Fear Of Death - Tumblr Posts
Fear of Death
2011
Elizabeth B.
Finished drawing!
I am afraid of dying.
It is normal, it is an inbuilt reaction
In all that lives
But I, I don’t fear death.
I am not speaking in jest alone
Trust me I know
For a part of me always longs for it
Cries in agony of not having been a part
In one of life’s greatest mysteries
In nature’s mayhem
Writhing in pain,
Wondering when it will end
But my life, like that of others, is not my own.
-S.G
Excerpts from a pierce of original poetry |2/19
Voltaic Refeeding
Augusnippets day 3: thunderstorm | blizzard | heat wave
Word count: 499
Trigger warnings: mentions of eating, electric shock, burns, blood, fear of death
——————(0)——————
Camlanns were born attuned to the elements. Magic wove them into being just as much as DNA, and they needed magic just as much as they needed food or air. This was easy, for some—if you were attuned to earth, wind, plants, water, physics, all you needed was to touch it to feed on the ambient magic, and you were set.
For Ruika, attuned to electricity, that was harder. Tal had told him that there were people thinking about using electricity to power lights and heat in a house, but for now, fire magic was used to bring fire, light magic to produce light. Outside of combat and nastier warding styles, no one had really incorporated electricity into their life, and Ruika did not want to get in the practice of getting beaten up by wards or people just to try and keep himself healthy.
So, when summer rolled around, the air turning souplike and clouds becoming dark with the promise of rain, Tal whipped out all his governmental real-time storm maps, Piri rented a mobile, and the three of them went storm-chasing.
Lightning was an excellent source of electricity for Ruika. Electricity naturally bent towards him, knowing he was a home for it, which was great when he was fighting lightning mages and even better when he wanted to get struck multiple times in one storm. The rest of the time, Piri and Tal set up warded spheres to catch lightning, to feed him for the rest of the year when storms were rarer. It really was the best way to keep his magic stores from withering and him dying of starvation!
It also, Ruika reflected, hand raised to the roiling sky and shaking, just could be really very dangerous.
His ears had ceased to hear anything but a high-pitched, screaming whine. He was somewhere between feeling nothing but tingling numbness and like he was about to explode, the telltale sign that he’d eaten a little too well, and like a starving person gorging themself, that was going to have some immediate, horrible consequences. Distantly, he knew he was burned all over to the point of burst, bleeding blisters, even if he couldn’t feel the blood trickling over his skin.
Somehow his arrhythmic, rabbit-quick heart found it in itself to leap in fear when his smearing vision managed to catch a flicker of light in the billowing darkness above. The three strikes in quick succession before had destroyed his ability to withstand any more voltage. If he got struck again—
The world went white.
He registered his vision jarring—had his knees given out? He couldn’t care, around the agonizing numbness, around the sight of a copper, spiky rod above him, now sizzling with the heat of catching lightning before he could. He saw a blur of red—candy-red, Piri-red. Oh, she’d put the lightning rod there.
And then any coherent thought was lost to the blinding torture of a brick-red, Tal-red blur picking him up and sweeping him away.
At the Hook (Line, Sinker)
Augusnippets day 10: execution | fake execution | begging for mercy
Word count: 499
Trigger warnings: description of death, implied/referenced panic attack
——————(0)——————
Mag knows his face goes pale when he sees the man waiting for them, the thick, wicked hook in the ceiling. The assistant holding rope in a telling noose.
They absolutely don’t care if this man’s reputation is being used to frighten them into obedience. Either that’s the case, or talking will buy Cassander time to scrounge up a miracle to let them escape, or they’re both fucking dead.
“Please,” he whispers; louder: “Please, no, I don’t, I don’t—! Not like this, fuck, not like this!”
“Not like this?” the man—Marcus? Marius? Martin?—says, an easy smile spreading across his face. “That can be arranged. There are plenty of ways to—”
“What do you want?” Mag interrupts, because they really don’t want to know all the horrible ways maybe-Marcus has found to kill people. He already knows this man would see him hung slowly, death by strangulation instead of a broken neck. “What do you want?! I’ll do anything!”
They want to yank the words back as soon as they leave—it’s too much to give. But maybe-Marius wouldn’t accept anything less, anyways.
“Are you sure?” maybe-Martin says, nearly pouting. “I’ve been wanting to see what a destroying angel will do to someone. It eases up while it’s liquefying your liver—what does the anticipation do to you, feeling better but knowing you’ll die?”
“No! Fuck no! Please, I said I’ll do anything, please!”
“Oh, calm down. I can think of some ways to use a thief as famous as you, if you’re willing to do anything.”
Mag’s heart leaps in relief; his first guess was right. “Yes! Yes, I’ll do whatever—!”
“What about him, though?”
And back down their heart went into dread.
“He’s my partner,” Mag says, not looking at where Cassander was forced to kneel beside him. “He’ll do whatever you want, too.”
Play along, they think, please play along, don’t act out and ruin this, it might be our only chance.
