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He remembered reading somewhere that the human mind, after a time, will begin to accept anything as reality. No matter what the circumstances, if it went on long enough, even the worst of pain would begin to subside. It would become routine. Even the shock, the horror, would fade.
Soma didn't believe that.
He didn't believe this would ever end. And he didn't believe that his body would become accustomed to it. The pain shifted sometimes, crippling some days, barely a nagging needling feeling in the back of his neck others, but it never left. Sometimes it felt like searing hot knives, other days a blunt ache that made his limbs heavy and his breath a constant struggle, like rocks on his chest. Sometimes it was burning. Sometimes it was cold. And sometimes he felt nothing.
Those were the worst days, when there was nothing. Not even happiness. He could work through the pain. He could make himself go to class, make himself smile for his friends. Take time for Mina, pretend things had finally return to normal. But the nothing, the empty hollow feeling that he was disappeared, that was agony. That was the helpless feeling that everything he had done had been for nothing. That the castles, the cults, were going to win out. He would be responsible for the end of the world. And he would feel nothing.
But even that paled in comparison to the nightmares.
Sometimes they were memories. The castle, and its inhabitants. A tiny child, shivering in the ashes of an execution, and the destruction that wrought, the taste of blood filling his mouth as a great wolf tore into human flesh. Wars waged in the night. Holy weapons burning into his skin and the men who stole his son, poisoned his mind. Memories of a contented family, happy, even, warped by fire and rage. Memories of the things he had done for love, the people he had killed, humans, men, women and children alike slaughtered to appease the grief of one man.
Sometimes, it was Soma, not the thing inside of him, who did these things. Who slaughtered mercilessly, indiscriminate of who or what he was feeding on. The rich, thick blood ran down his jaw, over his chest, and he fed on anything living. Hands like claws dug into flesh and bone, soaked in gore and viscera, he tore his enemies, his victims, to pieces. And it was Soma, doing all these things, taking the mantle of the Lord of the Castle, the root of all evil, the dark thing that had to exist so there could be a good, a light. Soma would become that awful thing, he would bathe in the destruction, the fire, the blood. And in those dreams he enjoyed it. He craved the destruction, the wanton, relentless bloodlust.
He dreamed he was back in the castle, he dreamed he was in the throne room. And he was kneeling at the foot of the throne, and the thing that had infected his soul was seated, nails scratching through his hair. Soma couldn't move. He shuddered, watching the pale hand, the blood tipped claws, the strange soothing chuckling sound that the monster made. A cold hand traced over his features, a rich voice told him he was the perfect, obedient vessel.
He just had to let the monster in.
He dreamed he was trapped, sitting in the throne, his shirt torn open, the monster loomed over him. He was helpless, weak, cold, trapped by the monster and entranced by it. And he didn't want to pull away. And he couldn't pull away. And ghostly hands moved over him, claws tearing into his skin and he wasn't sure what was the dream anymore and what was real and where he was. The castle was real. The castle was trapped. He was dreaming.
But if he was dreaming, why could he feel the burn of the monster's touch?
Why did he wake with red searing marks in his skin where he had been torn open? Why did he know the chill of the castle's halls like it was home, why did he know the names of the things that haunted him? Why did he long to go back to the dream, to feel the touch of the monster that had taken over so much of his life?
Even in his waking moments he traced the searing bright lines where he had been touched. The pain proved that something in all of this was real, though what, he wasn't sure. The pain seeped into the nightmares, leaked through his days, and they blended together until he was not sure where he was anymore. If he was in the throne room once more, if he was having coffee with Arikado, who some days he wanted to call Adrian, he wanted to comment on the color of his hair. If he would ever be freed.
Sometimes, the nightmares were a comfort. The nightmares were a reprieve from the nothingness, and in the nightmares, at least he knew he was real. Maybe, if what he had heard was true, eventually his mind would grow used to the nightmares, and those would be his new reality.
At least no one else had to suffer for the Lord of the Castle.