic imagery, often spiritual, and very descriptive - and the things he describes and the words he chooses to use are very significant. In this case, the words pilgrimage and curse stand out. Pilgrimages are journeys of spiritual significance, and that’s how he views this journey back to Derry - although it’s ‘black’ because the thing drawing him in is evil, it is nonetheless spiritual. Eddie is almost more willing than Bev to abandon his life to fulfill the 27-year promise, because he has spent his entire adulthood denying himself happiness, and living in an abuse cycle he thinks he deserves (more on that later), so to him, going back to Derry is spiritual because it’s his only hope of finding an answer to his misery - finding what he’s spent his adult life deprived of. In addition, his use of the word ‘curse’ implies that the thing EDDIE wants most in life is NOT something that he sees God approving of. He’s been cursed, by God, in spite of his faithfulness, with wanting something that goes against the religious beliefs he was raised to follow. So at the very least, he hopes God will allow him to take pleasure in laughter - something he hardly experiences in his adulthood, but something he associates heavily with Richie.

That this very quick glimpse into Eddie’s religious struggles is placed right next to a moment of him waxing poetic about Richie allowing him to assume an alternate identity away from his mother is… telling. “Man, he had hated it when Richie called him Eds . . . but he had sort of liked it, too... It was something . . . like a secret name. A secret identity. A way to be people that had nothing to do with their parents’ fears, hopes, constant demands.” Here we have both Eddie admitting to liking Richie’s pet name for him, as well as his appreciation for that “secret identity”. The way this is phrased seems to give Richie credit for allowing Eddie to be himself, but that it had to be secret, because Eddie’s true self had to be hidden from his mother and by extension God (because it was his mother who pushed religion on him so much - her chapter in Eddie’s Bad Break is riddled with her using God as justification for the way she treats Eddie). These two moments happening in the same couple of paragraphs establishes, early on in the book, something very major: that Eddie, at least subconsciously, sees his faith and Richie as almost opposing forces - he can’t be himself and still be faithful to God, but he CAN be himself around Richie.

II.

The most in depth explanation of Eddie’s religious conflict happens in Ch. 19 pt. 10, sandwiched in between the two chapters where he deals with Henry Bowers as an adult (which is significant placement because of the way Henry constantly calls Eddie a f*g during their fight). This chapter alone is like… one of my favorites, because it just says so much about Eddie as a character. In this scene, Eddie, Richie, and Stan are hanging out and start talking about religion, but the chapter starts off with probably one of the most blatant double entendres in the entire book. Eddie says “How about a lick on your Rocket?” to Richie, and this is already questionable on SK’s part because of how utterly phallic those rocket ice creams are, but then Richie responds with, “Your mom wouldn’t approve, Eddie.” Of course, the ‘reason’ he gives for saying that is germs, but the WAY SK wrote this exchange implies that there’s something deeper than germs at play here, especially since Sonia is a confirmed homophobe. Eddie says he’ll chance it, and Richie - instead of just giving Eddie the ice cream, holds it up to his mouth and watches him lick it. The placement of this memory is significant because their subsequent conversation about religion triggers a page and a half of Eddie extrapolating on why he thinks he’s going to Hell, basically.

So after Richie makes a comment about going to ‘the Hot Place’, Eddie thinks about a story a church lady named Mrs. Portleigh told his Sunday school class, about a little boy who put communion bread in the toilet and the water turned red with the Blood of Christ because he committed blasphemy and damned himself to Hell. This story really hits home with Eddie, and he starts dreading Communion and having panic attacks every time he has to do it at church. He becomes SO SURE that each time he picks up a piece of Communion bread, something horrible will happen or some disembodied voice will start chanting that he’s “Not worthy! Not worthy! Damned to Hell! Damned to Hell!”. This intense fear, despite never having done anything wrong in his LIFE, would send Eddie into a panic and he would need to use his inhaler after every act of Communion. He literally loses sleep over this intense fear that he will be labeled as ‘not worthy’ by God and sentenced to Hell, but he never once says what he thinks he did wrong. He simply thinks he is inherently wrong. He works himself up to the point where he eventually decides that he needs to just repeat what that boy did, to see what happens, because he’s already resigned himself to his fate of going to Hell so he has nothing to lose. Of course, he chickens out, but this whole story is SO SO important to Eddie’s character, because it showcases how deeply unclean Eddie feels.

It’s not just about germs or getting sick, or about his mother calling him a bad son whenever he wants to do anything she doesn’t like. Eddie’s deepest fear is that the thing inside him that makes him inherently bad and inherently unclean and sick will come to the surface, that he’ll be found out and labeled as bad, as blasphemous, and everyone will know how rotten he is. This is shown also in his interactions with the hobo and IT’s leper - he specifically fears catching a disease that will physically manifest what he thinks is happening to him anyway - that he’s rotting from the inside-out. Eddie thinks there is something so deeply wrong with him that he doesn’t actually NEED to do anything in order to be damned to hell or deemed not worthy of Communion. He never explicitly says what this thing is - it’s clear that due to his sheltered upbringing, he doesn’t consciously know what it is yet. All he knows is that he’s bad. And what’s more, being too afraid to follow through on the toilet ‘experiment’ sets up a really prominent trend in his adulthood - being too afraid to want anything, to discover anything about himself, or pursue ANY kind of desire, for fear of what will happen, and because he feels he doesn’t deserve it.

