Garden Of The Abyss

Finally, some semblance of a fight fueled him as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword again, picking himself up from the floor as his garments were now stained in blood, snot, and tears.

As he lifted himself, he finally met eyes with the man, seeing the face appearance of the one who bestowed such anguish onto him.

His skin was as pale as could be, with prominent, protruding cheekbones and eyes so wide they seemed without eyelids; all giving him a surreal, uncanny appearance as if bordering between human and something supernatural.

By all sense of the imagination, he was a nightmarish sight.

Every subtle movement he made caused his surprisingly neatly-kempt, cobalt locks to bounce as they were kept in a bowl cut that  reached down to his neck, except for his shortened fringes.

As he'd seen before, the man's eyes took on a black swirl, inhabiting a madness within them that exceeded understanding.

He must be a Marquis...it's Belmon again, isn't it? He thought.

"Oh! The boy has some balls, after all! Once more, the hero stands with his sword in hand! That's what you believe, right, Ren?"

"..." He failed to respond.

A shocked expression came over the man's face for a moment as his lips contorted in surprise, "How rude of me! I completely forgot to introduce myself!"

With an unnaturally swift and low position, the man bent forward, sliding his right hand over his heart and extending his left arm outwards.

"First Marquis of Belmon, Decartes Martus of Madness, that's right!" He introduced.

With the confirmation of the man's allegiance to Belmon, he felt his stomach drop slightly as his fingers felt uneasy around the handle of his sword.

All he could do was glare at the man with eyes that held little in them, but what they held besides grief was rage; a flame that kindled itself by the enigmatic, horrible man's taunts.

"That look! That stare! Don't look at me like that, I'll lose control! Such passion, such emotion, such resolve, such will! A hero backed into a corner is a most frightening thing, I hear. But, you aren't a hero, are you? After all, look at what you failed to save. One wonders if you even intended to protect them in the first place, seeing as how miserably you failed," the man continued to taunt him with a voice that switched between high and low, placing a finger on his chin.

As he spoke so fervently, his blue tufts bounced with each movement, swaying like curtains in a storm.

It was only noticeable now with the torches being lit, but the vast chamber was revealed to contain more than just the unknown, maddened man: many beings shrouded in black robes quietly stood in wait by the man, who presumably was their leader.

In the room, contraptions of horrific intentions sat; dirtied and bloodied from the previous tortures the items had to have been used for. Embedded into the tall, stone walls was stained glass like that of a church, but without the sunbeams to enlighten their darkness.

There was something about the swirling, inhuman eyes the man possessed that made his skin crawl with something transcendent to fear; a look that made his fighting spirit be questioned, if not shattered just by a single glance.

...I have to be smart about this. That's how it is, right? It's...if this is all real, I have to save what I can. Iris is still alive. If I can avoid fighting...if I can just get Iris, I'll make do, somehow, he thought.

"Give her back…" He commanded through his teeth.

"What's that? You want her back, you say? Ren, Ren, Ren...if that's really, truly what you desire, then do you think a request will work? You have a weapon in your hand, don't you? Make your own wish come to," Decartes continued to taunt him.

"I...I don't want to fight. Just, please, let her go…" He pleaded quietly.

A comically intensified frown came over Decartes' lips before an ear-to-ear smile appeared, "Now, now, now, that just won't do, Ren. How can you expect your enemy to simply heed your requests, nice and easily without anything in exchange? That's a bit shortsighted, isn't it? It's unfair to me and all of the effort I went through to bring you all here," Decartes spieled.

It was clear something was desired from the smiling Marquis, something from him specifically by the look he received.

"What do you want?" He asked, "...I'll do anything, just let her go--please."

"Anything?" Decartes' expression lit up.

It was unnerving to look at the man's white-skinned face that expressed itself with almost rubbery elasticity.

"Anything," He confirmed with a slight nod.

As Decartes snapped his fingers, two of the quiet, enigmatic Belmon followers arrived at each side of the restrained girl on the floor, lifting her to her feet.

Finally, their eyes met as she was lifted, though the amount of pain and anguish embedded in her azure jewels, that usually sat at the forefront of serenity, shot his heart with guilt as tears escaped continuously.

"That's all I wanted to hear, Ren. I'd never do anything without your permission, you know? I'm not a bad guy," Decartes smiled with his hands kept behind his back.

"...That's all? You're...you're going to let her go?" He asked.

"Of course," Decartes assured him, never losing that smile of his.

It felt surreal, but a weight was lifted from his soul as the girl was brought to him by the two enigmatic followers, dropping her into his arms.

Falling to his knees with her held against him, the flow of his tears swept across his cheeks like a boundless river of relief.

"Iris…"

He had never squeezed another person that tightly, still holding shock in the pale-white of his wide eyes as he held her with every ounce of strength he retained in his quivering body.

In his reunification with her, he nearly forgot to take her bindings off, hurrying to do so as he struggled with his trembling fingers.

"Iris!...Iris!"

It felt like if he didn't continue saying her name, she would slip away from his fingers.

Finally removing her bindings, both from her arms and her mouth, he embraced her once more, forgetting the chamber in which he sat for the moment of respite he yearned for.

"Ren…" Her voice came out weak.

It was clear in her eyes that the experience had engrained itself into her; inlaid in those azure jewels was pain and exhaustion that they both felt.

"I'm never letting you go again!" He proclaimed.

If it was her in his arms, he could handle loss, he could grit his teeth through the pain of sorrow. That's what he felt; he didn't care what it was the Marquis wanted from him--if she was fine, he would feel the same.

As tears left her eyes just the same, she brought on a smile, just for him as her cold hand was placed on his cheek.

"Ren," she spoke quietly through her smile as their eyes met, "I love y--"

Snap.

Instead of the words he needed to hear more than ever, what pelted against his ears in place of them was the cackling, maddened laughter of the Marquis, echoing against the walls as it repeated against her ears endlessly in the still moment.

Even as his eyes were laid on her, he couldn't see what was in front of them.

His vision wasn't lost, his eyes weren't tainted, and nothing covered them--he simply didn't want to recognize what it was in front of them.

"Iris…?"

As his eyes adjusted to the reality he wanted to look away from, he finally saw it.

By some unseen force, her neck had been contorted, wrung and snapped completely around in such an unnatural way.

Even in his arms, the one place he could keep her safe, that lie had been broken; he could only watch in horror and stagnation with a body encumbered by the frost of shock and grief as blood spilled from her lips.

The sounds of her bones being bent in ways they should not, snapping, contorting, and popping--it was a hellish melody he'd never forget.

"Iris?"

Saying her name again, he didn't know what he expected.

Nothing came.

In an instant, she was taken from him, convulsing in his arms as though he held her so tightly. It wasn't but a minute later that she was motionless, growing limp as the warmth of her body seemed to grow more and more distant by the moment.

"Iris. Iris. Iris. Please, Iris. Don't leave me. Please. Please. Please," he begged.

He ignored the howls of Decartes' laughter that meant nothing to his ringing ears; it felt as if it was just him and the body of the girl he held in his arms.

But that liminal silence was broken as the Marquis' twisted, depraved laughter broke him from his solitude of grief.