marlowemuses | Adam/Ronan ~ Prince of Hell

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Adam/Ronan ~ Prince of Hell

Adam's existence commences all at once, as he is hurled into the world, and it is the only world he knows.

There was a Before. He knows this logically and viscerally, but his mind can only reach as far back as the Between, and that is slippery. The Between was a blank space, a vast nothing, that stretched forwards and backwards and beneath into infinity, and Adam does not know if he was in that timeless place for seconds or centuries.

He hits hard on his knees, splitting open the fabric of his jeans as he lands on rough, sandy stones.

He knows what jeans are, what a t-shirt is. He knows there are things that exist--trees, apples, wool, potato chips--but he no longer has context for this information.

The place he is in is wreathed with fog. It tendrils up from the ground, which is lukewarm where it bites rocky teeth into his knees, into the colder air that pricks at his spine and draws gooseflesh along his arms. This is no place for staying. Not dressed as he is, and he feels a clench of hunger in his belly, which has an emptiness that is both old and new.

There's no sun in the sky, but it may simply be hidden behind fathomless layers of fog. The light seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, an endless twilight that folds shadows into the wisps of fog on all sides.

Adam's heart pounds with an instinctual recognition of danger. He pushes himself to his feet, knowing that he must move, even though he has no inkling of a safe path through this directionless place.

Time does not pass as he walks, or if it does, it makes no change in the light. Adam's hunger pulses in his belly with each step. It is a visceral hunger, as if his body is new-wrought, and there has never been food in this mouth, this belly.

There are trees, wizened and bare, and sometimes there are glistening bushes heavy with dark fruits. They are not inviting fruits, and Adam does not dare to eat them.

It is an hour, perhaps, or more, before he encounters the first denizen of this shifting landscape, that is hell and nightmare and fever dream all at once.

The thing hops at him from the edge of a rocky swamp, which bubbles thickly and smells of sulfur and frankincense, arcane and profane and cloying. It has too many limbs, most of them too short, and set at the wrong angles, except for the one grasping, too large arm that claws at the ground between them as it hops.

Lost? it rasps. Hungry?

No, Adam says, retreating away from the thing. He stumbles on a cracked edge of ground and nearly falls into the clutching, steaming liquid of the swamp.

The thing grabs the edge of Adam's jeans, smiling with its too-wide mouth and teeth like stones, with its enormous blue eyes that are so human.

Adam kicks it in the face and runs, until the landscape of the swamp shifts again into a maze of chasms, and he can no longer hear the rasping, mewling hunger of the wrong-limbed thing.

Terror lodges itself under his skin, minute by minute, creeping in with each breath of the fog-heavy air, which is sometimes sweet and clear as rain and sometimes choking and black with cinders.

It's in the maze of the chasms that something catches him, something with spidery limbs each three times the height of Adam, furred and white, an albino spider with a tiny body and a crumpled face that is human in the most awful way, and when it opens its mouth, the whole head hinges open to reveal a triple row of tiny, needle-sharp teeth.

"Leave the boy."

The spider-thing pauses, inches from Adam's face, holding Adam entangled with black threads of nets around his arms. The nets loosen an inch. The head twitches--tic, tic--to one side. The teeth shimmer white in the non-light.

"You heard me. Leave him. Get."

The voice is commanding. Musical, almost, with a kingly charisma. It comes from above Adam and around him, but he is paralyzed with terror as much as he is paralyzed by the twining black nets, and he cannot look.

Teeth snap in his face, but then the thing is retreating, and the nets are slipping away. A set of stairs carves itself obligingly from the rock face of the chasm.

Any fate is better than the nightmare that found him. Adam climbs the stairs at just short of a run.

The man at the top is danger and charm, with curling dark hair and sparkling eyes. He is demi-god and rock star, and he is, at the very least, less teeth than the nightmare in the chasm, though the teeth he shows when he smiles do not soothe Adam's fears.

"Aren't you a surprise," says the king, the trickster. "Remarkably powerful, to transport yourself here. Unbelievably stupid."

Adam keeps his mouth shut and his muscles tensed. He wants to run, but unlike the nightmares he's encountered so far, he knows that he cannot outrun the god of this place.

