The Flesh of God -Peregrine-Gulliver-

[Gulliver]

The alarm was deafening. The red, blinking lights were enough to give him a headache. Victor gripped the arms of his seat with white knuckles. The aircraft was going to crash. It had felt like they had been hit by something, some projectile of sorts, but it didn't really matter. They were going down anyways, somewhere over Northern Canada in the middle of winter. Even if he survived the crash, which was so unlikely, Victor barely even considered it, then they were going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere, to freeze to death, if they hadn't already died of severe injuries.

Victor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and thought of home. No, not America. He thought of Russia. He thought of the royal family, of the inheritance that had been robbed from him by the revolution. He thought of his mother and his father, angry that they hadn't held on. The throne was his by birthright! And here he was. There was no throne in Russia anymore. He was an American citizen. And he was going to die. In Canada. He felt anger well up in the pit of his stomach, overtake the fear that gripped his chest. Why had his god forsaken him so?! What had his family done wrong? Had they sacrificed someone wrongly? Had they not seasoned the body right? What the fuck had gone wrong that he should die like this?

Still, Victor had been raised to pray. Pray in the good times, pray in the bad times and in the I between times. It was ridiculous, and yet, he could that his lips were moving on their own, found that he was whispering a prayer to his god that, if he got out alive, he would avenge everything that had ever been taken from him. Just, give him a sign, tell him that Victor Ivanov was supposed to live, and he would take everything back. The throne, the monarchy, the army, the cultists, the rituals. The world.

***

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Victor knew he was alive. The world was dark, and any sound was muffled, but he knew he was alive by the intense pain that burned everywhere. Breath came in gasps. Something was weighing down on his chest, something large, and something was covering his head, making everything pitch black. No, there was color. The tan canvas was overhead, and there was light showing through the heads, casting everything into a sepia tone.

Victor struggled, found some sort of beam that was constricting his movement, was bearing down on his chest and making it hard to breathe. He pushed, gained an inch and no more. He pushed again, and something moved. Quickly, despite how loudly his battered body protested, he inched his way out from under the beam. It took minutes which felt like hours, but eventually Victor was able to free himself.

The canvas was thrown aside, and he was instantly blinded by the sun and the intense light that was reflected off the snow. Or, whatever snow was left that was still white. There was blood everywhere, staining everything. Victor looked down at himself to see that he too, was soaked through. There were cuts and rips in his clothing, and blood slowly ran down his right leg from a gash in his thigh. He touched his forehead, and saw that there was blood there too. Again, everything hurt, everything ached and everything bled, but he was alive. Victor took it as a sign that he was supposed to still be on this Earth, that he still had things to do. But, did this mean that his mission was receiving blessing? With a great amount of effort, Victor stood, scanning the wreckage. There was so much of it. Carefully, he took a first stepped, winced in pain, and then took a second with a terrible limp. His right leg was nearly lame. How much could he do with such a limb? He sneered at his predicament, and then continued to forge onwards, determined to find another sign, another message. There had to be something more among this disaster, something that could grant his survival or spell his doom...

 

[Peregrine]

Devan had always wondered when he would be forced to find out just how far his unnatural life would stretch. He had considered himself blessed, back when he had finally begun to accept that there was something unnatural about him. He had been a teacher for 23 years, and someone who looked through the old newspaper clippings that the director of the school still kept would see that he looked exactly the same at age 50 as he did at age 30. He had finally accepted that he wasn't going to be changing anytime soon, either, had quit his job, and gone to roam the world.

Small cuts and wounds had always healed in an instant, even major injuries like broken bones had, if set properly, healed far beyond a natural speed. He had never taken a sick day in his life, had gone for weeks at a time without any food, and had never faded or withered away. It had made his life easy, in some ways. He wasn't afraid to sleep outside under a bridge in a city, unable to pay for a room. He hadn't been afraid to completely uproot himself, and just go and experience life. That had been a blessing.

But he never knew just how far this life of his would last, and that has constantly shadowed his joy. He never knew what a gunshot wound to the head, a silent knife drawn across his throat, would do to him. Someday, he had been sure, he would have to find out. But his life had been too precious to him, and he had never dared to push it too far. He would rather live with the uncertainty than die in certainty.

But now there was no avoiding it. He wished he could push it off, could save the discovery for another day when he was more ready to die, but there was nothing he could do to save himself. The aircraft was going down.

He had finally felt ready to return to America, the land of his birth, and now he was never going to make it. He closed his eyes, desperately forcing himself to breathe calmly as the screams of the other passengers echoed around in his head. If he survived the landing, if his body could heal, he could get home. Even though they were somewhere over northern Canada in the middle of winter, and the land would be so bound by snow that even the resilient little winter creatures tended to stay in their dens, he would make it home. Because if he survived this crash, he was, truly, immortal.

