To Each his Time
folder
G through L › Hellraiser (All)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,097
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
G through L › Hellraiser (All)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,097
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Hellraiser movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
To Each his Time
I do not own Hellraiser... it makes me sad. i own nothing!!! nothing!!!!
He opened his eyes, watched the box, watched the god Leviathan in his rotations, watched the others, the engineer and the Gash, and watched the souls. He was old now, even by their years. His eyes were not the brilliant black of his youth, and his robes were torn. The tools he had favored no longer hung faithfully at his side, they had decayed past repair long ago. Old, yes, forgotten, no.
Names have a power in hell; they curb the mind, focus ones being, and can be the deadliest blade ever forged if wielded properly, or life saving sustenance. They were his sustenance now, all of hell whispered his name, awake and asleep. He was too much a part of it, perhaps, and at some point it had begun that one could not be mentioned without the other. Seven hundred and forty years, human time, in hell time it was infinitely longer… the first order long faded, those that had come before him, and now not even the chatter beast roamed the halls. His order, the greatest hell had known, now lived on only in legend. And his own creations, known jokingly as the order of the tech, had faded to nothing as well.
His eyes shut, following the only creature in the labyrinth older than he as it scurried along the passages, and his mind, as it had done to easily of late, blended into Leviathans. This would be his end, he knew. One day his eyes would not open, and he would fade like a breath. Leviathan censed his thoughts, and he boomed a reply. He knew it as well, and awaited his lieutenant’s return to the dusts. There was a commotion from the west sector, like two lions roaring. A bitter smile crept onto his face before fading as if it had never been. Two cenobites were battling, seeking to establish rank over each other. He knew the sound well, and for just a moment it made his blood sing.
In the distance he heard the lament of the Box, soft and delicate. Calling to the Gash, to come, to take. It had called to him once… he opened his eyes. There was a feeling in him, slight, like a shortness of breath, his chest ached. He turned his mind away from it, but it remained, a foreign sensation, pulling on him and dragging him down. A rasp escaped him, a strange choked sound. He felt the order departing, felt their leader, Exstapis, salute him before they passed through.
Topec shut his eyes, opened them, shut them. His thoughts were fading, replaced by this strange invasion to his senses. It shook him, he, whom had shook before not Gods nor Gate lords, who had beckoned with an open palm the vilest creatures to ever open the box. He knelt, feeling strangely small amidst all of it.
Leviathan’s beacon covered him, the god had known, he had known. A moment later the light moved on, echoing out a single bell toll. The engineer crawled from the wall and retrieved the leather… and the pins…
Proud is a cenobite who dies when their time has come. Weak, is the one who waits for pain and pleasure to be conquered by the force that in time pierces all, Sorrow.
He opened his eyes, watched the box, watched the god Leviathan in his rotations, watched the others, the engineer and the Gash, and watched the souls. He was old now, even by their years. His eyes were not the brilliant black of his youth, and his robes were torn. The tools he had favored no longer hung faithfully at his side, they had decayed past repair long ago. Old, yes, forgotten, no.
Names have a power in hell; they curb the mind, focus ones being, and can be the deadliest blade ever forged if wielded properly, or life saving sustenance. They were his sustenance now, all of hell whispered his name, awake and asleep. He was too much a part of it, perhaps, and at some point it had begun that one could not be mentioned without the other. Seven hundred and forty years, human time, in hell time it was infinitely longer… the first order long faded, those that had come before him, and now not even the chatter beast roamed the halls. His order, the greatest hell had known, now lived on only in legend. And his own creations, known jokingly as the order of the tech, had faded to nothing as well.
His eyes shut, following the only creature in the labyrinth older than he as it scurried along the passages, and his mind, as it had done to easily of late, blended into Leviathans. This would be his end, he knew. One day his eyes would not open, and he would fade like a breath. Leviathan censed his thoughts, and he boomed a reply. He knew it as well, and awaited his lieutenant’s return to the dusts. There was a commotion from the west sector, like two lions roaring. A bitter smile crept onto his face before fading as if it had never been. Two cenobites were battling, seeking to establish rank over each other. He knew the sound well, and for just a moment it made his blood sing.
In the distance he heard the lament of the Box, soft and delicate. Calling to the Gash, to come, to take. It had called to him once… he opened his eyes. There was a feeling in him, slight, like a shortness of breath, his chest ached. He turned his mind away from it, but it remained, a foreign sensation, pulling on him and dragging him down. A rasp escaped him, a strange choked sound. He felt the order departing, felt their leader, Exstapis, salute him before they passed through.
Topec shut his eyes, opened them, shut them. His thoughts were fading, replaced by this strange invasion to his senses. It shook him, he, whom had shook before not Gods nor Gate lords, who had beckoned with an open palm the vilest creatures to ever open the box. He knelt, feeling strangely small amidst all of it.
Leviathan’s beacon covered him, the god had known, he had known. A moment later the light moved on, echoing out a single bell toll. The engineer crawled from the wall and retrieved the leather… and the pins…
Proud is a cenobite who dies when their time has come. Weak, is the one who waits for pain and pleasure to be conquered by the force that in time pierces all, Sorrow.