Swarm and Steel, page 27
{Gods yes. Zerfall would never let me. I love—} She slapped him again and his ears rang. {She has some of her strength.} When she lashed out again he caught her wrist and held it tight, feeling the bones within grind together. Those perfect, full lips parted again in a soft wet sigh of lust and it was all Aas could do to stop himself from leaning in to kiss her. {No. I have to know. I have to know.}
“Know what?” she asked, hooking her heels behind his back and drawing him against her.
{Take away my choices. Make my actions not my fault. Remove from me the curse of responsibility. Gods I want this. Please.} He hated himself—loathed what he had become—but when he was with Zerfall, he no longer mattered. She was everything. He did everything for her. Aas looked Pharisäer straight in the eyes. “Tell me I love you.”
“I know you do,” she purred.
“Tell me!” he snapped, clutching her wrist in an iron grip.
Pharisäer’s eyes glanced to the side, the barest hint of a twitch. “If that is what you want.”
{It is. More than anything}
Aas nodded at where Blutblüte lay, concealed. “You were ready to kill me,” he said to distract both himself and Pharisäer.
“Of course,” she said.
“You fear—”
“Hardly.”
{I know you can’t love me; I can’t delude myself that much. But if you have her Gefahrgeist power, I will love you.} And that would be enough. “Tell me I love you,” he said, desperate.
“You love me,” she purred, writhing against him. “You’ll do anything I ask.”
Aas killed her, slipping the long-knife between her ribs and piercing her heart. She stared up at him, eyes wide. He blinked, and tears fell upon her flawless skin like soft rain. {I’m so sorry.}
“How?” she asked, a whispered intake of breath.
“When you broadcast your thoughts, it’s best not to plan too far ahead.”
But she was already dead.
Kneeling between her parted thighs his tears ran free, following the sags and wrinkles of his face. I wanted you. More than anything I wanted you. But you were right. You aren’t Zerfall.
Hölle might be a Fragment as Pharisäer claimed—though the idea seemed insane—but Pharisäer, the delusion of a delusion, was even less. Withdrawing the blade, Aas wiped it on the sheets of his bed. Then, throwing those sheets aside, he exposed Blutblüte. Its brutal simplicity was poetry.
How much does a soul weigh? he wondered. How about millions of souls?
The sword, unadorned and plain, was beautiful beyond words. The blade caught the light like oil on the deepest water. The leather-wrapped hilt, stained and worn from years of use, reminded him of Zerfall. Not once, in all the years he knew her, had he seen her without the weapon at her side. He once joked that she carried it even while making love and she’d drawn the blade and asked if he’d like to find out. Much as he wanted to, he recognized that glint in her eyes and demurred. He regretted that decision. She would have killed him, but it would have been worth it.
Retrieving the scabbard from Pharisäer’s corpse, Aas examined it. This was more ornate than Zerfall’s; her scabbard had been as plain and old as the sword itself. Reluctantly sliding Blutblüte home, he thought, Should I carry Zerfall’s sword? Should I return it to Hölle?
Those questions raised more questions. What was he going to do? Should he see Hölle, tell her everything? Would she kill him, or thank him?
“She knows I’m useful.”
She’ll hear my every thought. She’ll know what Pharisäer said about her. If she doesn’t already, she’ll know the truth.
“My inability to hide anything from her will protect me. She’ll know she can trust me.”
Really? Can she trust you?
He wasn’t sure.
Aas drew Hexenwerk from his pocket and the snot puppet crumbled apart. The end was close. Pharisäer had been ready to kill him. She might have succeeded. Luck and skill were divided by an awfully thin line and even the most dangerous killer could fall to a lucky idiot. He needed this damned puppet now, before everything fell apart.
Plucking another thick hair from the sagging flesh of his neck he glared at it in anger. None of his hair was near long enough. To effectively bind Hexenwerk together he needed …
Aas glanced at Pharisäer’s corpse. His breath escaped in a moan of pleasure as his gaze fell upon her dark, flowing hair. Perfect. The thought of plucking that hair—strand by strand—from her beautiful skull left him breathless with lust and erect with excitement.
