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'What a shame. He was a fine weapon.'
The back alley sunlight of past Ma'habre streams into the Temple of Torment. On the cold marble tile lays Ragnvaldr's body, serrated holes punched deep into his flesh by Chambara's chains. His expression is frozen into one of adrenaline-fuelled frenzy, eye whites dull as his pupils peer forever upwards. His red mane flows in waves below his skull, melting into the blood pooling beneath him.
Ragnvaldr's head has almost been severed, hanging onto his neck by strings of tendons and ribbons of muscles. A hole has been driven through one of his temples and out the other. A beam of light shines through the hole, illuminating a puddle where some of his brain matter has fallen out.
Cahara watches as Enki kneels, head bowed, besides the dead man. He asks, 'Can't you use your necromancy to bring him back or something?'
Enki turns his head slightly. 'No.'
Cahara waits for Enki to elaborate. But he doesn't. Instead, he cups Ragnvaldr's cheek with one gloved hand. The other, he runs through Ragnvaldr's hair.
In one fluid motion, he snaps his head off.
'Err. What are you doing?'
Enki stands and turns towards Cahara. He's cradling Ragnvaldr's skull in his arms. Red hair trails down the length of his robes; blood is seeping into his green leather gloves, staining dark. Enki says, 'I would like to take Ragnvaldr's countenance with us. After all, beauty is so rare in this hostile world. Therefore – it's only logical that we shouldn't waste beautiful things, yes?'
'It's not right to disrespect a dead man, y'know.'
Enki's lip twitches with scorn. 'Pray tell, what do you know about what's right, mercenary?'
'I mean, do whatever you want with the ghouls and all. But Ragnvaldr was sorta our friend. He was a good man.'
'A good man? How blind. Do you truly think that the outlander would have hesitated to devour your corpse, had you been killed?'
'Hey, so what if he'd eaten me! We'd all do anything to survive. But you're ripping the guy's head off for no reason.'
'I do have reason,' Enki snaps a little too quickly. 'It's not my fault you are too simple to see it.'
Christ, why does he always have to have a gigantic stick up his ass? Cahara knows they don't have time for this. They're both pretty injured and they're fresh out of blue herbs. So he says, 'Eeh, okay fine. I guess he's too dead to care anyway.'
Enki's silence exudes smugness. He strokes Ragnvaldr's hair.
Enki always would do that whenever they stopped to rest. When he believed the rest of the party to be asleep, he'd wind his long fingers through Ragnvaldr's locks of hair, brush them as though tending to a sleeping mistress. Cahara always sleeps with an eye open, and he'd seen Enki do it time and time again, Ragnvaldr snoring away obliviously.
And when everyone was awake again, Enki would act all callous and scowl at any sign of affection or camaraderie Ragnvaldr showed.
Cahara doesn't get it. But whatever gets him rich and out of here as quick as possible, is all fine by him. What does he care if Enki is a weirdo about Ragnvaldr's decapitated head? What does he care if Ragnvaldr's dead, swallowed up by the dungeons with no one to even notice he's vanished? It's just another symptom of how messed up everyone and everything in these dungeons is – in essence, something Cahara just wants to get away from soon as he finds Isayah's treasure.
Still preoccupied with the head, Enki begins to make for the exit.
For a moment, Cahara stares at the rest of Ragnvaldr's body, all mutilated there on the floor. That could've been him. He should just be thankful that it wasn't.
Stepping outside, though, the sunlight makes him feel sick. For a moment he swears he hears footsteps behind him, the echo of Ragnvaldr's voice, deep and resonant, calling his name and telling him to wait up. The feeling of a warm, rough hand closing around his upper arm.
But when Cahara looks back, there is only a headless body on the floor.
For a while they wander around, searching for a safe place to rest. In one of the buildings, they find a room nestled at the end of a secluded hallway. Cahara immediately flops on the bed with a groan of relief.
He had managed to pick some herbs around Ma'habre. Sitting up on the mattress, he hands a mix of red and blue to Enki, while applying another to his own wounds.
Enki sits cross-legged on the floor in front of him. They split a share of old salmonsnake meat and moldy bread. It's odd. Cahara keeps thinking he should be giving a portion to Ragnvaldr, but Ragnvaldr, well. . . Ragnvaldr is staring, his eyes wide open, up at Cahara from Enki's lap.
Ragnvaldr's face has started to rot. His skin has taken a paler hue, and his mouth hangs stiffly open. He's beginning to smell.
As if sensing Cahara's unease, Enki says, 'Ragnvaldr knew that venturing deeper into these ruins would be suicide. You knew too. So, please, don't act so shocked. It's pure luck that the either of us are still alive.'
