Work Header

we are our own churches

Work Text:

It’s daytime.

Eater doesn’t know when precisely in the day it is. She only knows that somewhere, over the layers of rock that separate the underground from the surface, the sun is definitely shining.

It’s a pain to keep track of these things without a clock or visible sunlight to guide you. She assumes her other half will be able to pick up whatever she’s doing whenever they switch, and doesn’t bother to count the hours.

They are an oddity here, even among monsters. They don’t pretend to be human because that would earn them ire, but everyone immediately knows they’re not normal. Their two souls are plainly visible to everyone they meet, inspiring a multitude of questions that they’re used to answering only after they’ve at least said ‘hello’. It’s tiring.

But she’s not leaving the underground just yet. It’s fascinating to her: the stories of their history written on the walls among the fields of softly glowing flowers, chiefly, but also the people, smiling even in the face of almost no hope. She thinks perhaps one day she’ll write about both.

Humans can be such cruel creatures, can’t they? She guesses that they likely don’t even think of monsters now: she might pop up and check, sometime. She assumes that even if she can’t pass through the barrier, she can still go sideways to a different world, and then return a little higher up to explore the surface.

Would they be as beautiful as monsters? She couldn’t say.

It’s nighttime.

Eater couldn’t say when in the night it is, and frankly doesn’t care. As long as he’s out, he’s out, and he’ll make the most of his time until she takes over or he has to sleep, whichever comes first.

The monsters are good at making artificial lights: they’d have to be, underground. So it feels sunny in places, even when he knows that it’s night just by virtue of him being in control.

He doesn’t have any aptitude for magic, and never has. He doesn’t even have the finesse to use Tactics Cards. But the monsters here are made almost purely of magic. They couldn’t be more different.

And yet, they’re not so different after all. He spars with monsters here and there, though his other half complains about getting her soul involved, too. Dodging the different shapes of magical attacks is fun to him, and it’s more fun when there’s no intent to kill or seriously harm. A lot of people don’t understand that, but it seems like the prevailing thought in the underground.

He can sort of get why. If you’re made of magic, you might as well use it, right? But things like swords and spears, even harps, are external. They don’t come naturally.

Eater thinks that maybe the monsters are the luckier ones, even if it’s only like this that they’re fortunate.

He still doesn’t mind not using magic, though. His other half can stop trying to rub it in his face, thanks.