The dream-man opens his hand, and within it is a tiny black mouse, fast asleep. It warps as Adam watches, lengthening and twisting, features vanishing as it writhes upward, dancing like a cobra.

The black cord reaches toward Adam, and as he yanks backward, it snaps forward, faster, curling itself around Adam's neck and tightening, so that Adam's momentum ends abruptly as he hits the end of his tether, and the man with the star-black eyes has a tight grip on the other end.

Reality shifts around them with a roil of fog, and the chasms and wastelands unfold into a garden.

Adam yanks at the velvet collar around his throat, which is intimately snug and soft as mousefur. There is no give to it, and while it is less final than the hungry nets of the spider, it is more humiliating.

They're standing at the bottom of a grand flight of stairs leading to an expansive palace of black stone, wrought in exquisite detail, gothic in grandeur and dripping with power. On the other side are gardens, overgrown and wild, soft as meadows and filled with beautiful, delicate flowers like stars.

"Ronan," says the Dream-King, and it is a command.

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Ronan sits up again and snatches that hand before Adam can change his mind. He was probably supposed to shake it, but instead he presses his lips to the back of it in a reverent kiss. "I know," he says, laying his cheek against Adam's knuckles. He doesn't want to let go.

Chills go down Adam's spine. He's sure he never told his name, and the boy's reaction is nothing he anticipated. It's possessive and somewhat erotic, which is concerning, but it's also reverent.

Like he's a prized trophy, Adam supposes, because nothing else makes sense. He wants to take his hand back, but he's not quite yet ready to give offense if there's a hope that Ronan will cooperate him.

"How do you know my name?" he asks, keeping his voice steady despite the shivers that keep crawling over his skin.

That's a very strange question to Ronan. He raises his eyes to Adam again. "I just do," he says, glancing around the room. He points his chin at each object in turn, naming them, "Sword. Curtain. Bed. Adam." Obviously.

And here he notices that Adam doesn't want to be touched, so Ronan releases him and turns away.

This is all confusing. Adam has scraps of information that don't match up. The boy knows his name like a fact. Not necessarily like he's read his mind, but simply that he knows it like a detail of his nature.

He's got a lot of data to process, and this is going to take some time.

Adam shifts to sit cross-legged, studying the prince as he considers the data at hand. "I want a bath," he says. Since escape isn't an urgent priority until he's gathered more information, a bath and a change of clothes seems like the most pressing need.

"That's better than the library," Ronan agrees. He hops out of bed and crosses to the wardrobe, not to properly dress himself but to drape a robe over his shoulders.

He returns with an identical one for Adam, offering it to him. It's soft enough, and it'll be welcome once he's finished with the bath. "It's not far," he assures Adam, in case that was a concern after their initial climb. It wasn't enough of a rest, and he still looks exhausted.

Adam accepts the robe.

He's not sure how far they came. He's not even sure how far he walked before he collapsed. His memories of the day before are fuzzy, and they become quite a bit fuzzier after arriving at the palace.

His eyes linger on his host-captor, trying to make sense of his situation. "Are you a prisoner here?" he asks, falling into step at Ronan's side.

"Of course not," Ronan laughs, without a thought. Whatever it means to be a prisoner, he's sure he's not one. "Neither are you. You can leave anytime you want." Though Ronan understands Adam might want the bath, first.

It's only steps from Ronan's room, across the circular landing at the top of the tower's spiral stairway. Carved from the same obsidian as the bedroom, the pool is set right into the floor, with steps leading into the water. Perpetually steaming, somehow self-cleaning and circulating, there's no evidence of pipes or faucets.

The bath is large enough to fit far more than two, and Ronan invites himself to join Adam without a word. He discards his robe and descends into the water before looking back to see if Adam's still following.

"If you aren't a prisoner," Adam argues, "then why aren't you allowed to read? Why don't you have windows?"

Hesitating on the edge of the pool, Adam watches him warily. The nudity and the shared bed still tells a story that makes Adam nervous, but his captor has been careful with him, letting him have at least some of the space he needs. Adam sets the robe aside and strips off his dirty t-shirt and jeans, stepping naked down into the pool. He's dangerously skinny, looking exhausted and underfed, but Adam doesn't have the energy to be shy about his own lackluster appearance in comparison to the dream prince's perfection.

