Archive of Our Own ^beta

Being dragged to his feet by an un-gentle hand is something that ‘You’ is very much used to.

The magic-suppressing cuffs keeping him from moving too much, not so much. Still, he doesn’t bother to struggle. What would be the point?

He’s been captured. It’s over.

All he can do now is wait for death.

With his hands cuffed and his magic on lockdown, there’s nothing he can do. Even if Sir Gratis hadn’t disarmed him, he has no way to reach his weapons, no way to fight back, and so he simply does not bother.

He was abandoned and left to the mercy of the King of the Negativity by his masters. And the King of Negativity will no doubt kill him. It’s inevitable. Otherwise, they never would have left him alive – they would have just disposed of him themselves if they thought there was even the faintest chance that he would survive capture.

He does lift his head to see who is doing the hefting, though.

One of the king consorts. He doesn’t remember his name. But he’s large, imposing, made more so by the chunk he’s missing of his skull, and the catlike pupil of his eyelight.

The name.

What was the name?

‘You’ cannot remember it.

He cannot remember it no matter how hard he wracks his brain, and so he gives up. Wasted effort.

“Night.” The large consort rumbles, “Got a live one.”

‘You’ glances over as the shadows shift to his left. The king melts out of him as if he was always there.

Perhaps he was.

“The assassin.” The king intones, leveling ‘You’ with an unreadable look. “Were you the one to secure their wrists?”

“No.” Says the large one, “They were already cuffed when I found them.”

The king’s expression twitches. Then, he merely says as he turns away, “Take them to the throne room. I’ll deal with them later.” Then, “Killer! Take Dust and go over this mess. See if anyone else still lives.”

The large one grunts. He gives ‘You’ a little shove. “Walk.”

‘You’ does not argue. He takes a step forward, then another, then another. The large skeleton stays at his back, holding him by his bound wrists, and only bothers to speak when telling him where to turn. Eventually, he’s loaded into a carriage with him.

‘You’ restlessly watches the city pass him by as they trek toward the castle. He does not try to flee when the carriage stops, because there is no point. He just waits for the big one to escort him into the castle, to the throne room, where they wait.

It could be minutes or hours before the king melts out of the shadows beside the throne, bringing his other two consorts with him. The large one leaves him to join them, and he stays where he is while they talk among themselves.

Instead of trying to listen in, he takes stock of the room. Only two viable exits. The crest of Nim decorates most of the tapestries and furniture. Or, rather, Nightmare’s crest – hers, but all in black and cyan, rather than the typical brown and red. It’s a little disconcerting, if he’s honest. Nightmare doesn’t broadcast his rule much outside of the castle, strangely – the guards wear his crest on their armor, but otherwise? It’s almost impossible to see, if you aren’t in the castle.

A stark contrast to the Order, that’s for certain. They’d practically wallpapered every building they ever occupied with Nim’s crest. Everyone wore it, except for ‘You’. Supposedly, it wasn’t right for an assassin to be carrying any indications of loyalty.

The consorts seem comfortable as they talk to the king. There’s no fear in them. Even when he seems particularly annoyed, they appear to shrug his anger off as unimportant.

Dangerous, that. Don’t they know what he’s capable of?

The windows are… Plain. Simple panes of glass. He heard they were stained glass, but… No, those are just normal, uncolored glass windows.

Odd.

Very odd.

As he moves on to considering the strength of the cuffs – too strong to break out of, he’d need to dislocate his thumbs to slip them –, Nightmare turns to face him. Then, with a measured, slow gait, he approaches.

When he’s within touching distance, within stabbing distance, ‘You’ does as he was trained when he’s in the presence of someone with power over him. He takes a knee and lowers his head.

“Well.” Says Nightmare, “at least you have manners. Lift your head, assassin.”

‘You’ lifts his head, as ordered.

“Tell me,” He says, “who is it that hired you?”

