𝐊𝐀𝑳𝑶𝑷𝑺𝐈𝐀

𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏

i listened to skyfall on repeat so many freaking times while writing this, i'm pretty sure i know the lyrics by heart now.

like stated previously, my style has (maybe) changed after not writing for a long time. probably turned worse lol. anyways, it isn't edited and it's a bit short compared to other chapters since i decided to split one big chapter into several parts. so—yeah, just keep that in mind.

QUIET FOLLOWS THE PRESENCE OF FURY, a quick submission to a blazing wrath. It is said that an inferno can be loud, but truly, it flickers and spreads in silence. You're sure of it.

"C'mon, what did I do to get the silent treatment?" Tommy—what even is his real name?—moans, hunched over as he follows you devotedly in the sea of people.

You don't dare to respond in fear of what you might say, instead swallowing the embers of hatred and anger. It curls in the pit of your stomach, like a beast licking its wounds. And, perhaps you are. With the humiliation that has seemed to consume your entire being, you are shaken with rage.

A beast is nothing, you think to yourself, but a wretched fool led by the nose.

Your mind buzzed with thoughts—of work, of Tommy, of the hidden identity of the individual who looms behind you. You grimace at the last part as it guts you once more of how ignorant you've been to this charade, flushing in shame.

Who else is involved?

There's a likely chance Tubbo was unaware, but the boy could've fooled you with his honey-dripped lies. At that point, you would have no one to blame but yourself for your ignorance.

Schlatt? More than likely. His prowess would make it seemingly impossible for anyone to bypass under a guise of a yet-to-be Hero. You could see it too. Behind his auerete gaze is the same honed experience that has got him his high position in the SMP politics. A Midas fable of a man who made use of a curse.

You scoff. More than anything, you're curious—do not lie, you yearn, your mind whispers—to know the identity. The Devil himself has whispered in your ear to bite into the Apple, and you've done it. There is no point at hiding the truth, for it is this realization of what corruption actually is that has led you abashed. You cannot act naive anymore nor can you be a bystander, no matter how desperately you so choose to be. At that thought, you glance towards the pseudo-Tommy only to stiffen in shock.

He looks at you with a barely concealed sardonic expression.

Flitting but present, a scarlet gaze peers into you, dipping its tendrils into your shame unbeknownst that you've taken notice to the subject. It closes its clutch onto your fury as his eyes take in every inch of your stoic expression, greedy in his search. The boy—or man, you're more likely to believe—stares as if he is plucking at the pomegranates hidden in your bleeding wounds.

He knows.

He knows, because your body quivers under his piercing, mocking glare. The individual makes use of your wounded pride, pressing it into a mere seed and forcing the no longer concealed authority down your throat. You are beneath me, he says without really saying it at all, and I will drag you down to Hell if I so desire.

You are captive under his prowess. There is no other figure who may save you from the shackles he has placed. It is indeed a bitter pill to swallow. A far more bitter pill then the unspoken humiliation that spurred the growth of this pomegranate of power. Although, hasn't it always been there?

Your hands clench into a tightened, stark white fist at the thought. For a brief moment, a old memory flashes by and your heart stutters as the world seems to still with an abated breath.

"Why are you looking at me like that? I'm sorry that I ignored you and I know it was wrong of me, but I'm really stressed out with this whole festival shenanigan. Will you forgive me?" You ask in faux ignorance, inclining your head to the side with a closed eyed smile.

It's over the top, you'll admit, but necessary for the cause. You doubt he'll believe it, but best to deny it altogether then to be forced into whatever this stranger has in planned. You don't know him. You thought you did, and perhaps, that is what hurts the most, but now these sentiments must be shelved. Locked away.

Tommy (?) blinks once, then twice before a grin tugs at his lips. In doing so, the corners of his mouth pinch into a thin line. How long could he continue it before it snaps? This brush of patience, perhaps even madness, is nothing but wasted time. It is bound to run out.

He hums, looking down at you with the same frozen smile. "Of course."

Nothing else is said. There could be—things said, that is. But, there is a feeling that churns inside, something other than this humiliation that you've reiterated—ingrained into your mind by now—that prohibits you from saying anything else. If fury and shame was an ember spurred by a spark, then this must be a coiling serpent, reeling in wait of a prey.

You continue to walk, looking over the preparations of a festival (though you do not know this, it is a catalyst to a conflict simmering to spread and destroy). The only occurrence that runs in your thoughts at the moment is: if there is such a serpent, such this aforementioned feeling, that lurks, is it you that continues to be the prey... or have you begun your stalk against him?

Giggling, you shake your head. Why ask such a question like this? The answer is quite obvious, already.

The blazes of all things negative—humiliation, hatred, hostility, (most importantly) homesickness—within are extinguished under your foot, the presence of a muddy existence blending into the absence of light.

You do not question the wariness that crystallizes into a chill amidst a burning summer, as the Stranger does not question your collected eyes, flat as snakes.