“Of course, yes,” Marcus(?) says. His smile widens, goes sadistic and ugly. “But I want to hear him beg for it.”
Fuck, we’re dead.
Because the keyword with Cassander is proud. He’d fought every step of the way here, to the point that he was more heavily restrained than Mag now. He never apologized or said he was wrong. He’d spit defiance to someone holding a knife to his throat.
A tense pause. Then:
“Please,” Cassander grit out.
Marius(?) raises a brow. “Go on,” he prompts.
“Please,” Cassander says again. Then, picking up speed: “Please, please, please, please, áni, áni, áni—”
He cuts off. The only sound is his frantic breathing.
Mag tries his best to keep from gaping, because what the fuck, while picking over the last word. What was that, another language? Ahni? Ahani?
… No. He’s saying áni. Because that’s Áléen.
“Please what?” fucking Martin(?) is saying.
The answering jumble of syllables is foreign to Mag, but apparently it convinces the motherfucker.
“Well, then,” he says. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
@augusnippets Path of Hurt
Day 10: execution/fake execution/begging for mercy
CW: minor whumpee, mock execution, government corruption, abuse of power, imprisonment, framed for a crime, future captivity
Itzal (he/him)
Word count: 756 (a bit longer but I couldn't resist)
The Champion taglist: @emmettland , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba
They don't listen when he says he hasn't killed anyone. When they shove the gag into his mouth and secure the strap at the back of his neck, Itzal realizes they're not going to listen to anything he has to say.
He doesn't want to die.
It didn't make sense. There wasn't a trial. No evidence given that tied him to the supposed death of whatever unnamed Lapis guard they mentioned.
Only twenty-four hours between Itzal getting brought down to this prison and learning they were going to kill him.
‘ “Rebels don't get trials,” ’ they had said, sneering laughs lapping up the tiefling's terror.
He cursed them. Would've trashed and clawed up his cell had the shackles at his wrists not held him down. Would've tormented the guards with illusions had his magic not been suppressed. All he had were his words and he used them. Such fragile pride they had that they'd waste time and resources to silence a seventeen year old vandal who dared to insult them.
Itzal's anger spat until they gagged him.
He realizes now part of that anger had been fueled by denial. Armored guards clutch his bound arms as they drag him towards the courtyard, and dread clutches his gut.
He's going to die.
He tries so hard to fight. Bucks at the grasping hands until their grip is hard enough to bruise. Lashes out with his horns until one guard grabs one to force his head still. The blindfold around his head is wet with tears he failed not to shed.
He should’ve been more careful. Should've picked a safer, less public spot for his last graffiti run. Should've went home when his mother told him to and wait for a different day.
His mother's face flashes into Itzal's mind. His father's. His little sister's.
What's going to happen to them?
He won't even get to say goodbye.
The screech of a metal door opening preceeds a waft of warmth as the sunlight hits his skin. The Crescentine sun is always harsh in the summer. The guards force Itzal to his knees in the dirt, latching the chains to a bolt in the ground so he couldn't stand. Couldn't flee. He balls his hands into fists to hide how much he's shaking.
“Itzal Azarola,” a voice booms from behind. “For the crimes of treason, accomplice to murder of a government official, defacement of government property, government slander, and resisting arrest, you have been sentenced to death under orders from the Cerulean Constellate.”
Treason?
It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. This has to be a nightmare. He'll wake up home in his bed and be safe.
There's more noises. A rifle being loaded. His heart hammering in his chest.
He will wake up soon. He doesn't want to die.
A click of the safety being released. A muffled sob escaping his lips.
He doesn't want to die.
“Fire!”
HE DOESN'T WANT TO DIE!
A trigger being pulled.
A deafening blast sends him reeling, all other sound drowns under the piercing ring in his ears. His head throbs. His body collapses. He hopes it'll be quick. He hopes it'll be over before he feels it. He-
He's still alive.
The pain of a bullet tearing through his organs doesn't come. No smell of blood or burning flesh. The world still dark under a blindfold he can still feel on his face. Itzal is still alive.
More hands grab him. The chain is released from the ground and he is being carried away. His legs drag uselessly. His muscles feel like gelatin. His mind in a fog.
Why?
He should feel relief but instead there's a void. Nausea burning up his throat he has no choice but to force down because he's still gagged.
What's happening?
Was there a mistake? Is he actually dead and his thoughts now are from his ghost trying to cling to life? Where are they taking him? He still can't see. No one's saying anything. What're they going to do to him now?
They drop him on hard stone. “Is this the one you wanted, Lady Matar?”
The blindfold is removed. There's a woman standing in front of Itzal. Short red hair and red eyes. Cloaked in the luxurious vestments of the Constellate. Lady Matar. High Martinet Scarlet Matar.
The master of judicial law stares down at the young tiefling, drinking in the tears on his face.
The way she smiles at him is the most terrifying thing he's ever seen.
“Yes. I will be taking him now.”