Truthfully, ‘You’ would love to answer. He has no loyalty to the Order, he never did, he only followed orders because he had nowhere else to go. No family or friends. He can survive on his own, but the Order was always watching. He never had a chance to get away. And he was promised his freedom when his job was done, when the King of Negativity was dead, so he figured it was worth it to try and get the job done.

But speaking isn’t something that he’s capable of – another reason he never left. He needed them.

He looks silently up at Nightmare. It’s all he can do.

The inky tendrils at the king’s back lash in annoyance. His voice is incredibly cold when he says, “I asked you a question. You are obviously not deaf.”

‘You’ nods in confirmation of that. He isn’t deaf, only mute.

Another annoyed flick.

In an instant, Nightmare has taken hold of the material of the mask covering the lower half of his face. ‘You’ does not fight as he yanks it down. It’s as good a way as any to show him why he won’t speak.

When the king sees the seal over his mouth, the magic-imbued paper covered in symbols, he goes completely, utterly still.

Very slowly, he says, “Ah. My apologies, I didn’t realize you’d been silenced.”

Then, even slower, he lowers himself, taking a knee in front of him. He cups his hands around his chin, thumbs settling on the edges of the paper.

“… This will feel unpleasant, but I assure you this will come off easily.” He says.

‘You’ does not fight it. It takes incredibly strong magic to break a seal like this without hitting the one wearing it with magical backlash, or in his case breaking his jaw if they tried to rip it off, but truthfully? He has utter faith that Nightmare, of all people, can summon enough power to remove it.

There are two likely outcomes: either he kills him under the guise of removing the seal, or he removes it so he can grill ‘You’ for information. In either case, ‘You’ does not see a reason to fight back.

Unpleasant is perhaps an understatement of how it feels, however. The moment that Nightmare starts to pour magic into the seal, ‘You’ is seized by an incredible and debilitating feeling of panic and hopelessness. His vision glazes over with tears, his breathing comes faster, but…

But the seal starts to release its hold on his jaw.

Slowly, surely, it becomes so soaked-through with raw negativity that it simply peels away and starts to disintegrate.

‘You' is certain, now, that his old masters are just as much fools as they are cowards. Their campaign against the King of Negativity, the very king kneeling before him now, is utterly superficial. They clearly do not know the kind of person Nightmare truly is.

He stares up at the king, still surprised. Nightmare's hands are still gentle on his chin, and the horrible, clawing dread he had felt before is gone, soothed away without so much as a whisper. The seal that had for so long kept his mouth firmly shut didn’t even leave a trace behind as the king’s potent magic broke it down, not so much as a scrap of paper remains.

“I apologize.” Nightmare says. His affect is flat, but there is concern in the furrow of his brow. “You appear to be particularly weak to my powers. That must have been more than just unpleasant for you. How does your jaw feel?”

‘You' swallows thickly. He braces for pain, indescribable pain, but all that comes is a dull ache as he slowly opens his mouth. His jaw creaks, almost, a faint grind he can feel radiating through his marrow. When he drops his mouth further open, there's a deep, resounding ‘crack!’, and for a half-second the pain ratchets up, then vanishes.

For a moment, he carefully works his jaw. His seal was only ever removed when he had earned a meal, so it's been quite some time since he was able to move it much.

Finally, slowly, he manages to speak. His voice, to his own ears, comes out cracked and rasping. “Thank you, your Majesty. My jaw feels fine.”

The concern eases on his face. He looks more serious as he releases his jaw, stands, and steps away.

“Good. What is your name, assassin?”

No nonsesne – good. ‘You' likes the straightforward approach much better than the vagueness of his old masters. Nightmare tells him exactly what he wants.

“I don't have one, Majesty.” He answers, dutifully, “My masters only called me ‘You'.”

“And before that? Before your masters?” Nightmare asks, brow furrowing.

‘You' nearly hesitates. He isn’t sure why. It almost feels as if there is a name at the tip of his tongue, a name he knows, but… Nothing. There is nothing more to it than an odd feeling. He has never known his name.