Devan had never wanted something so bad in his entire life.

When the aircraft hit the ground Devan had been flung out of his seat. On all sides, everything was pressing in against him. He yet out a yell of pain as he felt his leg, trapped suddenly between the ground and something very solid, snapped under the pressure. His side was torn open by a piece of metal, his head slammed so hard against the ground that, for a moment, he was certain he was going to black out. He was certain it would be over.

But it wasn't. He couldn't see what was going on around him, couldn't feel anything but the fire that was coursing through his body. He longed to scream, but he couldn't make a sound. He wasn't even sure he was breathing anymore. But still he remained anchored in the pain. In the blinding oblivion of pain that washed out every other thought. He could no longer even think well enough to take back his wish. He couldn't think well enough to wish he would just die.

And slowly his body began to weave itself back together. But he didn't know that. He didn't even feel the foot that rammed firmly into his side, that slid into his abdomen to mingle with his insides. All he knew was pain.

But he had been healing. Healing just enough that a trickle of air was able to slip from his lungs. It was hardly anything more than a whimper, if even that, But in the silence of the wilderness, it echoed like the distant voice of an avalanche.

 

[Gulliver]

There had been something there. Victor retracted his foot immediately, stumbling and falling into his ass in the process. He yelped in pain, grunted, bit his lip as he let the sensation pass. Come on, don't be such a baby. Then, slowly, cautiously, he scooted forward, to the pile of rubble he had decided to investigate. He hadn't intended to find anything organic under the pile when he slid the tip of his boot under a beam, probing for anything interesting. What he had found had been soft, warm, and moving. Which meant it was still alive.

Looking to the left, then the right, before settling on the fact that there was no help in the mater, Victor got onto his left knee, then stood. He pulled the massive piece of canvas away, spying something of a human body. Wether it was a corpse or not remained to be seen, despite the small movement it had made when his boot had been jammed into it. So, he set to work with removing the smaller pieces of metal. What was revealed to him was a man, whose side had been split open and he was eviscerated. Victor put the back of his hand to his mouth and gagged. Just looking at him, there was no way he could be alive, could there? His family had never taught him about such things, so he was ignorant in the matter. He was considering just leaving the body, moving on, but then he started thinking. Could this be the sign he was looking for? If it was, what did it mean? Was this unfortunate soul showing Victor his fate, or was it an opportunity? Given the god he had prayed to during the crash, it would likely be safest to assume the latter. Still, Victor had never performed a sacrifice, had never even really seen one done. What was he supposed to do?

To start with, Victor set to work to remove the final, massive piece of framing that weighed down on the mans chest and had crushed his legs. It wasn't easy, especially with his own debilitating injuries, but with much effort, the metal was finally moved enough to pull the stranger out from under it.

With the eviscerated man out in the open, his blood staining the snow red, Victor stood over him, looking down at the man. Was he really going to eat him? Did he have to do it raw? Even if he didn't, was there even a way to cook the flesh in the middle of the tundra? He sighed and sat down next to the mans side, examining the wounds. He sat there in silence for what felt like a decade, before he finally sighed, slid a little closer, and then leaned over the mans abdomen.

"I thank you for your sacrifice," Victor murmured, placing a hand on either side of the wound. He would have been lying if he had said he didn't hesitate, didn't rethink the signs that had been given to him. But, in the end, Victor Ivanov pulled Devans shirt completely out of the way, and then sank his teeth into him, ripping at the wound. He felt the blood and something sicker gush between his teeth, and some internal organ brush his cheek. It had been so many years since he had tasted human flesh, he couldn't even really remember if he liked it or not. All he knew, was that there was suddenly no doubt that this man was alive, and that he had just torn away a piece of his flesh, which hung from his lips as he worked up the stomach to swallow it.

 

[Peregrine]

In an instant, all of the fire that seemed to have been slowly dissipating over his whole body collected into one spot on his side. It lit up in such a bright agony that Devan almost forgot that his legs were broken, that he was laying in the wreckage of a crash and every part of his body was broken. He writhed desperately, unaware of his own actions, but was surprised to realize that he could move. Whatever it had been that kept him pinned to the ground was gone. He opened his mouth, gaping like a fish out of water, and, with the pressure that had crushed his chest and broken his ribs in the first place gone, his damaged diaphragm was able to heal enough to start working once more. He took a breath, only to feel a hundred little stabbing pains in his lungs.