Does it matter if it’s not my hair? He’d rather it was, but it would be years before his hair grew anywhere near this length. I don’t have years.
He’d have to chance it. If he completed Hexenwerk without Pharisäer’s hair, it would fall apart too fast.
Crawling onto the bed, he lifted Pharisäer’s head and rest it upon his lap. For several minutes he sat, blissfully stroking her hair, imagining this was Zerfall and she finally allowed him to touch her. That, he knew, would never happen. He wanted to lean down and kiss her, to examine her body in the intimate detail Zerfall never allowed, but couldn’t. This wasn’t Zerfall.
Twining a single strand of hair around his finger, he pulled it tight, stopping shy of tugging it free. Aas closed his eyes, basking in the moment, the feel of her luxurious hair wrapped around his finger. Your death will be my salvation. He pulled the hair from her scalp, sighing as it came free. Straightening it, he set it aside.
Aas smiled as he worked, feeling more content than he had in years, tugging hair after hair from Pharisäer’s head and arranging them at his side. Am I enjoying this too much? he wondered. Am I manifesting Trichotillic tendencies? Developing new psychoses was a sure sign his mental state decayed, but he hardly needed additional evidence beyond his increasing desire to escape this rank human flesh and live out his days free, as a proud and mighty condor. That and the increasing range of his broadcast thoughts.
Pull a hair free. Set it aside. Pull a hair free. Set it aside.
His mind wandered.
No matter how twisted reality might become, there were measurable and immutable rules. Understanding them, recognizing them for what they were, seeing the patterns buried in the surface chaos, that was the tricky part.
Aas could twist into a condor, and he could return to his man-shape, but he couldn’t twist to any other form. All Therianthrope’s had a single shape they twisted to when fleeing their humanity, and that shape was always based on some terrible trauma. If a boy was savaged by dogs or watched a pack of canines devour his family, that would influence his Therianthrope shape. Likewise, if a Dysmorphic grew up weak and scrawny and was bullied and mocked to the point of mental collapse, muscles would be the manifestation of her resulting obsession. Some Gefahrgeist craved absolute domination and became Slavers while others needed hero-worship and became Swordsmen. Still others sought subtler control and became politicians, petty tyrants, religious leaders, or even joined the city-guard. Always, in each and every case, their delusions and obsessions shaped their Geisteskranken power.
And then there were the subtler ways in which reality hinted at an underlying truth. The inverse square law, which stated that the further one got from a Geisteskranken, the weaker the effects of their delusion became. The effects of mass belief was also well documented; surround a typical Geisteskranken with thousands of sane souls, and that person became powerless. Yes, powerful Slaver-type Gefahrgeist, those at the Pinnacle, might gather thousands of followers over time, but even this seeming contradiction followed the same rules; as the Slaver convinced more people of their power, the effect of that power increased. Pluck the Slaver from the centre of his horde of worshippers and drop him in a city, and he’d be powerless.
According to his reading, some Geisteskranken were born delusional while others became deranged after suffering a particularly traumatic event. Still others, he read, only gained their power after suffering head wounds or due to heavy alcohol or narcotics use.
Was that what happened to Zerfall? Maybe it had nothing to do with the book of Cotardist poems he gave her. Had her loss of memory and the sudden manifestation of Cotardist tendencies been due to brain damage? It seemed likely, but if so, what about her previous Geisteskranken abilities? Zerfall was a powerful Gefahrgeist and yet had been unable to manipulate him, in spite of the fact he wanted her to. Did this mean her delusions were an aspect of her personality, that once she forgot who she was she lost that power? The thought boggled the mind. If Aas lost all memory of being imprisoned in a basement and devouring his father, would he no longer be a Therianthrope? For the first decade and a half of his life his father told him how hideous he was; what if his appearance was one more manifestation of delusion? Would he look different were he able to forget his past?