He chooses his words carefully, pausing not from indecision, but from a desire to make himself clear in as few words as possible. He'll be honest: the leys in his neck are burning already.

He says, “I recall nothing of what came before.”

One of the thick, sinewy tentacles poised at Nightmare's back flicks in agitation. ‘You' does not flinch so much as he instinctively drops his head and bows further, until his forehead nearly touches the ground. He doesn’t choose to do it, it just happens. He's been taught time and again that any mild show of irritation is merely a fraction of the true depth of anger, and that anger always means pain.

“I'm sorry, your Majesty. I’ve been with them since I was very young. I don’t know my name. I'm sorry.”

For a long moment, there is only a heavy silence.

‘You' does not cower in fear. He only waits, resigned.

He hears Nightmare step toward him again and braces himself. But no attack hits him as Nightmre approaches. He doesn’t manage not to flinch when he feels Nightmare's hands on his shoulders.

There is no anger in his touch, nor in his voice, as he says, “Please, stand. My anger is not meant for you, boy.”

With a gentle upwards push, ‘You' is reluctantly convinced to lift his head. He can feel his own soul pounding in his chest, can hear it in his skull. Meeting Nightmare's one burning cyan eye is terrifying up until he realizes the king looks more aggrieved than angry, and he's on his knees on the floor with him again.

“How terrible.” He says, still with that flat tone. “To live with no memory of your family is an awful thing. I am not angry at you for your lack of recall, I am angry for you.”

Nightmare’s hands come to gently cradle his jaw again. ‘You' waits for pain, waits to be tormented with Nightmare's aura because the king knows he's weak to it, but no pain comes and all his anxiety is very much of his own making. Nightnare doesn’t hurt him, just watches his face and seems to wait.

Slowly, ‘You' says, “… I am humbly at your service, your Majesty. Please ask me anything you would like to know about my former masters.”

For a moment, Nightmare seems to hesitate.

Then, he appears to steel himself.

“Give me names.” He says.

Given an order, ‘You' can’t help but obey. It's instinct, it's automatic. But in this case, it's odd, because he feels no compulsion to obey. There is a little voice in his head telling him to do as he's told, but it is not the reason why he opens his mouth.

No, for once?

He is doing something because he wants to. Yes, he could be punished if he refused, especially after offering information, but he wouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t certain he was willing to divulge something.

He feels himself smile, sees Nightmare blink in surprise, and he does as he was told: he gives Nightmare the names of those who left him to die at the hands of this very king.

That night, he is taken to what looks like a proper bedroom, deep in the residential wing of the castle. He's led there by the large, broad king-consort with a hole in his skull. He’s been informed his name is ‘Horror’.

Despite the name and his intimidating appearance, the monster is kind and patient as they make their way there. He seems to be quite a nice person, now that they aren’t in the open, and ‘You’ is no longer considered a threat. You'd never guess he was LV 12 if you only had his behavior at home to go off of.

“This is… Your room.” Horror speaks haltingly, and his voice is low and rumbling, but it's strong, the sort of voice that you feel reverberating in your chest. “Night… Decided to keep… You… Here with us.”

Easier to keep an eye on him that way, ‘You' imagines.

But then Horror does something unexpected: he removes the manacles around his wrists.

“What are you doing?” He asks, before instinct can make him cower.

“… Not a prisoner anymore.” Horror answers. “You're a… Guest… In my house, now. And I… Say those are… Unnecessary. You've got jack shit to gain… From trying to kill any of us… You're outnumbered five to one… And two… Of our husbands… Are maxed out. You'd… Never survive.”

Logically speaking, it's a sound argument. ‘You' can’t find a fault with it, even when he thoroughly examines it from all sides like a puzzle cube.

“… Thank you, your Majesty.” He says.

Horror's face faintly crinkles. He replies, “Please, just call me Horror. I'm not… A king.”

“But you are one of his king-consorts?”

“… Yes. But I'm not a king. Didn’t want that. So… I'm just a househusband.”

