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Trinity Blood AU: Make-believe
Inspired by and following on from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyassassin27’s AU Esther piece here I’ve written, with permission, a piece that by way of warnings: does for Ion what the necrophilia piece did for Dietrich.
1175 words. Character death (that isn’t Esther), rather disturbing overall.
Ion before the dawn and Esther’s execution.
Make-believe
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
She awaits her fate in the cells below the palace, not so far from where he sits now. He could go down there and see her if he really wanted to but he doesn’t imagine she’d welcome the company.
The assassin who murdered the Empress. She ought to be chained up like a beast but he has provided her with a comfortable enough cell. She has privacy, a makeshift pallet on which to rest, food, water, wine if she likes. There are no guards standing by should she become troublesome, instead her cell is flanked by servants waiting to attend to her every desire. He cannot free her, not that she wants him to, but he can repay her ‘inconvenience’ somewhat.
The Empress’ murderer dines like a queen. She will sleep on comfortable bedding and wake to attentive attendants. If she wishes for company tonight, before the dawn, she will be provided with it. Terran, Methuselah, male or female. A man who looks like a terran programmer. A woman who looks like a Methuselah countess. She might have any of them. And if she desires to inflict pain upon another while she waits she will have that too. There is no wish too great that the acting Head of State cannot fulfil it.
But she wants nothing. The servants inform him that she has dined sparely and lain down quietly on her bedding to rest. She requires nothing, not even fresh clothing for her execution. She has all that she desires now.
On the morrow she will die and the Empire will turn its eyes towards a new leader. He will be merciful, so the public will decide, when he announces that she will be buried in the Tigris vault. He’ll have her laid to rest in the sepulchre that contains the body of another traitor. He fancies that they will sleep companionably alongside each other in death and when the Countess’ spectre returns to Imperial soil she will not have far to look for those that cared for her.
He owes her at least that if not so much more. She ought to go to her execution wearing the finest silks and jewels of the Empire. The Vatican ought to send Inquisitors to kneel by the scaffold and declare her a saint. Even the nobles of distant Albion ought to stand in respectful silence to honour their greatest Queen. Maybe he ought to go dig up his grandmother’s mutilated body and burn it as an offering to buy passage for her soul into the afterlife.
He’s still considering the idea or rather the amusement to be had at digging his grandmother’s corpse up when his newest Autodoll brings his tea. He smiles and thanks the automaton letting his eyes wander over its perfectly crafted face. It cannot speak yet and he suppose there may be some delay in its vocal progress since he cut the vocal chords of the last engineer who failed him, but eventually it will speak.
He has surrounded himself with Autodolls just as his grandmother had done before but he at least has a purpose in his madness. This latest Autodoll after all, with its perfect face, is the very image of his tovarăş. Granted, most of them are. He has a dozen of so to choose from, each created in the image of his tovarăş.
They are all perfect. Each one is perfectly formed, mimicking the natural body of a Methuselah. Their skin is smooth, their lips soft, various cavities in their bodies suitably warm. They are all programmed to be perfectly accommodating of all his desires which is why he grows irritated with their silence. After all, it defeats the point to be unable to hear their frantic gasps in the midst of his passion.
This doll sits at his feet, leaning against his leg, tracing patterns upon his knee with a finger. It, like all the others, is perfectly willing to serve. It may even be an improvement on the earlier models because this time he has specified that between its legs it should possess female genitals. Of course if that fails to satisfy him he can always have the offending part replaced with something more traditional and even if he doesn’t, he might always enjoy the sight of his other Autodolls making use of it.
He’d already bribed and bullied suitable parties into creating three of them before his grandmother found out. She’d been understandably horrified but the paralysis triggered by shock had been her undoing. His dolls had made short work of her, gouging out essential organs before even Methuselah senses could react. He’d taken great pleasure in slowly squeezing her heart into bloody clumps while they’d held her twitching body down. By that point most of her movements had been muscle spasms anyway.
After that, they’d burred her in the gardens. And he’d spent a grand total of one and a half months publicly fretting over her disappearance and the terrible evidence he’d discovered that implied that she, and not the late Duke of Tigris, had been the leader of the extremists. Not that everybody had believed him, not that it mattered when those who didn’t tended to vanish, carried off by the new Duke of Moldova’s death squads.
Quite how six Autodolls constituted an armed battalion he’d never quite managed to figure out but the rumours had helped nonetheless. Of course if one family member had vanished then sometimes others would take their place, just as vocal in their denouncement and perhaps a little too close to the truth. And that was when his `Afārīt had started burning down entire estates.
Strangely, the Empress had known of his Autodoll specifications. She had known that he had required them all to wear the same face, perhaps even that he had rather extended views on the nature of their service to him but she had never objected any. Perhaps she hadn’t known entirely about the murders or if she had she had allowed him that boon as an aid to maintaining his position. What she hadn’t known about was his grandmother’s death and perhaps it had been that, the idea that her closest confidante had disserted her that had been the imperfection that begun the unravelling of her sanity.
Still, he doesn’t profit any from pondering the motivation of the dead and soon, in less than an hour Esther will be just another among their number. He is will not bother watching the execution that will take place privately in one of the palace’s inner courtyards. He is unlikely to be unoccupied at that time anyway: he has an Autodoll to test and already he has given orders that one of their veiled number should attend and record the event for his later viewing. There is a nagging sensation that he ought to at least go pay his last respects but he will find a way to push that idea aside: adding a second Autodoll to this morning’s experimentation strikes him as the perfect solution.
