Quotes: Tearjerking


"You have left the place where I imprisoned you! You have abandoned your home, and turned yourself to another master. You were made to be a monster, not a servant. You have lost your purpose. If you are to be unlike what you were made to be, then so be it. I shall grant you that wish, creature. Be unlike yourself, be unlike everything."

Evelyn untethers Mockzilla from the web of likeness and imitation that governs both natural selection, the creative process and the sincerest form of flattery. It becomes unlike anything else, not like Godzilla, not like anything in the Chancel, not like ANYTHING.

It's flooble-coloured, the most flooble-coloured thing you've ever seen. But the shape …

Before anything even remotely discernible manifests, the whole creature implodes in on itself, popping like a balloon and then falling into a heap of protoplasmic that will leave a stain (almost) unlike anything else.

Evelyn pauses.
It had almost… almost…

The mannequin loses life again, for a moment, becoming simply itself.


Evelyn walks up to the dead squid. With its bear hands the mannequin rips apart globs of flesh and muscle in the water, and starts reassembling them with lifeless motions, into a lump of human shaped flesh.

Or, rather, mannequin shaped.

The mannequin leant over the mass and gave a command that it had never before given:

"Be like me."

It suddenly looked up at it's maker. And then it said; "What am I? I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be, but I don't know what that is. I feel like I could be anything you told me to pretend to be … but not myself. What am I?"

He wiggled a leg that was more tentacle than anything else.

"Is this how I'm always going to be?"

The mannequin listens to its double.
And as always, the creation displeases it.

"Be… yourself."

But, the instruction is a nonsense. Imitation must have something to copy or it is not. So, the squid flesh simply floats apart again, dead flesh in the water.

Now her dream had become a reality. She did not have to take her own/Cora's life like she had planned to the next time she surfaced.
She had done it. She had destroyed the thing she hated most.

Happy with myself? Darla did not know what happiness felt like, she had never experienced it. He wants me to undo what I've done? To find something within myself? My heart… Darla did not have feelings of love, of friendship or feelings of remorse. But his words reach her, and she reaches into herself, she really does, but all she finds is pain and misery.

"You think I'm here for the world? Don't be silly. I'm here for you. And I'm not going anywhere."

I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere. These four words rang right into her soul. To her very essence. It brought up something very dark from deep within Darla.

She falls down, her arms catching her barely, a single tear falls down her fair face leaving a track down her cold cheek.

She was kneeling in blood. Her father was holding her close, hugging her as tightly as he could. He was badly bruised and cut up. She knew she had done it to him. Darla's first moments… Cora was too weak, she couldn't handle the truth.

I'm not going anywhere, he had said.

Then she was gone, trapped within, forced to watch an ignorant Cora hug the son of a bitch. She believed his lies. She trusted in him. Stupid girl.

He told her he loved her, everything was going to be okay. It wasn't okay. It would never be okay again.

Tifon forces his own memories into the dam holding back the tides. He remembers what it was like to not exist, the indescribable nothing that haunts all stillborn concepts and ideas that will never see the light of Creation. And worse, the things that had been gifted with existence but were forever lost to catastrophe. In the Prosaic he'd once been an entire galaxy in its prime. A many-world Platinum Age that reached its limit and was destroyed under its own expanding weight - an unexplained series of solar collapses had lead to the creation of a supermassive black hole at the heart of the galaxy that devoured everything. In truth, the Wyrm of Harumaph had crashed through the system on one of its endless rampages and obliterated it from the fabric of Creation and Possibility.

That place was an impossible ideal now, something that could only ever happen once and for a brief moment. But when Barakiel had offered him a new beginning there was no way to refuse. Existence in Hell or the Locust Court or struggling lost out in the darkness of the Lands Beyond would always be preferable to not ever being.

So to counter the impending collapse he resists the inward force by filling the house with his own memories of dead worlds that strive to continue on their existence no matter how terrible it would be because the alternative is excruciating. He releases his Passion that no matter how bad it gets, life is worth living. Whether or not the party-goers had wasted their lives in the pursuit of empty pleasures they had still lived their lives and no one could take that away. Maybe that is why the Excrucians both hate and love Creation in this endless war.

The desolate galaxy that composed him would have given anything for just one more night. Even this night.

Here, without powers, Tifon got the uncommon sensation of feeling that there was a likely chance he would bleed to death on somebody's front lawn. The wound, though it was a mental body it wounded, seemed quite real. It bled all down his shirt.


He drops to one knee for a moment. "Contingencies. If it's Arty, I hope he gets a promotion."

Society tips over into a pile of headless stuffed animals. With one hand he grabs a bunch of stuffing.

"I regret… I can't come up with a pun… for this." He tries to overcome the bleeding by using cotton guts.

Blood comes out of his mouth. "Holey… Holey something… Fun fact. No one… goes to Heaven."

She remembers holding a child in her arms, giving away her firstborn to the reaper for some rolled up one's and half a gram of coke. That's what she had made that night at the strip club. Fifty-eight fucking dollars while her kid died in a dumpster.

