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chernabogs · 5 months

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Fractal

Inc: Malleus, Prefect. WC: 2k Warnings: Dream horror, consumption of rotten fruit, everything seems happy but there's an underlying layer of 'somethings rotten in denmark (briar valley)' Excerpt: “Nothing.” You reply steadily. “I just haven’t been here before.” Liar. Malleus remains still for a moment before he laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is as the sun comes out once more. “Well of course you have not been here. That is why I chose this place—I wanted to show my friends my home.”

It’s you who causes the cataclysm this time.

He’s in a field that’s warm, and for once the sun—which beats down on him from a baby blue sky—does not give him a migraine, nor does it make his skin itch with the ghostly sensation of hives. He’s sitting at the end of a long dining table with a white tablecloth concealing its mahogany structure. It’s adorned with an array of foods; fruits, vegetables, meats—a cornucopia of delights to dig one's fingers into. It’s what he anticipates happening upon the arrival of his guests, who will fill the twenty-two empty wooden chairs that are present.

His gaze remains focused on the far end of the field, where a gap in the trees that create a barrier around where he sits is present. He remains still, motionless, as though he’s a wind up doll waiting for someone to turn his key. The sounds of cicadas screaming from the distant pines and the warm wind that brushes across his pale skin do little to stir him out of this strange state. He hardly even blinks. He merely sits and waits.

Until you appear at that gap.

Then, like that key turning, everything comes to life. He takes a breath in and sits up, a smile curling on his thin lips as his hands come to rest on that pristine, white tablecloth. He remains still as he watches you approach. Your steps are shaky, and you seem tired as you take your time to reach where he sits, as though every step is a labour for you to complete. When you finally reach the other end of the table, you draw to a stop, your gaze transfixed on the feast before you. Perhaps you are looking at the meat, or perhaps you are looking at the flies that are beginning to garnish its surface.

“You got my invitation.” Malleus’ voice is warm, as though he’s attempting to project a certain image of himself to you. You glance towards where he sits. He looks composed, regal, in the plain wooden chair with the sun creating a halo behind his head. He gazes back at you, and it feels like those green eyes are slowly peeling away each layer of flesh, parting each tendon and muscle, until he can see the white of your bone beneath. You swallow.

“I did.” Your voice is quiet as you resist the urge to look back at the gap in the trees. Three more pairs of eyes watch you from within the shadows as you try to walk your way through these steps. You’ve done this before. Many times before. “It was kind of you to invite me.”

His smile remains as he doesn’t reply for a moment before gesturing to the seat—the one next to him. “Sit, Prefect. You look tired.”

You move slowly around the table until you reach the seat to which he is gesturing. When you pull it out, it rips up the earth beneath it, causing the scent of dirt to mix with that of decay. He pushes a glass filled with a clear liquid towards you and you dutifully take it, although you refrain from raising it to your lips. He drinks unashamedly and without care.

“Am I early?” You ask, selecting each piece of dialogue in your mind with caution. You watch as he finishes drinking, setting the empty glass down as he does. His lips are stained slightly red from the action and his tongue darts out to clean them, slowly running along the bottom one as his gaze goes back your way.

“Yes, but that is of little concern. I have no objections to being in your company a moment longer,” he muses, sharp white teeth flashing as he observes you with amusement. “The others should be arriving soon.”

Malleus looks back to the gap in the trees as you study his profile. The skin beneath his eyes looks slightly bruised up and along his cheekbones—the area where his overblot patterning is. His hair is brushed back from his forehead, revealing the scales beneath, and his expression is fixed into one of childish excitement. He wears white, but the edges of his sleeves are stained. “They all received an invitation. I made sure of it. I am not apt to forget my friends, unlike some.”

“Perhaps they got lost.” You murmur, looking at that gap in the trees yourself as you do. You can see movement within the shadows as you continue to buy your time. The scent of decay grows until you’re eventually forced to look back to the feast. Wrinkled fruit, greenish meat, drooping herbs, and liquidated vegetables; the sight makes your stomach curl as you keep speaking. “After all, this place is unusual.”

“Unusual?” Malleus’ head turns to look back at you, his eyes still too wide, his expression too exuberant. “What is so unusual about it, Prefect?”

You feel your breath catch in your chest as you stare back. The movements by the gap have stopped as well, as though the entire scene has been paused with your single comment. You can hear the rustle of that warm wind through the corn field behind you, and the sun is soon covered by a passing cloud. You clench your hands in your lap.

“Nothing.” You reply steadily. “I just haven’t been here before.”

Liar.

Malleus remains still for a moment before he laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is as the sun comes out once more. “Well of course you have not been here. That is why I chose this place—I wanted to show my friends my home.”

The tension dissipates at that moment as Malleus picks up a few figs from the table. He sets them on his plate and presses a fork into one. You try to ignore how squishy it is, or the green that oozes from its inside. “Wouldn’t it have been better if we had dinner at your palace?”