It was a tantalizing idea. While he found use in his madness, there was one law he dared not ignore: All Geisteskranken fell to their delusions. As the deranged lost sanity they gained power until their delusions came to rule their minds. There was no knowing how that end would come, it was different for everyone. Therianthropes, he’d read, typically shed their humanity, losing themselves to their animal form until they became unable to regain their human shape. Someday he would no longer be Aas Geier, Täuschung priest and killer. He’d be a condor, riding the winds, living off the world’s carrion.
Aas didn’t dread that end. His crimes were numerous, his soul stained. He’d killed so many people, shattered so many lives, sent countless souls screaming to Swarm. With each crime he hated himself more.
Swarm.
He glanced at where Blutblüte lay sheathed on his bed. Proximity. Mass belief. If he died anywhere near Blutblüte, was his soul’s destination guaranteed?
Aas blinked. Pharisäer’s bald skull, flesh pink and perfect, lay atop his lap. Her hair, arranged by length, lay heaped at his side. Lifting her head, he slid out from under her and stood staring at the piled hair for a moment before collecting it. He carried his prize to the rickety desk shoved into one corner of his near barren room. Sweeping the books and papers from its surface, he laid out Pharisäer’s hair and emptied his pockets of his own hair, snot, fingernail clippings, feathers, and pale clumps of foul scented belly-button lint.
Make the damned puppet. Maybe Hölle won’t kill you today, but it’s only a matter of time before either she falls apart or I do. Madness is assured.
Drawing a knife from its place concealed within his robes, Aas sat at the desk. Splaying his fingers wide on the scarred wooden surface, he swallowed a hard lump of fear and focussed on the small finger of his left hand.
Do it. You’re a coward. Do it.
He hesitated.
Who the hells hacks of one of their own fingers so they can make a puppet?
This was madness. Was he developing Körperidentität delusions as well Trichotillic? If he cut this finger off and the puppet remained incomplete, would he then remove more appendages? Gods this could spiral out of control fast. What scared him most was how reasonable, how plausible it sounded. The more of Aas Hexenwerk contained, the better it would be. He could use a forearm for its spine, his long, bony fingers for legs. He could wrap it tight in his very own flesh, flayed from his living body in sheets. It could have his tongue, his teeth. Maybe it needed eyes. One, at the very least.
What have I done?
Aas took a deep, shuddering breath and held it until blood roared in his ears and his vision slurred red. He released the breath in a long sigh.
“I am a Therianthrope. I want to be a condor far more than I want to be a puppet of snot and bone.”
Nodding to himself and muttering “I can do this” under his breath, Aas slid his hand back toward the edge of the desk, curling his fingers so only the smallest remained prostrate atop its surface like a helpless sacrifice. Holding the knife above his finger, tip resting on the desk’s surface, blade touching the wrinkled flesh where finger met hand, he bit down hard, grinding his teeth.
Standing, he took one last breath and held it. The blade kissed flesh, sank into the groove of the metacarpophalangeal joint. Putting his weight behind the blade, he crushed it down.
Aas screamed. The blade caught. Why had he thought he’d be able to sever it cleanly? He screamed again, tasting blood, and sawed at the joint. Bone parted. Pain ripped up his arm, lighting every nerve on fire. He tried to pull away but a thick strand of flesh joined the mostly severed finger to the hand. Flesh stretched thin and he screamed again, the thoughtless wail of an animal in agony. He sawed at the skin like a deranged butcher hacking at an offending strip of gristle.
When the skin parted he toppled sideways off his chair to sprawl mewling on the floor. Aas curled into a tight ball, his bloody and incomplete fist clutched to his chest. Hot blood soaked his clothes.
Get up. You didn’t hack off your finger so you could bleed out on the floor of your own room.
Whimpering, Aas pushed himself to his knees and then staggered to his feet. He felt dizzy, light-headed and weak. Dropping back into his chair, he began to laugh in convulsive sobs.
You’re an idiot. Why had he not thought to lay out bandages before severing his own damned finger? With a little planning, he could have even concocted some brew to dull the pain and slow the bleeding.
That would also dull his mind. He needed to be sharp.
