Attempting to sound out John's motivations from Into the Black. Which, this being Jack the bloody Ripper, went to some VERY dark places. Rough piece, mostly me trying to make some sense of him.
Title: Blood
Rating: R (violence)
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt, mention of Helen, Adam, John/Helen
Summary: Introspective piece. John lying there after Helen's left
Wordcount: 2004
Warnings/Notes: Spoilers for 3x20, Into the Black. DARK. Violence. Jack the bloody Ripper. John's somewhat frenzied here, too
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Blood
Rating: R (violence)
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt, mention of Helen, Adam, John/Helen
Summary: Introspective piece. John lying there after Helen's left
Wordcount: 2004
Warnings/Notes: Spoilers for 3x20, Into the Black. DARK. Violence. Jack the bloody Ripper. John's somewhat frenzied here, too
Disclaimer: Not mine
Blood
She was gone. She was gone, and he didn't care. John didn't care. Couldn't care. Couldn't do anything but breathe in searing breaths, and wait for the world to still.
It filled him up. This thing that had crawled inside him so long ago. It roared, burned, seared, torn. Filled him to brim, to burst, clawing him apart piece by piece, atom by atom, rended him from within. It hated him. It screamed at him its fury. It pulsed inside him like a furious puppeteer, its rage singing along his nerves, a steady, vicious pulse in the base of his brain, a single, unrelenting demand. For violence, for energy, for something. For appeasement. Furious, incandescent, it demanded appeasement.
He had forced it to expend. His searing passenger, who demanded so much from him, who drove him to mindless hunger, in search of something, who only quieted when he offered up some searing gift. He had forced it, this once, to give. He had made it, this once, to expend.
And now, and now, he paid the price. And not only him. Oh no, oh no. Not only him. He could kill himself, throw himself into a power line, and that might appease it, but it would not let him. It would not let him destroy himself, not so easily. Never so easily. So instead, instead, there would be the other appeasement. There would be the other price. Blood price. Weregild. Now, if he moved, if he went out into the world, the creature coiled in his breast would demand the Ripper from him, and for the searing of it, for the rage of it, that he had demanded from it, there would be no escape.
He would kill. He would kill, and kill, until it was satisfied, and he didn't know when that would be. He didn't know how much blood would be enough. If any amount ever would be.
He should have killed Adam. He should have killed Adam. He'd known it, known as he held the man so close, almost intimate, and looked down into those eager, vicious eyes, that lying countenance. He'd known as Adam whispered honey-sweet, known as Adam bribed and sang and smiled his smug little smile. He'd known. The skin had been so fragile beneath his hands, the man nothing much, nothing at all, a sheet of parchment waiting to be split, and the hunger had thrummed through John, had coiled inside him, lust and vengeance and bloodthirst and rage, and it would have been easy. So ridiculously easy. He would have done it.
But he had hoped. Foolish, foolish, so very stupid. For a moment, a flash of time, listening to words honey-sweet, he had imagined. A halcyon vision, a fragment of a wondering. Time travel. A chance, one last chance. Not only to wash away the blood, but to wipe it out. Make it as if it had never been. That was more than bloodlust, than vengeance. More than rage. That was longing, and hope, and everything that remained of him that hadn't drowned beneath the creature's touch. Adam had whispered, and for one moment, John had listened.
He'd dreamed so much more, since then. Let it build in his head, in his heart. Let himself imagine. Just imagine. Before the Blood. It would have to be. He would have to stop them taking the Blood at all, have to stop them remaking themselves into these things they had become. All the blood, born from the Blood. He'd long found a kind of black poetry in that, a kind of black justice, that they should have known better, should have known that Blood is paid for in blood. Always. Ever.
Helen had rejected his dream, of course. She'd made herself. From the first, from the very first. Doctor, scientist. Immortal. And so much more. So much more since then. She had cast it back, and John could ... could understand. He saw the rejection, not hers of him, but him of her, the fundamental rejection embedded in the fabric of his dream. That he should remake her. That he should undo her. That he should reject all she was. He saw the abhorrence of that, to her.
He couldn't have explained. He couldn't have explained. She didn't understand. She had never seen. She had never had cause to see. She didn't know, what it was he saw when he looked at her.
She had not felt the blade tear apart fragile, female flesh. She had not cut, and cut again. She had not wallowed in the viscera. She had not torn apart the fundaments of someone, not from rage, but from lust, from the blood-hunger that had so horrified him, at the first. That had so terrified him, because he had not understood, had no knowledge of his passenger, had thought it came from him. The fury, that this thing so lewd and so innocent should be allowed to exist, her filth an excuse, her innocence a taunt, and the hunger, the bloodlust inside him, the need, for appeasement. The desire, and the hunger, and the need to feed the monster in his breast.