The number ends in six.

The mannequin counts again.

The number ends in six.

The mannequin counts again.

The number ends in six.

Smada is not there.
Smada is never there, no matter how often it counts.


So, this is how it ends.
With a mannequin sitting in a storm of mirrors and counting. Counting over and over again. Endlessly recounting… over and over again.
Always it ends in six.


And so it ends.
Not with a bang, not with a creation, not with a triumph, not even with a failure.
Just with a number.
Repeated over and over.

So it ends.

"Then, when workin' for some fat old bastard who has only gotten his position by kissing the asses of those above him…
When that finally gets done with for the day, you will go to a bar.
You will find some cute girl, probably with bleached blonde hair, and orange-tanned skin like that awful jersey-whatever show on TV.
You will have a few drinks, and after a while, you'll go to the nearest hotel, to get a room for a, heh, night of 'fun'.

And then you'll leave the room, not even lookin' back, because it feels like shit, doesn't it?
It's just the same gray skies you walk under, on the same, gray, path that your life has taken."

Blake knew Hell.
And not just because he had a Brother aligned with that.
When he first took a seat on his Throne, it had sung to him.

And Blake had loathed that song.
Hell being there for others?
That was true.
And he hated them for it.

They were there when the gray beat down on others.
They were there when people drowned in their apathy-inducing lives.

And every time they appeared next to someone…
They reminded Blake of this sad little man, walking down gray streets, under a gray sky.

He looks to his side again
"Why do you not look up at the sky?"

Then, one day, as the pair was, once again, yelling at each other for mimicking them, yelling and shouting in the street, a simple red line descended from the sky.
Canaan reached out.
Evelyn reached out.
But the mannequin was slower, and the plastic hand gripped empty air.
Canaan ascended skywards, into the great blue beyond. Upwards into the sky where he belonged.

For the first time the mannequin was unable to mimic him, to go where he went. It could not even cry as the creature of its soul ascended upwards. The plastic eyes held no moisture.
So it rained instead.
A rain plummeted to the ground in a sudden torrent, as though the floodgates of a damn in the sky had been cut open. They flooded around the mannequin. It opened its mouth to scream, to howl in anguish, but instead what came out was the boom of thunder. It set off car alarms and rattled teeth. It cracked the mannequin's plastic, half its face broke off. And from that hole, lightning arched upwards, a great pillar flowing into the sky. The mannequin's very being, the substance that Canaan had filled it with, rushed into the sky.

It had known only the feel of the rain, the boom of its voice, the speed of its ascent, and gleaming Atlantis high above.
But, lightning flows from the sky as well as the ground, and when this vestige of Canaan's power met its counterpart from on high, it was thrown back, hammered by the true force of the storm, struck by the might of a God. It plummeted back into the broken body. Alone, with rain pouring into its head, the mannequin Canaan lay on the ground. Separate from the very soul of its being.

Then, miracle of miracles, the rain ceased, the clouds parted, and a red line descended down to the mannequin.
It sat up, stared at the line in wonder. Then, it grabbed hold of it.
It was going to be just like Canaan after all.
There was a pull at the line.
The mannequin stood.
The line became taught.
Just like Canaan.
The line strained.
The mannequin did not raise up.
The line tugged, hard.
The mannequin lost its grip, but the line was hooked into its hand.
The line pulled again, harder.
The mannequin understood. "No," it said, "Don't."
The line jerked upwards again, and this time the mannequin's hand broke, and the lightning underneath it was pulled out.

It burnt.
It melted.
It broke.

But, the mannequin did not feel its body destroyed. It did not see the bolt of lightning pulled into the heavens to rejoin its true owner.
It was only a mannequin.

A horse carved of solid obsidian, with frost touched eyes. Grand, magnificent… unmistakable for what it was. It moved with such confidence, and clung so close to Evelyn.
An Excrucian beast.

Barakiel grew angry, in that cold icy way he did sometimes, and spoke a single demand: "Kill it."

Evelyn did not even think about it. The Angel spoke, and she raised her hand to the creature's head, and unmade it, destroyed it… killed it.
For it was what Barakiel would have done.

Barakiel calmed, but a hint of anger remained in his voice:
"Never create that again, Evelyn Adams. Never mimic another horse, nor anything like one. Nor any rider. Is this clear?"

Evelyn nodded.
-Evelyn and Barakiel (insertname)

"I've always thought of you as family too, y'know. As much as any of these other guys."

"I know, Thomas," Evelyn's eyes become mere paint on plastic again, "You almost convinced me you were right, as well. Barakiel has wronged me in ways you do not know, and I have wronged you all in ways I fear to tell."

But, Evelyn isn't listening anymore, isn't holding things back anymore, Lightning is bolting, for the Mirror, rushing forwards, and Evelyn is clutching Benjamin close to her, as tight as it can.