Really? How sharp is someone who cuts off their own finger to make a sticking snot puppet?
“Shut up,” Aas muttered to himself.
He glanced at his bed and Pharisäer’s corpse. The sheets, soaked as they were in her blood, were already ruined. You’re worried about staining your sheets?
“Shut up!”
Rising, he clutched the knife in his right hand and sliced the sheet into strips. He’d have to replace these with cleaner bandages later, but at least he wouldn’t bleed to death now.
Once he bound his left hand tight with shredded sheets, Aas returned to his desk. His hand pulsed hot fire, sending waves of searing agony through his skull with each beat of his heart. He sat, staring dumbly at his severed finger. Gathering the appendage and assorted bodily detritus together, he built his puppet.
Hours passed in a blur of neurotic concentration and throbbing pain. When he finally sat back to examine his handiwork, Hexenwerk sat on the desk before him, hideously twisted like a psychotic’s doll.
That’s what it is.
He leaned in to study the puppet. Who knew the human body made so much snot and mucus? The features he carved into its face seemed angry, depressed at his lack of artistic talent. The wings, crafted of feathers bound in Pharisäer’s hair and in turn lashed to the body of the puppet—built upon the backbone of his severed finger—looked flimsy and weak.
It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. Belief, not wings, would provide the lift Hexenwerk needed to leave the ground behind. At least in theory.
The arms, little more than feathers stripped to the quill and wrapped copiously in dark hair, would be near useless. At best, they might be used to drag the puppet’s weight. The wings. Everything depended on the wings.
How sure are you you’ll fly?
If he couldn’t move his soul into this nasty little homunculus, its ability to fly would remain forever moot. Should he test it? Could he?
What if I succeed, but find myself trapped within Hexenwerk, unable to return to my body? He shuddered at the thought. But if I don’t test it, I’ll never know. He would doubt, and that would eat at him. Belief might define reality, but doubt was the other side of that coin.
Of course, if I try and fail …
Shoving aside his fears and trying to ignore the pulsing heat of his left hand, Aas focussed on the puppet, staring into its snot-nugget eyes. He needed this escape route. Swarm was too terrifying a fate to comprehend. He needed this.
Was this like twisting? Could he find some similarity there, something to make the transition easier?
No. Thinking about twisting drew him back into his body.
Swarm. Focus on your fear.
His spirit resisted. Each time he felt himself slipping away it lurched back into his body like a drowning man clawing free of water and drawing that first sobbing breath of air.
His hand throbbed. Rather than being a distraction, it gave him something to escape. Closing his eyes, he imagined becoming the puppet.
Focus on your fear and your pain.
Aas lost himself. He felt compressed, crushed into something too small to contain all he was. He heard the soft rustle of feathers.
I’m doing it! I’m—
Aas’ soul shuddered in terror, slamming back into his body. The puppet sat before him, staring with disappointed eyes. Had he imagined the sound, or had he, at least briefly, moved his soul to the puppet? How could he know?
You lost a lot of blood. You probably fell asleep and dreamed the entire thing.
Did the puppet look different? Had one of the wings been moved, just a little?
Exhausted, Aas rose from the desk. He was too tired to try again.
“Hölle won’t kill me today,” he said, hoping it was true.
He needed more time. He might have failed, but now felt sure he could, with more practice, possess his puppet. Aas lifted Hexenwerk, testing its weight.
How much does a soul weigh? He laughed, a pained grunt of sour humour. He remembered feeling crushed, like he’d been jammed into a tiny box.
“It’s time to face Hölle,” he said aloud, slipping Hexenwerk into its pocket.
Would Hölle be grateful or angry? Predicting the reactions of the delusional, Aas decided, was itself an insane pursuit.
He glanced at the body sprawled on his blood-soaked bed. He wanted to keep her.
Strapping Blutblüte to his side, Aas strode from his chambers. Rather than notifying the temple’s staff of Pharisäer’s corpse, he’d leave her there, his little secret. She’d rot and stink, but his fellow priests were accustomed to such smells emanating from his rooms. He grinned in hungry anticipation.
