ORIGIN

He had entered its mind and all it wanted was another fight? And to incite his wrath even further, Eleven just had to say something so... cringeworthy. Creators alive, it was so predictable! Gah! Audland's whole head felt hot and heavy. He felt loopy with desire disgust confusion.

Bloodbathed hounds of different desires flooded the caves in Audland's heart and skull. He felt like he was drowning in it, and he didn't even know what 'it' was. He wanted to slam against Eleven. He wanted to remind Eleven of its own size, its brittler bones and weaker muscles, its inferiority to him. He wanted to crush it. But that was exactly what it wanted, wasn't it?

More. Dig for more then. Audland wanted to split it open. Drag its claws so easily past flesh, fur, and bone; watch the guts spill out. Light a fire inside Eleven, literally. Show them—Show them that—Watch them what? Just stare, dully at him? Still convincing itself of... something stupid. He needed to show them that—

He wanted to be close to it, damn it. He had never before wanted to be so far away. He didn't think he cared this much about them—he didn't care! Not about anything, like this—SHUT UP!!!! No, no it's okay. It's just your mind. They can't get to you in your mind. Not the way you can get into theirs. You can reach in. You can take. You can have what you want, but you can't have it all.

You can't have it all.

A split second into his thoughts, Audland snapped forward. Before he could even realize, his claws were on Eleven, his body pressing into theirs full force. Two hands on their throat as he struggled relentlessly to push and shove them into the ground, making sure the softness of their belly was sticking up where he could access it. His words were nothing but a ripping snarl, his face hardened into a demented grimace.

He shook his head as if to dislodge the thoughts. No. No, Eleven was getting to him. Just being here, frozen in time, he was practically congratulating them. They had gotten what they wanted—filled him with equal parts desire and repulsion. He just wanted to see their head split open, their jaw go slack—but he also wanted more. To know more—to feel them through his claws and his teeth and his flesh like a bee sting. Writhing, depositing its venom inside him.

And so he decided for Eleven. If they wanted whatever it was they wanted, they were only going to get him this far. He was not Gravedigger. They were not friends. He would not ask them to, he would nottell them to. They had to take it themself. From him. Because in all his jealousy and his anger, Audland still, always needed to be on top.

He'd lean in.

"You're never gonna be one of us. You're never gonna see him again. If I see you tryin' to run off for that war sh*%, I will drag you back in here myself. Do you understand me?"

He hoped his breath was volcanic and rancid. He hoped they could smell the rot festering beneath his fur. He hoped they couldn't get away. That they wouldn't want to.

'Aw yeah, gimme a fat ol' grin. You're sooo untouchable, nothin' can get to ya. You must be so high up there. Stars, we all wish we were you.' Sarcasm oozed over the walls of Audland's mind, covering up all the mixed sincerity and conflicting feelings. Chaos loved conflict, and conflicting feelings on top? That was just the icing on the cake.

Audland smiled right back, big and toothy. His eyes were manic. "Yeah, he's not comin' back. Wherever he's gone—ERRGH—" Eleven's bite, their sting. Right over his mouth. Sparks flitted up his spine. God, he needed them dead. He needed. He needed. His claws came up to Eleven's jaws, attempting to dig in, find purchase. They found none. He just floundered there, feeling them; burying inside his skin, writhing. He needed. He needed that sting.

Audland was hardly aware of how or where they moved to. His mind fixated on the teeth, the claws, and the puncture wounds. Blood began to leak out. His own vile ichor. A spate of chemical signals surged through him. Anger, agitation, disgust, nausea, survival. Oil and blood leaking from the gaps in his skin, but none of Eleven's. He bathed in this swath of emotions, thinking only that the unevenness was a problem.

Eleven's body felt closer in this moment than it had when they'd been biting him at the Olympics. Their particles were no further apart, but something in his brain was somehow fooled into believing otherwise. He felt what felt like everything. He felt how Eleven's body begged him to choke it. Maybe that's how Gravedigger did it; all brutish muscle, acid blood, and force alone. No. Audland wanted—needed to show it that he was different—more than that. This cave was their fate, their tomb; and in it they were sealed together. What they shared, the Gravedigger no longer could. Not magic—Audland wasn't in a position to wonder if they had that, wherever that war dog had slunk off to. No. Chrysalis. Life, unending. Gravedigger was dead. Had to be. Audland and Eleven, this was all they truly had.

A hand moved away from Eleven's throat. A cold, dark flicker of fire began to spark at Audland's clawtips. Audland didn't need to remove Eleven's jaws by hand; he could make them gasp open. He plunged the fire into Eleven's chest, trailing down, down, down to the softness of its stomach... Inhaling the smoke as he turned Eleven to ash, in layers, in pieces.

As it let him.

He pulled away. He didn't feel done, but the body was spent. His was too, now that his neural inputs were starting to detangle. His whole body felt abuzz, slick with a mix of oil and his own blood. He was so tired. His stone was threatening to spark—to steal this feeling away from him. He would push it back. He wanted them both to sleep. He... No. He didn't hope for anything. Anyways.

It began to wretch up a stone. Audland could manage enough attention to tell that that that was probably for him. His stomach ached, and he doubled over, cupping his navel with a paw.

When the ache lessened, he drew his paw away and looked at its palm. Oilstone. Straight from the source.

He saw Eleven's chrysalis begin to form. He held his stone up to where they might, might just be able to see it, if he'd left them alive enough. He collected their stone too. For a moment, he paused over their heap of a body, looking them in the eyes. The manic rage in Audland's glinting yellow eyes from before had cooled down to a soft, almost-tenderness. Looking at Eleven in this quiet, fragile state, it made him almost want to...

No. He didn't want that. And if he tried, it would scramble back onto its sorry limbs and try to kill him again. And that would be fair in a way, because that's not what they were. None of this was ever meant to be soft, or kind. Pleasurable perhaps, but only by mistake. What a mess this had made of his head. He had to get away.

But not without a trade. Not without another binding contract; another chain between them. Audland would take Eleven's stone and cram what magic he had left into it. It felt, in the moment, like quite a bit somehow. He didn't know what kind of point he'd be making with this, but give him a few days outside this hellish pit and he'd come up with something functional. Maybe even ostensibly logical, if Eleven would just play the fool for once.

Audland would wander off in search of a place to lay the stones. He'd try to plant the two stones somewhere unassuming. Somewhere with a source of Corruption to feed the magic Audland knew to be in at least one of the stones. Unfortunately for him, thanks to the work of Draconua, those two criteria were at odds. He would eventually manage it in Polaris, after the conclusion of this scene.

Once he had planted the stones (one by the oilstone spire, the other by the bigger bluer one), Audland himself would slink off to some corner in Polaris (far, far away from them) to turn himself into an oilstone rock as well. Some part of him buzzed with protest, but Audland's body relented fast. It felt so good. It felt so good to finally...