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Published:
2023-01-25
Updated:
2023-02-08
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1,915
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6/?
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the follies of fauxmortal fish

Summary:

“W-what happens now?” King stuttered.

The Collector swiped a thumb across their nose.

“I think I’m supposed to… play pretend. Tell me King, what do mortals look like when they die?”

A kid contends with immortality. A storm ensues.

Chapter 1: HOUSCAPISM

Chapter Text

Houses were scarcely inhabited in the Isles; months ago, mayhaps, you could spy a family through a window—swear as you might that it was a mere glint of the light. For you see the denizens of these silent and stoic vessels had all but been evicted on the basis of a meager mortal clause. How dare they race in desperation to these silly corporal structures, when they could instead reside in the architecturally sound crown/halo/castle of the Collector? Far beyond the clouds which retched scalding precipitous pain; distant from the entropy beset upon the playground-shaped carcass below; stored in the toybox of a god, no less. Yes, what need had they for a House of their own when they were so much safer in his! All this place would disappear in time, as so many mortal things do. Because structures are mortal as well, should you be mistaken into believing the contrary.

Youth, fickle and fleeting, eluded not the Collector, and seemed almost to favor them above all other entities upon the Isles. Even the young Titan who reluctantly shared in their whimsical exploits had constructed and asserted his own sense of self-awareness to such a degree he had almost earned the Collector’s respect on that basis alone, as with recklessness came the cost of lucidity. Had this creature not already sworn to befriend him, and upheld that promise diligently, the Collector would have already respected King—a character bereft of and repulsed by delusion, or at least in the case of his own identity search. And that moniker, King, suited the Titan well, for despite his stature, he was by nature a vessel for power which Collectors feared. Save for his friend—the naive exception. Someone so desperate for earnest companionship amidst an abysmal eternity that they would so soon succumb to the illusion of safety. Anything to keep King in their everlasting life. Anything to hold onto a friend who really cared. And besides, don’t all friends have the capacity to hurt?

It is with Houses and youthful self-delusions we find ourselves upon the doorstep of this narrative: a vermilion morn, whereupon the Isles’ skies cried watercolor streaks of plum-purples and shrill, deep magentas, interspersed with uncharacteristically soft lavender clouds—beyond which you could still discern the stars. Bear in mind the significance of one particular House, and the care the Collector possessed for his friend. Consider the rationale of replication, and the simultaneous need for control. Am I losing you yet? It’s nigh morning here now! So please peer through the window; tell me what you see:

A sheet with a mind of its own stalks the circular halls of a castle forlorn. Looming and wavering, arching creatures cast oppressive shadows on the little figure—the one who used to play hide-and-seek inside their cloaks. Cloaks which so easily constricted planets, sparkling, billowing, suffocating—

The sheet is removed, and the dichromatic hands which wrench it off are trembling. These murals and ceilings flanking the child murmur on, nonetheless, Look at us when we talk to you. Hiding will do you no good.

But your eyes are Suns, and your pupils, black holes. Don’t you see? You are all scaring me!

The sheet shimmers too, and it has a damp spot where it concealed the Collector’s eyes. His mouth is a clock—gears grating, sparking, smoking. Any minute now, they will

{Chime}

Your screams are pungent, ugly things; your tears unnecessitous and crude. You are making a mess of the place. You are making a mess of your face.

But the cuckoo erupts nonetheless—then recedes, and by pure mistake, the Collector’s teeth clamp suddenly on his tongue, and the ensuing cry is alternatively excised through the eyes in an admonished deluge of mis-understanding. The murals flank him and distort—looming steeples, by the looks of it, or mayhaps the incurving trees of a liminal wood, starkly juxtaposed against the sky. Or is it just Those Outside The Fishbowl—their figures distorted significantly by the spherical shape of the glass. And the Collector, hapless fish within, cannot scream for fear of them drinking the nurturing water away once again.

He orbits the bowl—and the abstracting hall—in a perilous venture for vestige of sense. He discovers this in the House. He wakes up. So do you.

Chapter 2: CHILDREAM

Chapter Text

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Chapter 3: INTERLUCID

Chapter Text

One may so aspire to wriggle his way into obsolescence in lieu of such a bitter day dream, albeit the clarity of windswept shadows would leave much to be desired. Point in case: cutting lenses askew is a pointless excursion at most. Case in point: nothing good can beckon you to checkerboard kitchen proceeding a lucid night mare. In deed, the night mirror (it self) shall await you.

 

I IMPLORE YOU TO INHALE, COUNT YOUR

 

FINGERS

 

AND THERE OUGHTN’T BEE SEVENTEEN

 

Lest you be stung……………..

 

O! NOTHING GOOD CAN COME!