He doesn’t reply as he spears one piece of rotten fig with his fork, turning it over slowly before holding it out to you. His smile still doesn’t dissipate. “No. I do not think it would have been. I want my friends to feel connected to one another. I want them to feel like a family.”

You glance at the fig piece. It sags on the metal prongs, making your stomach twist in disgust. There’s expectation in Malleus’ eyes that conceal a glint of something else—a test. So far you have been selecting the right reactions, but it isn’t sufficient.

You lean forward, keeping your gaze locked on his as you take the fig piece in your mouth. You’re trying hard not to gag as you chew slowly before forcing it down your throat. There’s a lingering after-taste of rot present and you finally grab at the water glass.

He chuckles and leans back before picking up another piece for himself. “I admit, it’s a bit sour, but tolerable all the same.”

Sour? It’s rotten, but you refrain from saying this aloud as you drink. You said it aloud before, and the results went as poor as they could go. There’s only so many times you and the others can formulate a plan before it becomes apparent that it’s all for naught. Eventually you set your glass down with a grimace and watch as it immediately refills itself. It’s magic, obviously—Malleus has been throwing his magic around unashamedly and without care. The soil nurtures him, the sun gives him life, the winds carry his words. He is both the creation and the creator of the feast you sit at. The executioner, and perhaps the sacrifice as well.

Or maybe that role is solely for you. After all, you are the one he is feeding right now.

You tilt your wrist slightly to catch a glance at the watch you wear around it. Phones and technology are pointless here—not that you have your phone anyway—so Lilia gave you this as a manual means. The hands are not moving, and instead remain fixed at five to five. You are still in a dream.

“Are you impatient?” His voice causes you to drop your wrist quickly and look his way. It’s hard to mask the surprise on your face. In fact, it’s quite pointless. That razor sharp gaze that peeled away your skin when you first approached now cuts incisions into your skull as he tilts his head, studying you. “They have five minutes.”

Five minutes will never come. You’re not sure if Malleus even knows this. It’s as though he’s settled himself so deeply into this dream he’s created—a tick, gorging itself on the magic of its own making, unaware of how its body swells and strains until the point that it bursts from over-consumption. He’s becoming inflated with his power. It’s how his overblot has not ended, despite the way he hides it with glamour.

“Are you sure you invited them?” You ask cautiously again, testing the waters. You see a twitch in his smile—the corner of his thin lip wavering slightly. His eyes remain wide.

“Yes. I wrote the invites myself. Everyone got one—Lilia, Silver, Sebek, you. Those of Heartslabyul, of Savanaclaw, of Octavinelle, of all the rest. I considered those from RSA, but I would rather keep the peace for this event.” His hold tightens around the fork. You can see the threads fraying. You push.

“Are you sure the invites were received? Did anyone tell you they would come?” You murmur, leaning a bit closer. You hate doing this—this is someone you consider your friend, perhaps more in another life, and you are not an orchestrator of someone's mental fracture. The cicada’s stop screaming. Another cloud passes over the sun.

“You never RSVP.” He replies, his voice now more monotone and colder. His smile remains but his eyes have slid back to the emptiness you’ve been seeing since his overblot began. He looks to you once more, and you scramble to see some remnant of the peculiar prince you’ve come to know in those eyes. “And yet you came.”

“I’ll always come,” you reply quietly, the scent of rot growing stronger with each word. You see movement in your peripheral vision again. The sky darkens further, and the wind begins to grow cold. “Whether you mean it or not, I’ll always come. But I cannot say the same for everyone else. Sometimes people don’t arrive, or they leave without goodbyes. Sometimes—”

His expression twists. It’s like a child hearing something they don’t want to hear, or when they’re denied a toy they want so badly to be theirs. His body stiffens and his upper lip curls. “Stop it, Prefect.”

His voice is low, dangerous. You’re pushing it again, just like all the other times so far. You see another figure approaching the table. Someone with silver hair, someone who looks as though they’ve aged many years in mere moments. They hold a weapon at their side. Your own hand darts out and grabs Malleus’ arm. Despite the demeanour, despite the rage, his arm is solid and warm beneath your grip.

“Malleus,” you begin, desperation starting to lace in your voice. You see a flash of green and hear the clattering of something hitting the table, and then he jerks his arm away. You feel the crushing sense of overwhelming power before with a snap of his fingers he’s in a field that’s warm, and for once the sun—which beats down on him from a baby blue sky—does not give him a migraine, nor does it make his skin itch with the ghostly sensation of hives. He’s sitting at the end of a long dining table with a white tablecloth concealing its mahogany structure. It’s adorned with an array of foods; fruits, vegetables, meats; a cornucopia of delights to dig one's fingers into.

It’s what he anticipates happening upon the arrival of his guests, who will fill the twenty-two empty wooden chairs that are present.

#malleus draconia #twst malleus #twst #did u know i avidly write dream horror in an interactive game i make?#twst x reader #anyway someone drag me from this malleus fic hell plz :/

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