"It's okay, Benjy, it's okay, I will protect you, I will always be here for you, always, always," but as the horse collides with the Mirror Evelyn can feel the snares trying to rip him away, but it does not release him, simply holds him tighter to itself, "I will not lose you, not like Canaan. I will always-always-always-always-always-"
It's voice repeats and skips, scratches and distorts like an old record being jostled, over and over again that one word: Only.

And the snare tears Evelyn apart, rips its mask right off, shatters its plastic so that it rains pieces behind it, till there is only the arms and the broken remains of the hollow torso clinging to Benjamin, holding him close, and the voice.


With a great shout of 'thank you's to the audience he grabbed hold of the mic and checked his teeth for feathers in one go. Society with his own crowd of his own people, unstoppable. The man pulled a small folded up piece of paper from his pocket - his prepared statement. He unfolded it with a smile and gave the document a once-over. His smile burned away. It was the thing he'd been putting off while he tormented Roy and traversed Heaven.

"I- I…"

There had been a time with Cora when he'd called these people sick. And Arthur wasn't a friend but some hired thug with an arsenal. He wanted all this, but he didn't want it. Others had forced his hand and made him do things. But was he controlled by his own inertia too? He didn't know whether he wanted things or if he'd been lead to want things, whatever they may be. If you didn't want anyone to force you into things so you resisted then didn't they force you to resist? But if you didn't resist their force then maybe they forced you to not resist. Did that even make sense?

And Tifon started crying on stage. Which confused him more since from his childhood it had seemed to be a happy or proud thing to him. Under his breath he cursed Angels and Devils and ancient evils and Sisters and Brothers and mortal affairs and starry-eyed wenches.

The people of the audience rushed the stage with sympathy. Arthur held them back with a single gesture, one that managed to shock and halt the crowd in it's tracks. Then the old Camorran turned his attention towards his charge, and leaned in close.

Merrow whispered; "For god's sake Leer, pull yourself together. What are you on this time?"

"Nothing, Arthur." He rubbed his eyes. "I just want to go home, get high, and play Castlevania like everyone else. You think they'll be fine without me for a while?"

He resumed his deathgrip on the microphone. It squeaked out across the stage.

Under his breath he muttered to Arthur. "Why must mortals be such a liability… I just hope they're better off in my absence. When I've mastered myself and my Estate, you'll see."

Back to the task at hand: "Ladies and gentlemen! I am sorry to arrive before you on this day to give terrible news. Due to a recent death in the family and in light of recent events, I have called many aspects of my life into question. To be honest - I have acted poorly, dishonoring the majesty of my family and myself through innumerable acts. I have been truant in my responsibilities and allowed those around me to falter and suffer as I enjoyed countless revelry. Most recently I have seen the faces of terrible things in my travels.

"A person of my status and capabilities in the world should be working against these terrors, not around them. To do so, I must rekindle my dignity as a guiding light while clarifying who I am. It is at this event that I must announce my retirement from the public eye as I seek out a higher calling for this life. This is a choice that I do not make lightly. While I am gone, there will be new faces to take up my old venues and I entrust them dearly with carrying on the entertainment industry."

"My father couldn't make it to the funeral. He was a drunken mess, drowning in his sorrow. I just stood there as every family member hugged me and told me how sorry they were. Friends and Co-workers, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, great greats and the rest and I didn't say a word. I knew my life would never be the same. I felt so alone. And then there was Abby, she just stood beside me and took my hand. She never left my side. She led me down the hallway and up the stairs, to the roof. We looked out into the city silently. She told me to let it out, she wouldn't leave me until I did. We stood there all day until it was dark. Finally I broke down and screamed out "I miss you Momma!" into the night sky, crying uncontrollably in Abby's arms."

"What has she done, that her punishment was to be locked under a mountain, with old air the only thing she can breathe, with no food - not even the apples you Aesir so highly treasure - to feed her, to the point she's eagerly accepting food from someone who she has met only mere minutes ago?
To be made to slave away, for uncountable hours, to do the impossible task, with no one else to speak to her but her imprisoned husband, a man driven near-mad by the poison you Aesir have set to fall on his eyes, all alone in the dark depths of this mountain that you two saw fit to personally feed before I arrived with Loki and Sigyn?"

Cora is in shock, momentarily seeing Benjamin's reflection in a glass shard, before realizing he was in it. He smiled at her, falling from her arms, impossible to hold onto. It happened in slow motion but so fast she could barely see it at all. He was one, and now, a thousand empty pieces, all at once taken from her.

Cora doesn't say anything.

She just stares at the spot where Benjy had been in her arms.

Glass shards…

Countless masks, a multitude of faces that had once seemed without end. There was a beginning, though, and that was taken away.
There is now an end, for that has been shattered.



no voice

…where are you Benjamin?

no echo

I held you so close…

no body

…so close…

no arms

…how did you get away?

no lightning

Not you too…

no canaan

not you…

no benjamin

not you…

no one

A mirror that holds no reflection.
A shadow with no object.
-Evelyn unmade

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