Garden Of The Abyss

"Why?" Descartes repeated, "That's a silly question. It's because you're special, Ren."

It sounded so ridiculous, like an awful, mistimed joke meeting his ears as he sat there, tearful and bloody.

"Special…?" He repeated.

Decartes leaned down, meeting him face-to-face with a smile before nodding, "That's right. You're loved, Ren. It's a special thing to be one loved by the Mistress. Such pure, absolute, unmatched love--it is the greatest passion in which one could receive. Everything we do is out of that love. All of the pain I must inflict on you; it is for the betterment of tomorrow. That's the truth, and nothing but it. Yes, yes. So...endure."

--Before he could process the words, he was unable to react to the Marquis extending the hand that held the wicked, spiral eye towards his empty socket, jamming the ocular organ into his empty socket without a single warning.

More than pain, it was shocking; the squelch resounded from within his skull as his singular vision latched onto the harrowing smile plastered on Decartes' expression.

However, the wave of pain was only delayed.

After properly placing the new organ into his bleeding socket, the Marquis allowed his fingers, lathered in a mixture of blood, pus, and tears of the socket to retreat, bringing them to his lips as he ran his tongue across his digits.

"It is finished. The first phase, that is. Now it is time to let the Eye of Goetia settle into its new home," Decartes' words rolled from his slimy tongue.

He could only sit there, huffing heavily as he faced towards the ground; it pulsated in his socket, the new eye vibrating intensely.

Suddenly, the uncomfortable pulsations shifted to visceral pain as the tendrils protruding from the back of the foreign, ocular organ shot out, embedding themselves into his flesh.

Within seconds he was writhing in agony worse than anything he had previously felt; like the roots of cedar, the eye's tendrils ran over his skeleton, piercing his flesh and mending with his body in a repulsive process he could feel all too closely in detail.

Veins protruded across his skin, all over his body as his complexion reddened from the strain; his left eye growing bloodshot as residual blood continued to seep from his compromised, right socket.

"Bear it. Endure it. Take it in. Savor the pain. That is growth. Writhe, cry, scream, yell--let it out. Those are all signs you're walking down the proper path, Ren," Decartes' words met his ringing ears in a haze.

There was simply no way for him to bear with the pain of the accursed eye embedding its roots in his body; he couldn't embrace himself with the chains, he couldn't curl up, he couldn't scratch his skin--all he could do was bite his lip until it tore and bled.

Beneath his skin, the roots entangled with his flesh, caressing his nerves as violent torrents of pain went through his body like a never-ending chain of lightning.

Tha-dump. Tha-dump. Tha-dump. Tha-dump-tha-dump-tha-dump-tha-dump.

Rapidly, his heart pulsated with such an intensity, experiencing palpitations that appeared visibly on his chest; sweat exuded from his stressed pores as his own screams fell muffled on his own, ringing ears.

"Overcome it. Endure it. Endure, endure, endure, endure, endure, endure, endure," Decartes' continuous, repetitive words hastened his panic.

It was a process that forced his mind to mend, for no other reason than to try and find a way to circumvent the shock overtaking his heart.

All at once, he was returned; his thoughts began to string back together though the panic of his body kept him unable to focus.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die, he thought.

"Endure, endure, endure, endure, endure, endure, endure, endure," Decartes continued endlessly, locking his spiraling, maddened eyes with the young man.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die, he continued to believe.

Pushing frequent, even breaths past his clenched teeth, echoes of the Marquis' words and his own thoughts melded as his vision swayed from the fever overtaking his panicking body.

--Before he knew it, it was over.

The pain finally began to subside, leaving his body exhausted beyond belief as his muscles went limp as if just completing a strenuous marathon.

Though he remained conscious, he slumped down with his swollen, bruised wrists still hanging above his head. All he could do was lay there silently, drooling onto the blood-stained stone as he further messied it with fluids from his eye.

Decartes stood straight, placing his hands behind his back with a smile, "You endured, Ren. Today, that is. Over the coming days, let's see how your gift flourishes. Just remember: on the seventh day, your stay here will end, and you'll be plunged back into the depths of Purgatory. Perhaps you'll soon appreciate this respite I've given you."

Without any further words, the Marquis and his subordinates took their leave from the torturous cell, leaving him alone in the quiet, deathly prison once again.

I want to give up. All that's keeping me from truly losing my mind or simply resigning is a thirst for vengeance. Even more than getting revenge, I want to just give up. I want to fall over and let the world run along without me, let the breezes pass me like any other piece of unmoving nature as I fade away.

A single wind could blow me away right now.

When the past looks so alluring...bright and warm...seeing the present just fills me with nothing. What future is there with this darkness? If life is so painful, then why am I still persisting?

...I guess...I don't have the right to die. Iris...you would want this, right? No matter how painful it is without you, you would want me to keep fighting, right?

Even if I'm useless, dying, agonized, even if I want to give up...I can't. The Ren Nakamura you loved...he wouldn't give in, would he?

I bet he's amazing, isn't he? Always smiling, always joking...if only that's who I really was...but, I'll try, he thought.

As his mind finally came back together just enough to return to reality, he felt his own hunger kick into full force as his stomach cramped up; the strain his body experienced accelerated his need for nutrients.

The plate left earlier still remained on the floor, even as unappetizing the dark, bean-like paste and stale bread looked, he didn't care for flavor.

"...Come on…"

He tried to reach for it, but it was impossible to grab with the bindings around his wrists; the position forcefully kept him on his knees, causing them to redden and blister.

Even attempting to grab the plate with his teeth, it was just out of reach. Straining forward to the best of his ability, his strenuous attempt only resulted in spilling the plate over, mixing the food with the fluid-stained, damp stone.

"...Damn," he muttered.

Suddenly, the sound of weight shifting caught his attention--though it came from a direction he wished not to look.

The pile of bodies belonging to his dear comrades; it was a sight he blacklisted for himself--attempting his best to erase it from his mind as he fell still.

The shifting continued, though slow and between silent pauses, it sounded as if someone were moving in the hill of decaying corpses.

No, no, no, no, no, no, he began to shake his head.

Tricks of the mind; he was used to the madness that inhabited his mind by now--the constant falsehoods that attempted to deceive him.

As he kept his gaze low, unable to keep his new, right eye open, he flinched as the thud of weight dropping against the floor to his left resounded.

"...Grngh…" A groan left quietly.

It wasn't from himself; it was masculine, but not particularly deep.

"...Ren…" The voice called faintly.

He recognized it now; even as weak and feeble as his name left their lips, he couldn't mistake it--not after constantly remembering all of their voices, over and over, endlessly.

"...Macheo?" He responded, slowly turning his gaze.

The once shining, golden-haired prince was nearly unrecognizable, on the ground and completely drowned in blood that stained his entirety; barely any life hung in his crimson irises as he crawled forward with his singular, untwisted arm.

"How're you…? How're you alive…?! Macheo!" Tears escaped only his left eye, though part of him wanted to smile.

Even if it was a single person, someone was there.

"...Achelous: Scarlet Depths…"

Macheo ignored his words, having to focus his feeble strength to let out just those words as he pointed his artificial fingers towards the young man.

"...Huh?" He looked back at his cuffs.

Following the decimated prince's call, a concentrated assault of water, that utilized the element from his blood, targeted the metallic cuffs, shattering them as the captive adolescent fell forward from his sudden lack of restraints.