The collar and leash from yesterday dangles around his neck and he yanks at it, irritated. He'd forgotten about it in his need for food and knowledge. When they go back to the room he'll have to try taking a knife to it. "Can you take this off?"

Ronan finds him beautiful, and he looks more than he ought to, though it's not a leer so much as a close study. He takes in the sight of Adam the same way an artist would study a model, admiring the aesthetic of his form. It's true that he'd like to touch Adam, but that's not their purpose.

He moves closer, at Adam's request, and reaches for the collar. "If being disallowed certain things makes me a prisoner, then all children are prisoners of their parents." Ronan doesn't even resent his father. He doesn't miss books. Or windows. He'd have to remember something in order to miss it.

As soon as he touches the collar, it dissolves in his hands, ashes scattering and disappearing into the bath water.

Adam exhales with relief as the collar dissolves. He rubs at his throat, glancing once at Ronan with gratitude in his eyes, and then he moves away, gathering up the soap and starting to scrub away the grime of his long trek.

"Depends on the nature of the prohibitions," Adam argues. He's starting to feel less like Ronan's his captor and more like Ronan's a fellow victim. "Being forbidden books is unreasonable. As is being kept in a room full of weapons with no windows. It's not healthy."

He picks up something that looks like shampoo and scrubs it into his hair, keeping a wary eye on Ronan the whole time.

"Healthy," Ronan repeats, as if the idea is absurd when applied to him, because it is. "No, it's not healthy." Health isn't a priority in a place of death. Adam looks frightened enough already. Ronan will leave him to arrive at the conclusion on his own.

Adam's wariness doesn't escape him, but it also doesn't discourage him, and he continues to watch as Adam bathes. He'll do it until Adam tells him to look away. Relaxing against the wall of the pool, he sinks down until the water's at his chin.

The staring doesn't bother him, even as it continues. Adam rinses out his hair, massaging conditioner into it. Ronan seems careful of him. He doesn't demand anything, doesn't force anything. Not like his father, who put a leash on Adam and made a gift of him.

Ronan strikes him as someone desperately lonely and bored, and Adam's the most interesting thing that's come along for him in some time. There's nothing wrong with his behavior, on that front.

"Are you allowed to leave the palace?" he asks, relaxing for a moment in the hot water. It's soothing to his sore muscles.

"Yes," Ronan answers simply, though it's really very complicated. Adam's silent assessment is correct: He is desperately bored and lonely. Adam will eventually feel the same. Eventually it'll be too much and eventually he'll do something about it.

That's an end to that line of questioning, then. Adam closes his eyes briefly, but his head nods and he jerks back awake. Too risky to relax too much while he's still this tired. He'll end up drowning himself like that.

Getting up, Adam wrings out his hair as best he can, drying off and taking up the robe to cover himself. He takes his dirty clothing with him, expecting that Ronan is coming with him and that they're going back to Ronan's room, at least for the time being.

Ronan would never let him drown, but the bed is a more comfortable place to rest. Now that they're finished, Ronan follows after Adam and slips his robe back on. Leaving wet footprints on the cold stone floor, he leads the way back to the bedroom.

Someone has been by in the time they were absent, replacing the old tray with a fresh assortment of cakes and mulled wine. Ronan picks up one of the goblets without a thought, slurping from it as he makes his way to the wardrobe.

"Come here. Pick something."

Adam can't help but light up a little at the food. He takes one of the cakes, nibbling at it as he follows Ronan over to the wardrobe.

His lips quirk the tiniest bit at the offer. "From this varied selection?" he asks, looking at the closet full of black clothing.

Stuffing half the cake in his mouth and dusting off his fingers on the robe, Adam picks through the clothing, finding a shirt and a pair of pants that seem basic enough.

The shirt falls mid-thigh on him, like a tunic, and he has to roll up the pants, but it's nice to be dressed in clean clothing. Adam returns to the bed, devouring another cake and half a cup of the warm wine. It's nice to feel warm, too, in this place that always seems to be too chilly. The bath was pleasant, and the food is even better. Adam's eyelids are drooping again as he sips at his wine.

