Gift of the Gods OOC

Words are the Haves. They own. They own words.

A sad world of darkness. A place where the only light is the flickering flame of torches; torches carried by the ones in charge, and none others. To sleep, shit, eat, piss, and fuck in the same four-walled room, company of twelve. This is the life of the have-not's, the life of the untouchable class, for touching them is filthy.

In the day, they dig. Mining for whatever materials still left in the pidgin-holed bedrock beneath the city of Heeth. Most have never seen the truth of the sun's light, save those who broke open their world's boundary and caved a wall leading to the outside… but the fear in them too great. Like blinded men of allegory, they resent a truth outside of themselves. They are the perfect slaves.

But I steal them. I steal their possessions.

Day after day, shuffled through tunnels to shear mineral from shale, and then back again to their cages, at only point do worlds mix. The echoes and trash that crawl through the sewer like sludge find their way through the funnel of disgust, toward a single point.

I steal and I steal, and they cannot know. If I speak, they will kill me; if I know, they will kill me – but they do not know I know.

Through years and years, hugged against a wall, tasting its clammy surface with his cheek, one creature listened and learned. It learned the words that were forbade, and from a seed sundered in manure, began a sapling of individuality.

Do they own them? They'd have to own my tongue too, and they don't, because I own my own tongue and I own me. They can whip me, and they can claim me, and they can howl and moan and beat me until I die, but I choose – I choose and I own.

And like most things in this world, crushed.

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Careful, diligently, he waited for the guard to pass. Their eye-sight was weak, coming from the light, even with the torches, and there were so many of the have-not's that they wouldn't notice one or two missing. Without names, numbers, or words… none of that really mattered. All he lived for was these days; the days he could listen. It didn't matter what was spoken about or who was speaking, only that someone was.

He would be beaten again… he knew it. His peers would notice him missing, and they would share with him the brunt of their burden of the day. He would bleed, he knew, but it was worth it.

The guard passed, and he took his chance. Slithering along the hand-cut wall silently, he couldn't help but feel his heart pound in excitement; he was giddy with anticipation. Countless times he had made this trek, climbing up and up and up, unlike his usual descent, and each after the first had a similar, unadulterated pleasure attached to it. He would look up, through the metal grate, and see, not into the sky but, into a food-storage room, stationed a few paces off the town square, for a food stand. The grate was high, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never have reached it in his wildest dreams. He tried, for hours and hours he would try, but it only brought him closer to the sounds. Finally though, he became contented with his inability to reach them and only listen, and this is when he started to learn.

At first he could only understand their basic inflections, but certain noises became familiar, and eventually he wielded command over them… silently. After the first few days, his peers noticed. They beat him to show their envy, they beat him to show him what would happen to them if he was found, they beat him to show him: never do it, whatever it was, again. He persevered, and so too did the beatings, every time he was noticed gone. The guards never noticed, or didn't care; regardless they all looked alike, and whether they were bruises or shit stains, it really didn't matter.

He climbed further, weaving between the unused tunnels that the guards never cared to patrol. No one ever tried to escape, so it was silly to over-staff. Finally, he came to his paradise; his sewer drain that bequeathed individuality. So frivolous, cherished, and important. He sat where he normally sat, his pelvis wearing away at the stone from constant use, creating a tiny little seat. Curling his stringy legs to his chest, he rested his chin upon them and listened. Eventually, he dozed.

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His eyes fluttered open. Heat. He felt heat. Jerking his head up, he could see the sheen of their metal helmets, just before a gauntlet snapped his head back down and his mind to rest again.

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He gasped, his stomach shrieking in pain as a pommel racked it. He fell to the floor like a limp doll, clutching his chest. He knew where he was; the same place all executions of their kind took place, in between all the cells for everyone to watch. He didn't care though, only one thing ran through his mind: never see it again.

The guards had encircled him, with their leader walking an inner circle, shouting at him and everyone else. No one understood, but it didn't matter – it was about power.

He began to cry. An intense sadness washed over him, overwhelming even the pain. He sobbed deeply, the kind that hurt the body with the force of its suction. His fingers and toes curled, while his joints grew tight and locked. "I want go back!" he cried.

Everything stopped dead. Horror wrote itself across each face. Everyone, all at once, rejected the one who spoke. Rejected his words, his individuality, his existence.

"Kill it," seethed the guard captain to his men.

He understood then. He would never see it again. He was to die now. All the vile that filled his life, made tolerable, would disappear – leaving nothing. Sadness turned to rage; mind altering rage.

A dark figure, unnoticed by all, smiled in the background. Tynan's gift was received.

Those who found the remains would have thought the block revolted, if it weren't for the single living presence waiting for them, enveloped in a powerful torrent of darkness, quietly laughing to itself.