Work Text:
The voices are crazy, Phil.
“Please! Shut up! No no no no no no no!” screamed the little one.
Liquid poured from the child’s eyes, he tore at his arms and head. Bright red and fresh, the liquid trickled down to his legs and onto the hay, falling onto the dull red stains.
Scratching, turning, pounding the ground. The little boy spasmed as his outspoken agony tore his throat hoarse and soon, only weak and raspy squeaks came out.
The little one still spasmed. The little one still tore at his limbs. The little one fought bravely. The little one fought a war, he defended against a siege. An army, a legion of crazed and rampaging monsters. The terrors that would always haunt him until his final death.
The little one lost.
Sometimes, they’re angry.
One-eyed demons circled around the small boy. Crouching, squealing, glaring. They closed in, they always closed in. They knew that the small boy couldn’t bear physical contact, they knew that he would flinch.
The small boy flinched and their screeching filled his head.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING” leavemealoneleavemealone l e a v e. m e. a l o n e.
“MOVE IT”
imgoingimgoingimgoingimgoing
i m g o i n g b u t w h y
“WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE”
butidontunderstandwhatsgoingon
i d o n t u n d e r s t a n d
“ADVANCE”
Sometimes, they’re sad.
The young adolescent curled into himself. The world was taunting him. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and the flowers were blooming.
Brick had died. His horse, his brave and loyal horse had died. It wasn’t even preventable, Brick had died of old age. He didn’t fall off a cliff, he didn’t get stabbed, he didn’t even drown. Brick had just laid down, closed his eyes, and stopped.
“BRICK NOOOOOOOO”
yourenothelpingshutup
s h u t u p
“WHY”
idontknowidontknowwhydidhehavetoleavemealonewiththem
“was he happy”
i h o p e s o
Sometimes, they mock me.
The young adult fell. He tripped, he bumbled and he stumbled around. He was woozy, a descent into the Void never failed to give him nausea beyond what the concoctions those damned witches could ever create.
“MORON”
“L”
“only 3 out of 4 kills? lame”
The young adult floated on by, literally and mentally. He was used to the jeering of his Chat and he was more focused on not spinning around like a maniac while watching his teammates as a Spectator. The young adult was honestly grateful, after years of spending time with his Chat, he believed that mocking him was the Chat’s way of encouragement.
At least, he hoped so.
“you didnt get 5 outta 4 kills? wats wrong with u”
please kindly shut up chat
But the thing about the voices, Phil, the one thing I hear from them the most…
No matter what, the voices always circled back to one thing.
The little one tried to fight back and the small boy heard their whispers every waking hour. The young adolescent tried to forget and the young adult tried his best to ignore them. The voices were his constant, his guiding stars despite his wishes.
They’re just so loud.
The voices demand blood, Phil. They demand blood.
The Blade slaughtered them all.