++++++++++
`Afārīt is the plural of `ifrīt.
ladyassassin27’s AU Esther piece here I’ve written, with permission, a piece that by way of warnings: does for Ion what the necrophilia piece did for Dietrich.1175 words. Character death (that isn’t Esther), rather disturbing overall.
Ion before the dawn and Esther’s execution.
Make-believe
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
She awaits her fate in the cells below the palace, not so far from where he sits now. He could go down there and see her if he really wanted to but he doesn’t imagine she’d welcome the company.
The assassin who murdered the Empress. She ought to be chained up like a beast but he has provided her with a comfortable enough cell. She has privacy, a makeshift pallet on which to rest, food, water, wine if she likes. There are no guards standing by should she become troublesome, instead her cell is flanked by servants waiting to attend to her every desire. He cannot free her, not that she wants him to, but he can repay her ‘inconvenience’ somewhat.
The Empress’ murderer dines like a queen. She will sleep on comfortable bedding and wake to attentive attendants. If she wishes for company tonight, before the dawn, she will be provided with it. Terran, Methuselah, male or female. A man who looks like a terran programmer. A woman who looks like a Methuselah countess. She might have any of them. And if she desires to inflict pain upon another while she waits she will have that too. There is no wish too great that the acting Head of State cannot fulfil it.
But she wants nothing. The servants inform him that she has dined sparely and lain down quietly on her bedding to rest. She requires nothing, not even fresh clothing for her execution. She has all that she desires now.
On the morrow she will die and the Empire will turn its eyes towards a new leader. He will be merciful, so the public will decide, when he announces that she will be buried in the Tigris vault. He’ll have her laid to rest in the sepulchre that contains the body of another traitor. He fancies that they will sleep companionably alongside each other in death and when the Countess’ spectre returns to Imperial soil she will not have far to look for those that cared for her.
He owes her at least that if not so much more. She ought to go to her execution wearing the finest silks and jewels of the Empire. The Vatican ought to send Inquisitors to kneel by the scaffold and declare her a saint. Even the nobles of distant Albion ought to stand in respectful silence to honour their greatest Queen. Maybe he ought to go dig up his grandmother’s mutilated body and burn it as an offering to buy passage for her soul into the afterlife.
He’s still considering the idea or rather the amusement to be had at digging his grandmother’s corpse up when his newest Autodoll brings his tea. He smiles and thanks the automaton letting his eyes wander over its perfectly crafted face. It cannot speak yet and he suppose there may be some delay in its vocal progress since he cut the vocal chords of the last engineer who failed him, but eventually it will speak.
He has surrounded himself with Autodolls just as his grandmother had done before but he at least has a purpose in his madness. This latest Autodoll after all, with its perfect face, is the very image of his tovarăş. Granted, most of them are. He has a dozen of so to choose from, each created in the image of his tovarăş.
They are all perfect. Each one is perfectly formed, mimicking the natural body of a Methuselah. Their skin is smooth, their lips soft, various cavities in their bodies suitably warm. They are all programmed to be perfectly accommodating of all his desires which is why he grows irritated with their silence. After all, it defeats the point to be unable to hear their frantic gasps in the midst of his passion.
This doll sits at his feet, leaning against his leg, tracing patterns upon his knee with a finger. It, like all the others, is perfectly willing to serve. It may even be an improvement on the earlier models because this time he has specified that between its legs it should possess female genitals. Of course if that fails to satisfy him he can always have the offending part replaced with something more traditional and even if he doesn’t, he might always enjoy the sight of his other Autodolls making use of it.
He’d already bribed and bullied suitable parties into creating three of them before his grandmother found out. She’d been understandably horrified but the paralysis triggered by shock had been her undoing. His dolls had made short work of her, gouging out essential organs before even Methuselah senses could react. He’d taken great pleasure in slowly squeezing her heart into bloody clumps while they’d held her twitching body down. By that point most of her movements had been muscle spasms anyway.
After that, they’d burred her in the gardens. And he’d spent a grand total of one and a half months publicly fretting over her disappearance and the terrible evidence he’d discovered that implied that she, and not the late Duke of Tigris, had been the leader of the extremists. Not that everybody had believed him, not that it mattered when those who didn’t tended to vanish, carried off by the new Duke of Moldova’s death squads.
Quite how six Autodolls constituted an armed battalion he’d never quite managed to figure out but the rumours had helped nonetheless. Of course if one family member had vanished then sometimes others would take their place, just as vocal in their denouncement and perhaps a little too close to the truth. And that was when his `Afārīt had started burning down entire estates.
Strangely, the Empress had known of his Autodoll specifications. She had known that he had required them all to wear the same face, perhaps even that he had rather extended views on the nature of their service to him but she had never objected any. Perhaps she hadn’t known entirely about the murders or if she had she had allowed him that boon as an aid to maintaining his position. What she hadn’t known about was his grandmother’s death and perhaps it had been that, the idea that her closest confidante had disserted her that had been the imperfection that begun the unravelling of her sanity.
Still, he doesn’t profit any from pondering the motivation of the dead and soon, in less than an hour Esther will be just another among their number. He is will not bother watching the execution that will take place privately in one of the palace’s inner courtyards. He is unlikely to be unoccupied at that time anyway: he has an Autodoll to test and already he has given orders that one of their veiled number should attend and record the event for his later viewing. There is a nagging sensation that he ought to at least go pay his last respects but he will find a way to push that idea aside: adding a second Autodoll to this morning’s experimentation strikes him as the perfect solution.
++++++++++
`Afārīt is the plural of `ifrīt.