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Damnatio Memoriae

Summary:

All you have is a knife and a lot of pent up rage. Nobody warned you that he’d be pretty.

Chapter 1: 0 - The Fool

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Your vision went white with static as you felt your arm mechanically swing him around into a table laden with flowers and fruit. A vase broke, spilling coriander blooms and orange lilies everywhere. Food and silverware scattered about, leaving a discordant symphony in their wake. You climbed on top of him, both of your hands raised and wrapped around the handle of your blade. 

 

You could bring it down right now and end it. 

 

You could erase him from existence. 

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

You knew enough to question why nobody had put him in the electric chair. Bombings. Murders. Strings of dead bodies deceased without any weapon. 

 

Just his hands. 

 

Elusive and cunning, ruthless beyond compare. Nearly impossible to track down. But every city had rats, rats who were loyal to few and who were enticed by the flash of currency. He liked picking buildings that weren’t quite abandoned, but lifeless enough to be mistaken as so. Closed windows and curtains drawn, with walls so old you could peel the lead paint off like leather. More importantly, he never stayed longer than a week. 

 

He had no past, no origin, no birth certificate. Any record of him burned away from this world. He was a ghost in the realm of the living, silently dragging people to their graves. Now it was your turn, under the condition that you take him with you.

 

You know that to aim for such a goal is a fool’s dream, but you just couldn’t release him from your head. 

 

“If you talk to him, he’ll pluck out your mind.”

 

They were wrong, he had already stolen it from the moment you heard his name. His dark eyes seemed to dare you into trying to find him as you stared down at the photo of him in your hand. 

 

A monster.

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

 

It was bitter cold out, enough for your breath to steam in front of your face. The skies look like rolling plumes of marble and ash, the herald to a storm, or perhaps snow if you were lucky. Your car is tucked away in the parking lot of a library a few blocks back, the rest of your journey to be completed on foot. 

 

The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon as you study a triplex situated behind overgrown vines and trailing ivy. Its windows are cracked in several spots, marked with white paint, and free of lights or movement. Unoccupied to the eye of an outsider. Nothing more than another decrepit building, half-renovated and awaiting tenants. 

 

You circle the outside from a distance, inconspicuous enough that most would simply see another person out for an evening walk. This was the closest you had come to the building since your acquisition of the location two days ago. You would have to strike tonight, your presence far too loud to wait. You would have to kill him before he could vanish to another house, or worse- out of the country. 

 

After the pains it took to get this information, as well as the crimp it put in your finances, you could not afford to go through the process again at this rate. The weight of the knife in your pocket is heavy. Tonight might be the night that you die, for better or for worse. 

 

You eye a window perched at the top of the house. It is big enough that you could squeeze through, yet still well cloaked by the branches of a far too overgrown oak tree. You would feign walking back to your car to throw off any potential witnesses and double back to the building on a more secluded route. Yes, you would corner him tonight and make sure that he would be removed from this world. 

 

You exhale into the dusk air, your breath illuminated by the rosiness of the dying light. 

 

What a shame, with his ability, it could’ve been him who was putting abhorrent beings out of their misery. 


——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

 

The branches of the tree scratch your leg through the fabric of your pants as you climb closer to the window. You silently curse yourself for not wearing something thicker. At least it was black, something to help you blend into the night. Your thighs ache as you approach the unlit building, your hands gearing up to grip onto the trim, lest you plummet to the cold hard ground below. 

 

You cling to the window, arms shaking, and pull out your knife. It clicked far too loudly as it swung open, echoing in your mind. You jam the blade between the window and its frame, using the tip to turn the latch. You send a prayer to anyone who is listening that your entry falls upon deaf ears. 

 

As you squeeze through the window, you find yourself staring down a winding hallway to another room. A single candle sits on the floor, burning down into a pile of waxy mush. It’s not bright, but it’s just enough that you can make out the sagging floorboards and the floral of the peeling wallpaper. You have to hold in your retch as your hand makes contact with the grime of the windowsill, a centuries’ worth of dust and water damage touching your palm. 

 

To your left is a closet with no door and to your right are shadowy stairs. The dirt on the steps has been swept off, yet more evidence that this place has an occupant. You inch forwards and test the floor for creaks. As you cautiously lean your weight on the aged wood, it makes no sound. A true miracle. You let out a quiet sigh and detach from the window. 

 

You grip the knife in one hand as you advance, head tilted slightly to the side should you hear anything. You stop short just as you reach the end of the hall. Lilting in the distance is music . The faint whisper of a violin creeping up like shivers down your spine. 

 

As you round the corner, the faint light of another candle beckons to you from an ajar door. You take a deep breath and brace yourself, back pressed against the wall. Would he cry? Would he beg for his life? Or would he simply scoff at you for even trying? Your heart beats in your ears, a steady reminder that in this moment, you are still alive. 

 

And in this moment, so is he.

 

You send the door swinging open with a solid kick from your knee, hand ready to swing and slash at the beast who waits for you. On an ancient wooden table sits a cassette player, music seeping from it into…an empty room. The furniture is neat and free of grime, the floor swept, and the corners dusted. 

 

Already gone.

 

Already gone.

 

A scream builds up in your throat but you quickly swallow it down before you get caught for trespassing. Your arm tenses and shakes, picking up a small note next to the cassette player.

 

Try again. 

 

You can almost hear it in his voice, see his face wearing that aggravatingly calm look, just the same as his photo. Your vision dips in and out. You feel that hot wax dripping through your bloodstream again as you grind your teeth. 

 

A deep slash arcs its way across the wall, leaving the wallpaper peeling in its wake. You can’t stop yourself as you land gash after gash into the wall until it looks like an animal was caged within this room. 

 

You should’ve expected this from him. You should have known better. 

 

Try again.

 

The words of The Conjurer beat about inside your skull. He knew all along, of course he would. 

 

This hunt is no longer one sided, it never was. 

 

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

 

The entire house was empty, he had up and left, just as you figured. With no other choice, you resign yourself to walking home with nothing to show for it except for a note, a cassette, and chafed legs. 

 

The moon peeks through the clouds and watches you as you walk. You give her a smile and hope she is doing better than you are. You’ll have to regroup tomorrow, you crumple up his note and shove it in your pocket. He probably left traps for you in your own home for all you knew. 

 

In the haziness of the witching hour, you hear a second set of footsteps. Paranoia wraps its cold hand around your throat and you pull out your knife once more. The steps are not coming from behind you, but towards you. You know full well there are no pedestrians at this hour, especially not in the midst of winter. Failed killing be damned, you were not about to get mugged or kidnapped on this night. 

 

From the shadows emerges a man wrapped in a black jacket with a fur trim. As he wordlessly passes, you notice that he’s chewing his thumb, seemingly deep in thought. You keep walking, as does he. You allow yourself to let out the breath you were holding, perhaps he just liked the night. 

 

“Did you like the music?”

 

You stop dead in your tracks, your entire body turning cold. Stiffly, with your knife gripped in both hands, you turn to face him. 

 

He is paused in his walk, looking up at the moon before turning to gaze at you. His face is shadowed by dark, disheveled hair, but you can still see his slight smile. Without another word, he continues his walk. Somehow, you feel you’ve already lost despite him being so dangerously in reach. 

You let him go.

Notes:

I’m writing this because I’m mad there isn’t enough good content for him. I will chew through your walls about it.

Anyways, if I spontaneously break all my bones after posting this, I’ll let y’all know.