Double Edged
By Kristina Andersson
kriscat@gmail.com
Category: Angst, a lot of angst
Feedback: Always welcomed, saved and read over and over
again when I'm feeling down.
Warning: It's dark, very dark, probably the darkest I've
ever written.
Summary: Strife takes a moment to think about daggers.
Notes: My kitchen sink muse strikes again. This one came
to be when I almost cut me on a knife...
Hugs to Carrie for beta.
Strife had always considered daggers to be safe. There
was something calming about the steel and handle, which fit so well in
your hand. With a dagger, you always had something to do if you got bored.
Twirling it around, finding its balance when making it stand on edge. Stabbing
it between your fingers, faster and faster, coming closer and closer to
the moment when you might lose a finger or two. Throwing it at something,
or some*one*. You could even use a dagger to clean your nails.
Even as a child, Strife had liked daggers. Daggers were
safe. When Eris arrived with a dagger in her hand, it meant they would
be making art. Making him beautiful. The danger was when she came empty
handed. Then you never knew if you would wake up hurting the next morning.
Or waking up at all.
When Eris had a dagger, she was calm. She talked with
a gentle voice, almost cooing. And sometimes she even hugged him! She used
to run her fingers through Strife's hair, caress his cheek, telling him
how beautiful he would become.
And then she'd begin. Making him so beautiful. Marking
him as hers. Telling him how exquisite he looked with the red marks on
his pale body. Knowing how lovely the marks would be transformed to silver
scars. Beautiful scars. Scars so pretty, only Strife and Eris deserved
so see them. A treasure he still kept hidden under all covering leather.
Proof that his mother really loved him.
Why else would she try so hard to make him beautiful?
When Strife had been taken from Eris, to be trained by
Ares, the art making had stopped. Eris had left completely, and in her
place was Discord wearing his mother's body. Discord saw him as an rival,
not as some one who could be made beautiful. But Strife still had his treasure,
and his daggers.
Making art all by himself wasn't as good. But sometimes
when life was too painful, adding a scar or two made it bearable. So his
treasure grew.
Not long after his training with Ares had began, he learned
other uses of daggers. They could be used as tools or as toys on mortals.
You could stab someone with it, slash him, cut small body parts off,
skin him or throw it through a heart. Kill a person, torture him or just
nick him a little. A dagger could have so many uses. Most of the time,
if you where in a hurry and didn't have time to have some fun, all you
had to do was to threaten to use it.
When he officially became the God of Mischief, he'd been
awarded the spider as a totem. He was well aware it was out of pity, and
only because no one else wanted it. But he got to chose his other symbol
himself. He choose the dagger, dreaming of seeing his private symbol of
safety, being worshiped by mortals everywhere. That didn't happen. But
he still had his great companion.
The daggers never let him down.
Daggers even had personality. Some were simple, plain,
practical. Always sharp. Fitting nicely into your hand, great balance.
Ready to do the work. No nonsense allowed. Others were fancy with elaborate
decorations. Pretty, expensive, but of no practical use. Some were a little
of both. He loved them all. They where his.
But as the blonde bitch shoved the plain dagger in his
abdomen, daggers didn't seem so safe anymore.
The End
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