Helen had never seen. Never understood that when he looked at her, the thing inside howled to be appeased, cried out to split fragile flesh like paper, hungered to drown in blood, to paint himself in her viscera. Helen. There was nothing safe from the thing inside him. Nothing sacred. And time, and time again, it demanded, and demanded, and howled, and time and again he wrestled it back, fought it into the dust, drowned it in the blood of other women, other men, paid and paid again, and still it never left. It never went. And try as he might, as far back as he could push it, as far removed as he could make it, John could not look at her, at Helen, and not see the blood. The promise of it in the future. The stain of it across their past.
Helen had never seen. All her work, all her years, everything she had built from the foundation of the Blood. She had never seen its cost. She had never felt its cost. It was built on blood. All of it. All of her. She was a bloody thing, as bloody as he, and she didn't know. Didn't see.
He loved her. Oh, he loved her. With everything human he still possessed. He adored her, the fire of her, the passion, the strength, the courage, the pain. He loved, as he had never believed a man could love, not and stay alive. For a life with her ... he would sell the world. A hundred lives, a thousand, a billion. Could she doubt that? Was that really so hard to understand? Why? How many lives, how many women, had he torn beneath his knife, offered up to appease his demon, to keep her safe? How many men, who threatened her? How many had he killed, in their hundred-plus years, all for her? And she didn't understand that he would rewind time, throw away a world, all for the same cause?
But no. No, that wasn't what threw her. That wasn't what she rejected. Helen was no fool. She knew what he was. What he had become. She knew how little there was left of him that was human. Knew that she, and she alone, now, reminded him of it. She must. She had to.
It had been that he would rewrite her. That he would reject her. That he would cast aside all she had become, for some golden dream of a past without blood, and a woman who had never dared to change herself. It was that he would undo the fundaments of her, unmake her as surely as he had unmade Mary Kelly, all those long, long years ago. That he would tear her apart.
But that ... that was all there was left for him to do. Surely she must see. Surely she must know. This thing in his breast ... he had held it for a century, he had cast it back, but he was human, or what was left of him was. He had never been meant to last a century. He had never been meant to fight it that long. And it was winning. Slowly, surely. How many times had he threatened her, threatened Helen, these last few years. How many times, had he come so close? It was winning, it was winning, and he couldn't let it.
He would tear her apart, one way or another. The day was coming. It was coming, when he could do no more, resist no more, and the howling thing inside him, the thing that tore him apart even now, the thing that demanded an ocean of blood to pay for what he had done on her behalf ... That thing would win. Would tear her, and unmake her, and he would watch. What was left of him that was human, would watch.
At least this way ... Adam had offered him another kind of unmaking. A bloodless unmaking. He would undo her, would tear apart her fundament, would unmake her, but there would be a Helen alive at the end of it. There might even, he had dared to dream, have been a Helen that was happy because of it. A Helen who would have lived happily with that past him, that innocent, stupid boy, that would never have taken Blood, and paid a century's worth of pain for it, a world's worth of blood. A Helen that would never have known, and never had to know, of the Ripper. An innocent Helen.
Unmake her. Yes, he would have done that. Destroyed a world. Yes, he would have done that, too. Reordered time, yes, yes, yes. He would have done it. Sacrificed everything, destroyed everything, remade her, remade Helen herself, yes. Yes, he would have done it. Had dared to dream of doing it. Had listened to the honey-sweet whisperings of a madman, soft and fragile beneath his hands, and dared, dared to dream. Committed what she believed the ultimate violation against her, to rewrite her very being. He had dreamed that.
Because in that dream, she had lived. In that dream, there had been no blood. In that dream, there had been a child, a golden girl who lived a long life, a hundred years ago, when she should have been born. A girl with no Source Blood in her veins to call down a Cabal atop her head, a girl who would have lived, and died, free and sane and herself. In his dream, they had lived. In his dream, he had not killed. In his dream, none of the blood that stained him, that stained her, had ever been shed. A world wiped clean, made new.
In his dream, there had been no blood. And now ... now that dream was gone, and there would be oceans of it. Now, when the howling in his chest finally drove him to his feet, when the hunger in his belly and the madness lurking in the shadows of his mind finally drove him out, his passenger's fury demanding payment, there would be a world of blood. Shed, once more, for Helen Magnus' sake. Shed to keep her safe, and whole, and herself. Shed for her, because she would not herself. Once again, doing what she could not, and would not, and yet, despite that, her hands were as red as his. She was made in blood. She had always, from the first, when the needle plunged into her arm, been made in blood.
In his dream, she had not. But his dream was gone. No matter what happened now, that dream was gone. His last chance, and all he could do now was wait, and fight as long as he could, and see how long it took for the last thing that was human in him to be wiped away.
The dream was gone. There was only the blood left.
And him, now, to shed it.
She was gone. She was gone, and he didn't care. John didn't care. Couldn't care. Couldn't do anything but breathe in searing breaths, and wait for the world to still.
It filled him up. This thing that had crawled inside him so long ago. It roared, burned, seared, torn. Filled him to brim, to burst, clawing him apart piece by piece, atom by atom, rended him from within. It hated him. It screamed at him its fury. It pulsed inside him like a furious puppeteer, its rage singing along his nerves, a steady, vicious pulse in the base of his brain, a single, unrelenting demand. For violence, for energy, for something. For appeasement. Furious, incandescent, it demanded appeasement.