‘You’ digests that for a moment. What an odd choice, he thinks – if he could pick what he wanted to be, he doesn’t think he’d pick ‘house husband’ if ‘king-consort’ was an option. But, then, he’s never had the luxury of choosing what he is meant to be, so perhaps he simply does not know what would truly be a preferable fate.

He will always be an assassin, and for as long as he remembers, he has always been an assassin. One with no body count, yes, because his old masters always hesitated to give him the order to kill instead of just stalking his prey and incapacitating them, but an assassin nonetheless. He is trained to take lives in secret, and that is all he has ever done or will ever do.

“Do you like it?” He asks, tilting his head. He’s a little surprised at himself for asking. “Being a househusband, I mean.”

Horror looks at him, this intense stare that sears into his marrow. Then, slowly, his mouth curves up into a smile.

“It’s nice.” He answers, “Peaceful, mostly. I cook and make sure the others eat. Go on undercover assignments with Dust, someimes… To help sell… The idea that we’re just visiting. Otherwise… I get to sit around… Gettin’ fat, heh heh.”

He is of a rather generous body shape, ‘You’ thinks. It must be nice to eat multiple meals a day, every day. To have the luxury of just being able to sit around eating.

Alright, so perhaps he would choose to be a househusband, if he were given a choice.

“… That does sound nice.” He admits.

Horror grins wider. If ‘You’ weren’t so used to being in the presence of bloodthirsty murderers, he might be a little unsettled by the expression. As it stands, it’s not nearly as unsettling as some of the expressions he saw on a regular basis for the majority of his conscious memory. More concerning is the way he feels his own mouth curve up, just a little.

He hasn’t smiled in years.

Doing it now almost feels wrong.

“… Your eyelights… Are pretty.” Horror tells him, after a moment. It seems like an idle observation, yet ‘You’ feels his cheeks heat a bit, and watches Horror’s grin twitch up as he chuckles. “You must… Not hear that very often.”

Well, Horror is right – ‘You’ doesn’t get compliments very often to begin with. He can’t remember the last time someone said something nice to him at all. Mostly he just gets cursed at.

(… Yet, there’s a voice in the back of his mind. A voice he knows but can’t recognize well enough to name, giggling and telling him his eyes are pretty. That they’re like concentrated sunshine. It sounds like a child.)

(He doesn’t remember nearly any of his childhood. Who is he hearing?)

“No.” He answers, out loud. “I don’t. Ah… Thank you. That’s… Quite a kind thing to say to something like me.”

Horror’s face crinkles again, but he doesn’t comment on whatever about that bothered him. He just looks around the room and says, “… Let us know… If there’s anything you need. Dinner is in… An hour. Killer will… Probably be the one to bring it to you.”

Killer. That’s the primary king-consort, ‘You’ thinks. The pretty one with tar running down his cheeks from his eye sockets. From what ‘You’ knows of him, he was one of the old king’s generals, but he managed to worm his way into Nightmare’s affections and earn himself a spot as one of the most powerful people in the country. Apparently, he spends most of his time visiting neighboring kingdoms and being generally unfaithful, but given that Nightmare hasn’t killed anyone, ‘You’ assumes he knows about it and doesn’t care.

“Alright. Thank you, Horror.” ‘You’ says.

Horror smiles, and then he takes his leave.

‘You’ looks around the room. It’s… Lavish, by comparison to his usual lodgings. He really doesn’t know what to do with all this room, all this furniture. He’s been sleeping on a bedroll for most of his life, and he’s never been allowed to sit on chairs. But… This room is for him, right? Surely Nightmare expects he’ll want to sit down. Surely.

Hesitantly, he eyes the bed.

Even more hesitantly, he places a hand on it, pressing down, down, and finding it to be almost too soft. It feels like a cloud.

He’s going to be sore after sleeping on this, but a part of him simply does not care.

A feeling like childish glee overtakes him, and he practically jumps onto the bed and sprawls out.

Even if he gets in trouble, it will be worth it, he thinks. This is amazing.