III.

THEN!! THEN!!!! As if it isn’t enough that Stephen King chose to juxtapose this long explanation of Eddie’s deep religiously based guilt with a lighthearted but subtext-laden exchange with Richie, he ALSO includes a very interesting parallel that Eddie makes. After thinking a lot about his fear of the toilet water turning red if he tries to replicate the other boy’s experiment, “He began to think about the thing they had seen on Neibolt Street, and for the first time he saw a crazy parallel—the Werewolf had, after all, come out of the toilet.” This is where Richie comes into play again, but only if you really analyze the shit out of the werewolf symbolism. The werewolf is IT’s most frequent manifestation for Richie, that and the eyeball, and people besides myself have done some great analysis on what the werewolf means for Richie. Basically, Eddie, although he doesn’t know it, is drawing a parallel between his fear of damnation and Richie’s fear of being a monster, and not JUST drawing a parallel, but connecting the two things together almost like one would result from the other.

Richie’s werewolf is a representation of his fear of being ostracized by his peers for something he can’t help, something that makes him a monster. Subconsciously, he relates to the teen werewolf, and IT recognizes this, which is why Richie’s NAME is stitched into the werewolf’s jacket. Richie is the only Loser that IT does this to - using his name to label some of the monsters it creates for him. Because unlike Eddie, who thinks he is diseased and being consumed by some evil that he has contracted somehow, Richie thinks he IS the evil. So the werewolf represents Richie, and Eddie draws the connection that the werewolf came out of the toilet at Neibolt street. The toilet represents his fear of being damned for something that is inherently wrong with him, and the werewolf coming forth from the toilet represents Richie being a cause of - or maybe perhaps a result of - the thing that Eddie fears is wrong with him. I know this seems like reaching, but there’s a reason Stephen King literally fed the reader this parallel. Eddie doesn’t explain WHY it’s a parallel, just that it IS one - the reason why is left up to the reader to decide.

As a side note - this chapter ends with another telling exchange between Richie, Eddie, and this time including Bill. Richie doesn’t want Eddie to go into the sewers with the rest of them because of his arm (imagine omg - they would have ALL died without Eddie let’s be real here), and Bill firmly says that he’ll have Eddie stick with him and keep an eye on him. Two interesting things follow this - first, Eddie blatantly thinks that Bill’s face is “lovely and well-loved” and thinks, “I’d die for him, I guess, if he told me to. What kind of power is that?” Because, in his sheltered naivety, he doesn’t realize that the power IS love. And while Eddie is inwardly expressing his devotion to Bill’s lovely face, Richie responds to Bill’s vow to protect Eddie by… making fun of him. This is rare for Richie, who typically also idolizes Bill - something about disagreeing over what’s best for Eddie set him off.

Right after this, we switch back to the present day and Henry storms into Eddie’s hotel room to kill him, repeatedly calling him a f*g. Again, I don’t think it’s accidental that Stephen King would write in a subtextual double entendre between Richie and Eddie, a long description of Eddie’s seemingly inexplicable religious guilt, a parallel between this and Richie’s werewolf, another arguably subtext-filled moment, and Henry Bowers explicitly accusing Eddie OF being gay as an adult while trying to actually murder him. Especially since, in the beginning of the novel, the bully who is meant to parallel Henry Bowers spearheads the assault on Adrian Mellon, who is meant to parallel Eddie in at least five different ways. I really think that the conclusion the reader is meant to come to from that part of the overall chapter is that Eddie’s guilt comes from his sexuality, and that Richie (and Bill, though only really on the surface) is connected to that.

IV.

The final, and perhaps most important, moment in which Eddie’s faith and his interactions with Richie are heavily connected, is in his death scene. I know everyone always talks about the “But there was something else he had to say first” and “Eddie closed his eyes, thinking how to finish”, but there’s so much more to this scene, and all of the inner monologuing leading up to those lines is SO IMPORTANT.

So, first off, I need to reiterate that Eddie’s word choice matters, especially as an adult. As a child, he’s so naive and sheltered that his inner monologues are pretty simplistic (though very telling in their own way) and more like a stream of consciousness. But as an adult, everything Eddie thinks has a purpose, right up until - perhaps especially during - his dying moment. Eddie’s death is extremely spiritual, though it does not directly reference his religious upbringing. The imagery he uses to describe how he feels as he’s dying references light and cleansing, despite being in a dark and dirty place. Fuck, even the manner of his death has religious symbolism to it. Because Eddie is a martyr, in the end - he dies for people he loves, for the friends he only just reconnected with, and for the greater good. It’s a selfless sacrifice, and even the image of Beverly cradling his body in her arms brings to mind Michelangelo’s Pieta, of Mary holding the body of Jesus after his crucifixion. The whole thing is just… well, there’s a reason Eddie’s chapters tend to have more spiritual overtones, in spite of his deep guilt and shame over it.