'I'm not shocked. It's just. . . why him?' He waves away Enki's protest. 'Yeah, yeah. He would've eaten us at the first chance. I don't care. He didn't deserve to die, not like that.'
'You're stating the obvious. That is why I brought his memory along with us – because his handsome visage did not deserve to rot on that disgusting temple floor.'
'He was pretty good looking.' Cahara squints at the skull. Ragnvaldr was handsome. Though, much of that appeal was in the hard lines of his musculature, his deep laugh, his gentility in the face of unimaginable horrors. 'I liked his muscles more though.'
'Tch. Physical prowess isn't everything.'
'Of course you say that.' Enki glowers at him and Cahara continues, 'But yeah, I guess you're right. It'd be better to carry him around until we find a spot to bury him. Hey – you're pretty smart. Maybe you're not as much of a nutcase as I thought you were!'
'A proper burial? Hm. For your sake, I'll ignore that last part.'
They finish eating without much conversation, though Enki is less aloof, seemingly pleased by Cahara's words.
Before, maybe Ragnvaldr would have been humming an Oldegårdian folksong, or advising Cahara on his fighting technique, or teasing Enki for this or that. Not now. The room is dim and empty, despite the illusory clatter of past Ma'habre outside.
If he were here, Ragnvaldr would've rested sitting against the wall, right over there by the shelf.
The shelf, on which Enki places Ragnvaldr's head. Staring and lifeless.
This bed is clearly large enough to fit the two of them. Without asking, Enki gets on the mattress beside Cahara. Cahara catches a whiff of incense and decay and salty rotting blood emanating from his robes. Gross.
Well, it's just the two of them now. He may as well be cordial. He bregrudgingly shuffles over to make space, and focuses his attention on the cracked ceiling.
The reek of Enki's robes filling the cramped space, Cahara falls asleep, acutely aware of Ragnvaldr's eyes on him.
Cahara wakes up panting from fitful dreams, cold sweat down his spine, half-sure that chains of torment had sunken into him again. He has to run his hands over his body to make sure there’s no fresh wounds, no holes in his flesh.
In the middle of his panic, he notices that Enki is missing, and so is Ragnvaldr’s head.
Pulse thudding, Cahara grabs his sword.
He creeps towards the doorway to the hall, ready to ambush whatever might be waiting. Maybe Enki’s finally lost it and ran off. Maybe he’s been taken. Either way, Cahara’s not taking his chances.
Cahara inches to the side of the threshold, and he glances outside.
Enki's face is obscured by his long, pale hair. He's standing midway down the corridor and leaning against the wall, his robes hitched to his thighs.
With both gloved hands, he’s gripping Ragnvaldr’s decapitated head, sliding it back and forth before his groin.
Half-awake, Cahara's not sure what he's looking at. Then he realises – Enki's fucking Ragnvaldr's skull.
Nausea crashes into Cahara. The sword slips from his grasp, nearly giving away his position, but he catches it just in time. He teeters there behind the doorframe – half a mind to leap out, half a mind to just go back to bed and sleep this off as another nightmare.
Enki’s strokes are slow and methodical. Hands fisted at the back of the skull, he pulls it all the way down on his cock, bucking his hips to leverage himself deeper. Then, carefully, he eases the head back before sinking it down again. His skeletal thighs tremble with each stroke, as if he's straining to hold himself back.
Down the corridor, Cahara can hear his quiet exhales, and the wet squelches of his thrusts. He must have used some oil to replace the saliva.
By Alll-mer, why is Cahara even thinking about it? It's just not right. He should've known by the way Enki talked about Ragnvaldr. This was the reason he'd taken his skull all along, just for the sake of gratification.
He watches as Enki pulls out and rubs his cock against the skull's face – Ragnvaldr's face. He can just about make out the curve of Ragnvaldr's nose, the line of his jaw slackened in death, the wetness glistening on his lips. His sculpted, regal countenance, reduced to this.
'Enjoying the show, mercenary?'
Breathy from pleasure, Enki's scathing voice cuts through the silence. Cahara's heart sinks to his stomach. He steps out from the doorway. 'Hey, what the hell?'
Enki pauses inside of Ragnvaldr's skull. His gaunt face is unusually flushed, and he's more of a mess than Cahara's ever seen him. 'I never took you for a voyeur.'
'I woke up and you were gone. What'd you expect me to do? But sure, whatever. I'm going to go back to bed. I never saw this.'
'Cahara. Don't be so idiotic. Come here.'
Enki's sunken eyes stare at him with pitch dark intensity. Cahara wavers, then sets his sword down against the wall. The sooner he goes along with whatever Enki wants, the sooner he can go back to sleep, right?
'I'm not often one to share. I'm giving you a very generous offer. If you'd partake with me. . .'
'What are you talking about?'
