marcus keane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exorkismos) wrote2018-09-13 10:18 pm
exorkismos) wrote2018-09-13 10:18 pm
@wontgraham
The demon in Father Séan leers and spits out a nicotine-brown tooth. It bounces off Marcus’ chest.
“God forgive you,” Marcus says.
“Those aren’t the words.”
“God forgive you — ”
“Can’t forgive me without the words. That never bothered you, lad? If God’s so powerful, what does he need you and me for?”
Marcus leans close to Sean’s bloodied face, close enough to smell his rotting breath, and says, “He ain’t ever needed you. He needs me.”
“Was that what I asked?”
There is the slow rotation of bones, creaking. The cuffs about Father Séan’s wrists and ankles crumple as his joints fracture and squeak. The sound makes Marcus gag and stutter, makes tears prick at his eyes, and he takes a step back.
“Ah, quit the bawling, Marcus.”
“God forgive you,” Marcus says, “God forgive — ”
“That’s not it,” Séan says. “Try this: strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste your vineyard,” and Marcus crumples, legs skittering out from underneath him, pain like a wire through a tooth, dragging on the nerve, except it’s everywhere. A grating, whining agony. A buzzing in his ears.
“What,” he says, prone, looking up at Séan, “no, you’re the — it’s you who — ”
“Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon...”
Again, he spasms, his head cracks back against the floor, he can’t move: “I’m not,” he gasps, and he rolls over and scrabbles at the floor, lurching disjointed across the boards, until he can’t move at all. “I’m not,” he says, he’s not, he’s not the beast in the vineyard, he’s not the dragon, he’s not the snake, it’s not his fault.
Séan puts a hand on his shoulder, crouched low to his ear: he says, “Hush, now, hush, ain’t you in good hands?”
*
In Will’s bed Marcus is thrashing and gasping, sweat slick and cold on his face and shoulders. He doesn’t wake when he rolls half into Will, he doesn’t wake when he mutters to himself, the words unintelligible.
“God forgive you,” Marcus says.
“Those aren’t the words.”
“God forgive you — ”
“Can’t forgive me without the words. That never bothered you, lad? If God’s so powerful, what does he need you and me for?”
Marcus leans close to Sean’s bloodied face, close enough to smell his rotting breath, and says, “He ain’t ever needed you. He needs me.”
“Was that what I asked?”
There is the slow rotation of bones, creaking. The cuffs about Father Séan’s wrists and ankles crumple as his joints fracture and squeak. The sound makes Marcus gag and stutter, makes tears prick at his eyes, and he takes a step back.
“Ah, quit the bawling, Marcus.”
“God forgive you,” Marcus says, “God forgive — ”
“That’s not it,” Séan says. “Try this: strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste your vineyard,” and Marcus crumples, legs skittering out from underneath him, pain like a wire through a tooth, dragging on the nerve, except it’s everywhere. A grating, whining agony. A buzzing in his ears.
“What,” he says, prone, looking up at Séan, “no, you’re the — it’s you who — ”
“Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon...”
Again, he spasms, his head cracks back against the floor, he can’t move: “I’m not,” he gasps, and he rolls over and scrabbles at the floor, lurching disjointed across the boards, until he can’t move at all. “I’m not,” he says, he’s not, he’s not the beast in the vineyard, he’s not the dragon, he’s not the snake, it’s not his fault.
Séan puts a hand on his shoulder, crouched low to his ear: he says, “Hush, now, hush, ain’t you in good hands?”
In Will’s bed Marcus is thrashing and gasping, sweat slick and cold on his face and shoulders. He doesn’t wake when he rolls half into Will, he doesn’t wake when he mutters to himself, the words unintelligible.