And then Devan began to scream. Finally, all the pain in his body was given a voice, a voice that echoed across the silent wreckage. And the recognition of that overwhelming pain, the massive input of stimuli that no human brain should ever have to experience, triggered something within his body. It had always taken time for him to heal, the more major the injury the longer the gap in time to complete health. But now his body spasmed, his back arching up so high that his broken ribs must surely be punching through his chest. It certainly felt that way. But, even as he screamed, the pain began to fade. His bones dissolved, flowing back inside his body and lining up in the proper places. His muscles began to twitch and shiver, repairing broken connections in a heartbeat. The piece of flesh that had been ripped from his side and was now left hanging between the stranger's lips was replaced, healed over as if it had never been lost. And then his skin began to bubble like hot wax, spreading slowly but unstoppably from those places that still remained healthy and intact. It covered him, hiding the wounds that should have been there. Hiding the injuries that should have killed him. The injuries that were no longer there.

And then the pain was gone.

Devan took a shaky breath as, for the first time since the crash, he was able to understand his surroundings. He was laying on the ground, and there was half melted snow freezing his back. All around him the wreckage loomed, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. He gagged slightly, coughing, before he finally opened up his eyes.

There was someone over him. And for some unexplainable reason, Devan felt a shiver race down his spine. Perhaps it would have been better to die, after all.

 

[Gulliver]

As soon as the man began to scream, Victor moved away, blood still on his lips and on his chin. But, he wasn't focused on that; the strange he had just taken a bite out of was alive -- and healing. What kind of sorcery was this? Was this still a sign from god? It had to be. There was no other explanation.

"You... You are of god!" Voctor announced once Devan finally stopped struggling. His eyes were wide in wonder as he once again got closer, pulling the cloth away to examine the wound that had been there, but suddenly wasn't. It was beautiful, it was magical. Any sense of personal space evaporated as Victor ran his hands over the stranger, smearing blood over his abdomen, his ribs, feeling for internal wounds by palpating.

It occurred to him then; if this man could heal, regenerate so quickly, then it was likely he couldn't be killed. He was suddenly sustainable, a renewable resource. "How... How do you do this? Is it magic?" Victor asked, still leaning over the man, not even necessarily looking him in the face.

 

[Peregrine]

For a moment after Devan healed he remained perfectly still, staring wild eyed at the man above him. He desperately tried to put together what had just happened, but his head was pounding, still echoing from the phantom memory of pain. He had crashed, had been crushed by the falling debris from the wreckage. There had been pain, endless pain. And this young man, with blood dripping from his lips... The strange pain in his side as it had felt like his flesh was ripped away from his body.

He felt the stranger's hands sliding over his body, and had to bite back another shout. But the last of the pain was fading from him, as his body recognized that it was no longer injured. Finally, Devan seemed to process the situation in its entirety. He had survived the crash, his body had healed from the massive injuries it had sustained. And this man had bit him. This young man was crowding over him, his expression eager, and had Devan's blood dripping from around his mouth.

This time, Devan did shout, a yell of complete disgust. He lashed out violently at the young man, his lips curling back in an almost feral snarl. He scrabbled backwards, before being brought to a sudden halt by the large piece of debris that, unknown to him, the stranger had pulled off of his chest.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Devan spat in disgust. "Stay the fuck away from me."

 

[Gulliver]

Victor managed to deflect most of the mans lashings, scowling at the sudden, violent outburst. His initial reaction would have been anger. Who was this sad man to reject him so? But then, Victor though thought some more. The look on his face changed from one of total irritation to one of contemplation. This was a sign, was it not? Obviously, this man could not be killed, at least not easily. He needed to compose himself.

"We are the only ones here," Victor explained, some hesitation evident in his voice as he had to strain to come up with each word. To the best of his knowledge, they were the only ones alive, and they were going to need each other. Wether or not this was completely unfortunate, was yet to be seen. "I am Victor Ivanov." He half crawled, half scooted a little closer, the reddened snow piled against his lame leg. He couldn't keep his eyes off the stranger, thoughts of magic and god racing around in the back of his mind like race horses on a track. It was difficult to focus on befriending this immortal man. "You were... It appeared as though there was no way you were going to survive."

 

[Peregrine]

"So you thought that was a good reason to take a bite out of me?!" Devan half shouted, trapped somewhere between indignation and incredulity. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. He had passed out from the pain, and his mind was trying to find some way to cope with it. So it gave him a cannibal, something literal to tear at his flesh while his brain tried to deal with the fact that the pain made it feel as though his body was tearing itself apart. That had to be it.

The world was a mess of red and white and silver. He couldn't see anything else, just the red, white, silver, and the face of the man before him. His leg was twisted at an odd angle, and there was red following in his path. His leg was broken. It wasn't surprising, really. They had both just fallen from the sky.

Except this cannibal didn't exist. He couldn't. Surely he could not truly be trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no one around except himself and a cannibal who was looking at him as though he was the answer to all of his prayers. "I don't care what your name is! Go... go away. Why are you still getting closer?"