'You really liked Ragnvaldr. Didn't you? And now, he's dead. This is the only time you'll ever be able to show him your love, before his countenance rots.'
Enki looks down with an expression that's almost soft. Cahara gets the sense that he's not actually talking to him.
'There is an intimacy inherent to handling the dead. To take control of something emptied of self, and fill that emptiness with your own will. Perhaps you would never be able to understand it. But I want to teach you to understand, Cahara. I really do.'
Cahara could turn his heel and leave right this second. Hell, he could ditch Enki altogether and find that treasure on his own, or he could even walk straight out the dungeons with what meagre loot he has, forget any of this ever happened, and go find treasures another day. He would be returning home without much, sure, returning as a failure – but at least he would still have his mind intact.
Yet, he's made it this far without leaving. Why is this any different?
Up close, the state of Ragnvaldr's head is even worse, his hair matted with dried blood and other mysterious fluid. The smell of stale meat is overwhelming. His eyes have sprung open again, staring up at the two of them. Condemning.
'He's beautiful, isn't he?'
Cahara says, 'Eeh, I'm sure he's seen better days.'
Enki scoffs.
'Whaddaya want me to do?'
Instead of answering, Enki releases one hand on the head, and reaches forward to grope Cahara through his breeches.
Cahara freezes. Whatever gets him out of here with as little trouble as possible, he reminds himself. Enki touches him a little clumsily – Cahara can tell he's not very experienced. Besides, there's too many layers between them.
Against better judgement Cahara tugs himself out. His cock brushes against Ragnvaldr's matted locks for a second, and he shudders, willing himself not to think about any of this too hard.
It's fine. Ragnvaldr's dead. He would never know this happened.
He takes Enki's wrist and manoeuvres his gloved hand to fit snug around his dick. The glove is hot to the touch, warmed by Enki's body heat underneath. The leather is soft yet rough, applying just enough friction to not be painful.
Cahara begins to buck into his fist, and Enki makes a quiet noise. Cahara looks up at his face, hollow cheekbones and long lashes. In the dim light, he's got a nearly ethereal air, though Cahara would never admit it out loud. He follows Enki's gaze down, and notices that Enki grinding against Ragnvaldr's face again.
After a few strokes, Enki tugs his hand free. He grabs Cahara's hand instead, forcing it against Ragnvaldr's hair. It's downy between his fingers, hard where fluid has crusted. His grip bony and unexpectedly strong, Enki forces his hand to move until it's just over the hole in Ragnvaldr's temple. Something churns in Cahara's guts.
Right. This is what Enki called him over for.
'Feel that?' Enki mutters against his ear. 'I want you to fuck him there.'
Cahara shudders, whether in disgust or anticipation, he doesn't know. Tries to focus on something else, anything else but Enki's gloved hand guiding him to the hole. His engorged cock brushes against the hard edge of Ragnvaldr's skull, then pushes into mushed-up matter.
By now, his brain seems to have melted into a creamy paste, though chunks of it retain a gelatinous form, firm enough for Cahara to grind against. Inside, it's wet and cold and like nothing Cahara's felt before. He can't help himself, rutting in and out. Ragnvaldr's skull is nearly wide enough to encase Cahara fully, though, if he thrusts deep enough, the head of his dick still pokes out on the other side to brush against Enki's bare thigh.
The physical vessel that once held all of Ragnvaldr's hopes, fears, and dreams, being churned into mush by Cahara's dick. In the dark his eyes peer unseeingly up at Cahara, his mouth hanging open in a voiceless scream.
I'm sorry, Cahara thinks. I'm sorry.
Cahara feels Enki's lips press against his own. Before he even has a chance to react, Enki leans back and rasps, 'You understand now? The power of taking something once brimming with individual wants and needs, and remolding it into the shape of your own fancy?'
Cahara's panting as he drives into Ragnvaldr's brains, equal parts nausea and arousal squirming around in his belly. His raw cockhead rubs against the jelly-like slush, bumps against the hard inside of Ragnvaldr's skull with each movement. He tries to reply but all that comes out is a groan.
Enki laughs at him, though it lacks his usual malice. He moves Ragnvaldr's skull. Cahara hears Enki let out a self-satisfied groan, then he feels the hot, rigid slide of Enki's cock against his. Enki must be penetrating Ragnvaldr from the opposite end of the hole.
Enki takes Cahara's other hand and presses it against Ragnvaldr's face, so that both their hands are on the skull, holding it steady. Cahara lets his pinky rest on Ragnvaldr's top lip, his middle finger on his pronounced browbone. He feels Enki crush his hands, moving the skull back and forth between them. With each thrust, what's left of Ragnvaldr squelches between them, liquid forced out of the hole and dampening Cahara's breeches.