Chapter 4: OBFUSCATHE

Chapter Text

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Chapter 5: BETRIAL

Chapter Text

     The crescent-visaged god parted his lids with wistful hesitance. As dew may collect on the morning grass, the dreams whence he’d fallen from clung to his lashes now still, ensnaring the sparse light within the soft room—how a spider’s web may catch a fly—and weaving it into nine-hue rainbows. He was not dissuaded by this illusion, and (seeking reality) rubbed his eyes with his palms and thought not of the notions which had plagued him during the night. Be those overbearing parental figures, or the distortion of his face in something he’d falsely presumed to be a mirror, the Collector was deeply disturbed by what in retrospect seemed to be nothing more than mere abstract frivolities. They tried once again to rub the dew out of their eyes, but were dismayed to discover the presence of puddles where there had once only been drops. And these had spilled down their face, trickled over their hands. What a shame! His friend couldn’t possibly see him like this!!

     Desperately collecting themself, the Collector rose to their slipper-clad feet and took into account the almost navy-blue-Eigengrau which had beset the room in front of him; the hazy darkness of the comforting/foreboding depths of the fort loomed ahead. Where light did not puncture and his friend did lie. The scarcely-illuminated pillow vestibule wherein the Collector had wrongly sought escapism in dreams was comparably inviting to the cavern ahead. A cavern he had constructed, mind you, when notions of the night were a distant, peripheral thought.

     Now, being the god that he was, one would presume that their next course of action would be to light the room next-door with a flick of the wrist, or mayhaps a ghost of an idea. This of course was simple in theory, albeit the Collector had an arrow in his heel—that being the standard of mortal friendship which he sought to uphold for his kingly acquaintance. They had only started playing recently—this fort being the product of their latest adventure—but the Collector sensed an overwhelming doubt permeating the mind of his friend, as if they were playing chess instead of Owl House. This was supposed to be fun, after all, and wasn’t King having fun? 

     No, of course not! For in the absence of those whom his friend had held dear, the tiny Titan felt moreso that he had been spared a terrible fate than gifted a lovely opportunity: that being to play forever! What more could he possibly want?!

     The company of the human witch, Luz, murmured a subconscious voice. The Collector clamped his hands over his ears, not so much as to silence this insidious sound (there was no use in that, after all) but rather to prevent the words from slipping through his teeth, and thus becoming real. The Collector was no stranger to terrible thoughts, and he countered them as best he could. 

     “Luz isn’t here right now! Why can’t King just forget about her and have fun? Like he promised he would?”

     Clearly you must be playing his game wrong; your friend doesn’t trust you enough to tell you this himself.

     The Collector’s eyes grew quite wide, and his crimson pupils, narrow. 

     “B-but I didn’t break any rules! King says that I’m doing great, and he never would lie!!”

     Not enough, not enough…

     They suddenly felt very small. “You know that I’m no good at rules. When it’s my turn to pick a game, I promise then we’ll both win.”

     Focus on the present instead; what is your motive to ‘win’ Owl House?

     “Because I’ll be alone again if I don’t!!!” He fell to his knees on the plush pillow-floor, his nails leaving little crescents on his skin.

     You’re alone again as we speak; you’re losing King’s game even now.

     “That’s not true! King said we’re taking a break. A-and we built this house together. It’s supposed to look like the one he named our game after.” In spite of himself, the Collector smiled, and the crescents waned. “So what do you say to that? ”

     The voice was deceptively absent, until it returned with a sinister quip of its own. If you are both taking respite from play, why is King nowhere in sight? Could it be he’s started a game all on his own—gotten a head start on you, so to speak?

     “No, King… wouldn’t do that.”

     Seems awful unfair though, leaving you alone like this.

     “I-I’m not alone. I just fell asleep. We spent a lot of time building this house. I’m sure that King’s tired too.”

     Tired of waiting, methinks. You were never the punctual type.

     Assertively, the Collector rose to their feet. “So what if he’s started without me? I’ll play whatever he wants; he’s my friend, after all! I’ll play… hide-and-seek! That’s what he’s playing, right? That’s why I can’t see him!! He saw my eyes were closed—he thought I was counting!!!!! YES, THAT’S IT!!!!!” Ecstatic, the Collector rose a few inches off the ground, softly bumping their head against the cushiony ceiling above. A newfound sense of claustrophobia took hold, and he drifted unsteadily down to the floor.

     “I-I can start looking for him now. He’s probably in there.” They faced the void of pillows and blankets before him. The chamber they stood in was comparatively bright, on account of the morning rays poking through pillow crevices. But through the gap in the soft plush structure was a gaping and snaking creature of a place. Vast and spatially stifling all at once; altogether devoid of light.

     Indeed, even the light where the Collector stood was quite sparse, and the few beams which pierced through pillow-fort blockade were akin to the thickness of hair; so albeit small, their pinprick effect was not unlike that of the stars. If stars be lighthouses, whose beams traverse all distances, unbroken, to cast their miniscule rays upon us…

     The Collector took these taut strings in his hands and snapped them without a second thought; the pieces he procured continued to glow, and he wrapped them around his wrist like a bracelet of sorts. 

     “I’ll play like Luz: let the Isles lend me its light. I’m sure that King will like that!” The Collector felt a pang in saying this, though choked it down as he turned to face the abyssal expanse. Reaching toward the void with his new light bracelet, the path to his friend was revealed, and he grinned.

     “Ready or not… here I come!”

Chapter 6: ANTONHYMNS

Chapter Text

a King is measured by how many heads bow to him

a Collector is measured by the heads on his wall


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