"I came here looking for something. I don't remember what. Your father confirmed it--he mentioned that I'd transported myself here. That I must be powerful, to do it."

"Yes," Ronan agrees with his father's assessment. "You're extremely powerful." But it doesn't seem like Adam intends to attack him anytime soon, so Ronan chooses an outfit for himself, too: an airy sleeveless shirt and pants so wide and loose they hang from his hips like a floor-length skirt.

He climbs into bed beside Adam, lounging comfortably and sipping at his wine. "I think it was stupid of you," he says, "to come here on purpose. There's nothing in the world that could be worth the trip."

"I guess something was. I just wish I knew what." Adam's disappointed but not surprised that Ronan has no hints to reveal.

Sliding down, he curls up and dozes again, not minding Ronan's presence so much anymore. Ronan's an ally. Adam just has to figure out how to make use of him.

He dreams in patchy images, but he wakes with the memory of warm arms and the feeling of being loved.

Oh.

He's here looking for someone.

Ronan watches Adam sleep, still too excited by Adam's presence to let himself sleep even a light sleep. In the moments he's sure Adam's not awake, Ronan leans closer to touch his hair and smell his skin. Despite the bath and the perfumes, Adam smells like the soil, like the living earth. He grazes Adam's shoulder with his lips and runs his fingers over Adam's hand, wishing he could hold it.

By the time Adam wakes, Ronan is on his third cup of wine, sipping innocently from his cup but still watching.

Edited 2017-08-03 02:03 (UTC)

Adam's still groggy when he wakes, but he feels a little better. He hopes that this time he'll be able to stay awake for more than an hour. Getting up, he eats another cake, then comes back to the bed, sitting cross-legged and watching Ronan in return. "Are there people here, aside from your father and the monsters? Monsters, videlicet, the ones who wanted to eat me."

"There are servants," Ronan replies, swirling his wine around and around in his goblet while observing Adam. "Out of sight, but never far. Don't bother asking them questions more complicated than, 'Where's the toilet?' They get confused very easily when they have to think for themselves."

Which isn't so different from Ronan, considering the line of questioning about the library.

"Out there - out there out there - there are billions of people like you, suffering. Unlike you, they didn't mean to come here. Do you even understand how fucked you are?"

"Hardly matters," Adam says, dismissing the fatalism. "I chose to come here. It must have been important." He must have been worth it. "Now I'm here, so all that matters is what I can do with the circumstances I'm in."

He studies Ronan, trying to memorize every detail. He's not about to tell his keeper that he's here looking for the boy he loved. It's clear enough from Ronan's obsession with him that Ronan would be jealous.

"The--the things that tried to eat me. They were all humanoid, in awful ways. That's what you mean, isn't it? People out there, suffering."

Glancing away, Adam processes through what very little he knows. "Is your father in charge of that?"

Ronan bristles at the question. "Are you trying to blame him? Everyone does." And from Ronan's tone of voice, he's in disagreement with all of them. Despite his tower bedroom that might as well be a dungeon. Despite the chains at the foot of his bed. Despite skin so pale it's likely he's never seen sunlight, only sickly green clouds and a landscape of death and rot.

"The decay of the soul is natural," Ronan says. He takes another sip of wine before continuing, "You can't blame anyone for that. And if someone's accelerating the rate of that decay with their deeds? No one to blame but themselves."

"What's the use of blame?" Adam asks, rhetorically. He's not surprised at how Ronan defends his father--owner? creator?. It's already clear that Ronan doesn't like questioning the dream-king's authority and doesn't have enough of a rebellious streak to chafe at the restrictions on his life. "What I want to know is how much choice or influence he has over the denizens of the land. Does he rule them, create them, design them?"

His nose wrinkles a little as Ronan keeps drinking. "Is your diet entirely liquid?"

"Yes," Ronan answers, unimpressed by that judgmental tone. "Why wouldn't I drink? It's the most fun a guy can have by himself. Why are you asking about those things out there, anyway? It's all of the above, and there's nothing you can do about it."

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