Cahara whines mindlessly. It feels good, the wetness in Ragnvaldr's head providing a nice slickness between their genitalia. Enki is almost burning hot compared to the gummy coolness inside the skull.
'You have done so well,' Enki pants, hot breath on Cahara's neck. His own thrusts are growing more frenzied, dragging against Cahara quick and rough, his hips snapping against the side of Ragnvaldr's head. 'When you die, I will have to be sure to put your pretty head to good use too. Wouldn't you like that?'
'Y-yeah.'
'Maybe I'll use you while you're still warm and hanging on to life, allow your last conscious feeling to be me penetrating your head. You would be mine to use to my pleasure. Your cunning mind, reduced to nothing but my masturbation sleeve. . . '
Cahara bucks into the hole, once, twice, before coming with a groan, his face buried in Enki's shoulder.
Each spurt of his hot spend paints Ragnvaldr's brains wetter and stickier. Enki hisses, and then his cock throbs against Cahara's. Come splatters on him, some dribbling out of the hole and onto his thigh.
Cahara's shaking, hands gripped tight in Ragnvaldr's hair, oh God, he's holding Ragnvaldr's severed head. He's defiled his severed head.
His breeches are damp with sweat and semen and liquefied brain matter. There's a wet spot under his mouth, and he realises he's been drooling onto Enki's robes. Cahara yanks his hands from his grip – causing the skull to fall – and staggers away until his back hits the wall.
The world comes rushing back to him. The sounds of Ma'habre outside, the hollow clamour of the city square. The thin light filtering in through the cracks in the walls, cutting a beam across Ragnvaldr's face. Between his eyes is indented the pink crescent moon of a fingernail – Enki's or his, Cahara doesn't know.
One eye is caught in the light, staring straight at Cahara.
Enki picks the skull up. He inspects it closely. Then he flicks his tongue beneath the jaw, licks up a trail of viscuous liquid, and pulls back, looking towards Cahara. Enki sneers gloatingly at him.
'What did you say about disrespecting a dead man?'
Cahara's stuck to the wall. He can only catch his breath, gaze fixed to the floor as Enki slips past him, back into the room with the bed.
For his whole life, he has dressed himself in filth, and done the dirtiest of deeds just to get by. And yet.
(When they met for the first time, Ragnvaldr had asked, 'Are you evil?'
Cahara had said, 'Yes.' Half seriously, half playfully to throw off this hulking stranger. But, looking back, he had never really known evil. Not really. Maybe glimpsed parts of its face, or brushed against it in his dealings, but never had he truly stared evil in the eye, in its most naked state.
Cahara doesn't care anymore. He just wants to get home, shed this suit of filth he's seemed to acquire by tromping through this place. But something tells him his skin's already fused to it. Has been fused to it, for a long time. This was just the culmination of all that evil, building up on his skin and finally closing over his face.)
A sense of deep uncleanliness fixes itself to Cahara's core.
They make it out of Ma'habre, back to the upper dungeons.
By now, Ragnvaldr's head is bloated in yellow and indigo hues and crawling with maggots. His hair has shrivelled into black strawlike strands, hardened with various fluids. His eye sockets are hollow, his lips long rotted away, leaving a two rows of sharp teeth.
Enki does not seem to mind. Yet he's restless, almost bored, like a child having lost interest in a toy. He must've not found what he was looking for in the Grand Library.
Cahara's not satisfied either. No Le'garde, no king's crown – what kinda bullshit was that map? – no substantial wealth earned, except a handful of silver coins.
They end up burying Ragnvaldr in the backyard, before the big tree leading to the thicket. Cahara digs a hole, deep enough that no dogs will ever sniff it out, and Enki drops the skull inside. It lands with a soft thud. Cahara fills the hole again, piling the dirt in until Ragnvaldr is swallowed up. He beats at the mound with his heel until it's flat.
Cahara looks up. The branches of the tree stretch against the white expanse of the sky like dark, gnarled fingers, a hand closing down on him, pinning him to the earth.
He can't leave now. Not when he's already neck-deep. Not when he's already lost so much of himself. How could he call himself a man, returning empty-handed to Celeste and their child? Worse than that, returning coated in filth. Returning ruined by his own hands, or by some all-consuming force external to him – he can't tell the difference anymore.
Celeste might forgive him. In fact, she'd be happy as long as he was alive. But he would not forgive himself.
No. He can't leave. He's given up too much. It can't have been for nothing.
He glances towards Enki, who mutters, 'There is more to this place, somewhere deep below. You remember what Ragnvaldr said? – The God of the Depths. I must know what's beyond its maw. We must keep going.'
And die for you while trying? Smiling bitterly, Cahara says, 'Sure, why not.'