But as far as the text goes, this is the moment when Eddie finally accepts himself. It’s not the moment when he realizes he’s in love with Richie (personally I think he subconsciously knew it all along), but it IS the moment in which he realizes it’s OKAY to love Richie. This is also the moment when he lets go of his mother once and for all (just before sacrificing himself), as she was deeply connected to and largely responsible for his guilt and shame. When he first realizes he’s dying, as Richie stumbles toward him, he thinks, “He could feel everything running out of him along with his life’s blood . . . all the rage, all the pain, all the fear, all the confusion and hurt.” I think it’s easy to write off rage, pain, and fear as just the result of being in the presence of IT, of fighting IT, and of having his arm bitten off. Like… of course he’s afraid, of course he’s angry, of course he’s in pain. But the confusion and hurt, that’s where it becomes about something bigger. He uses pain and hurt, normally interchangeable, in the same sentence, which gives the word ‘hurt’ a more emotional feel. Along with the other negative feelings leaving his body, so goes his confusion about himself, and so goes the deep hurt he’s been harboring for his entire life over the damage his mother did to him.

“God, he felt so lucid, so clear, like a window-pane which has been washed clean and now lets in all the gloriously frightening light… the light, oh God, that perfect rational light.” Eddie’s last moments are experienced with perfect clarity - for the first time in his life, he’s seeing and feeling his own light. He’s not being washed clean of sin, per se - I don’t think that’s it at all. He’s being washed clean of everything that made him feel dirty - of his mother, of Myra, of his own denial. He has spent his adulthood depriving himself of happiness because he felt too unclean to have it, because his happiness would have conflicted with his religious background, and because he simply didn’t think it was deserved. He resigned himself to a lifetime of misery because he was too afraid to find out what would happen to him if he broke away from that, and only as he’s dying does he realize that breaking away from that misery is exactly what would have let him feel light and clean all this time. Like his inability to perform the Communion bread in the toilet ‘experiment’ out of fear of damnation, Eddie was unable to pursue ANY of his desires for his entire life due to that same fear. Because in his mind, being himself was ungodly, and there was no one in his life to combat this mentality... the only person who gave him permission to be himself - gave him his secret identity - disappeared from his life way too early, and for far too long.

Eddie spent his whole life thinking there was something festering inside him that made him sick, and dirty, and bad, but he realizes, too late, and as he’s looking at Richie, that he was never dirty at all. “Then he looked at Richie and licked his lips. Fading, fading back. Becoming clearer and clearer, emptying out, all of the impurities flowing out of him.” In these last moments, Eddie lets every negative influence in his life leave him, so the only things left are Richie’s face and his newfound clarity. The ‘sickness’ he’d been trying to cure with a medicine cabinet full of sedatives and a wife who was just like his mother, is no sickness at all, and it isn’t Eddie that’s impure, it’s everything else in his life. Those are the impurities that are flowing out of him - his mother’s influence, his denial, his misery. He’s left clear headed, clean, and most importantly, himself, and he realizes, for the first time since the summer of 1958, that being himself isn’t a bad thing. “... and if he had had time enough he could have preached on this, he could have sermonized: Not bad, he would begin. This is not bad at all.” In the most direct reference to actual religious practice, as opposed to spiritual metaphors, Eddie thinks that if he had the chance, he would want to preach about this newfound clarity he has - he wants to tell people that he’s really okay, that being himself is not bad, that being like him isn’t bad. And that’s when he decides he needs to say something to Richie. Whether or not it was going to be a love confession is subjective and irrelevant (though I personally think it was) - the fact of the matter is that it was Richie’s presence that gave him clarity - both as a kid and an adult - and looking into Richie’s face in his last moments is what allowed him to let go of everything that was holding him back and finally find peace with himself.

It isn’t an accident that Stephen King painted Eddie’s death with references to spirituality and faith, and it isn’t an accident that Richie is the one he’s connecting to in those moments, because it was a small but significant theme in the novel. At first, Eddie saw engaging with Richie’s ‘chucks’ and his secret identities as going against what was morally okay, and he thought deeply about his fear of hell because of something Richie said, but in the end it’s also Richie who is present for the moment when Eddie reconciles his faith with his sense of self.

I know I’m almost certainly overanalyzing it and I’m PROBABLY giving King way too much credit by saying that all of this was intentional, but I just can’t fathom that this part of Eddie’s character and its proximity to Richie is just there for no reason.

(As an aside, this is why I really like Sufjan Stevens and Iron & Wine for Eddie bands, because they use a lot of religious imagery the way he does when he thinks. Especially The Trapeze Swinger, which I could also write a separate essay about in terms of how it relates to Eddie. I just think about his deal with religion A LOT.)

#jesus christ that was a lot #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #sonia kaspbrak #reddie #my meta #meta #eddie spaghet tea #it novel #it meta #contributions

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