He had forced it to expend. His searing passenger, who demanded so much from him, who drove him to mindless hunger, in search of something, who only quieted when he offered up some searing gift. He had forced it, this once, to give. He had made it, this once, to expend.
And now, and now, he paid the price. And not only him. Oh no, oh no. Not only him. He could kill himself, throw himself into a power line, and that might appease it, but it would not let him. It would not let him destroy himself, not so easily. Never so easily. So instead, instead, there would be the other appeasement. There would be the other price. Blood price. Weregild. Now, if he moved, if he went out into the world, the creature coiled in his breast would demand the Ripper from him, and for the searing of it, for the rage of it, that he had demanded from it, there would be no escape.
He would kill. He would kill, and kill, until it was satisfied, and he didn't know when that would be. He didn't know how much blood would be enough. If any amount ever would be.
He should have killed Adam. He should have killed Adam. He'd known it, known as he held the man so close, almost intimate, and looked down into those eager, vicious eyes, that lying countenance. He'd known as Adam whispered honey-sweet, known as Adam bribed and sang and smiled his smug little smile. He'd known. The skin had been so fragile beneath his hands, the man nothing much, nothing at all, a sheet of parchment waiting to be split, and the hunger had thrummed through John, had coiled inside him, lust and vengeance and bloodthirst and rage, and it would have been easy. So ridiculously easy. He would have done it.
But he had hoped. Foolish, foolish, so very stupid. For a moment, a flash of time, listening to words honey-sweet, he had imagined. A halcyon vision, a fragment of a wondering. Time travel. A chance, one last chance. Not only to wash away the blood, but to wipe it out. Make it as if it had never been. That was more than bloodlust, than vengeance. More than rage. That was longing, and hope, and everything that remained of him that hadn't drowned beneath the creature's touch. Adam had whispered, and for one moment, John had listened.
He'd dreamed so much more, since then. Let it build in his head, in his heart. Let himself imagine. Just imagine. Before the Blood. It would have to be. He would have to stop them taking the Blood at all, have to stop them remaking themselves into these things they had become. All the blood, born from the Blood. He'd long found a kind of black poetry in that, a kind of black justice, that they should have known better, should have known that Blood is paid for in blood. Always. Ever.
Helen had rejected his dream, of course. She'd made herself. From the first, from the very first. Doctor, scientist. Immortal. And so much more. So much more since then. She had cast it back, and John could ... could understand. He saw the rejection, not hers of him, but him of her, the fundamental rejection embedded in the fabric of his dream. That he should remake her. That he should undo her. That he should reject all she was. He saw the abhorrence of that, to her.
He couldn't have explained. He couldn't have explained. She didn't understand. She had never seen. She had never had cause to see. She didn't know, what it was he saw when he looked at her.
She had not felt the blade tear apart fragile, female flesh. She had not cut, and cut again. She had not wallowed in the viscera. She had not torn apart the fundaments of someone, not from rage, but from lust, from the blood-hunger that had so horrified him, at the first. That had so terrified him, because he had not understood, had no knowledge of his passenger, had thought it came from him. The fury, that this thing so lewd and so innocent should be allowed to exist, her filth an excuse, her innocence a taunt, and the hunger, the bloodlust inside him, the need, for appeasement. The desire, and the hunger, and the need to feed the monster in his breast.
Helen had never seen. Never understood that when he looked at her, the thing inside howled to be appeased, cried out to split fragile flesh like paper, hungered to drown in blood, to paint himself in her viscera. Helen. There was nothing safe from the thing inside him. Nothing sacred. And time, and time again, it demanded, and demanded, and howled, and time and again he wrestled it back, fought it into the dust, drowned it in the blood of other women, other men, paid and paid again, and still it never left. It never went. And try as he might, as far back as he could push it, as far removed as he could make it, John could not look at her, at Helen, and not see the blood. The promise of it in the future. The stain of it across their past.
Helen had never seen. All her work, all her years, everything she had built from the foundation of the Blood. She had never seen its cost. She had never felt its cost. It was built on blood. All of it. All of her. She was a bloody thing, as bloody as he, and she didn't know. Didn't see.
He loved her. Oh, he loved her. With everything human he still possessed. He adored her, the fire of her, the passion, the strength, the courage, the pain. He loved, as he had never believed a man could love, not and stay alive. For a life with her ... he would sell the world. A hundred lives, a thousand, a billion. Could she doubt that? Was that really so hard to understand? Why? How many lives, how many women, had he torn beneath his knife, offered up to appease his demon, to keep her safe? How many men, who threatened her? How many had he killed, in their hundred-plus years, all for her? And she didn't understand that he would rewind time, throw away a world, all for the same cause?
But no. No, that wasn't what threw her. That wasn't what she rejected. Helen was no fool. She knew what he was. What he had become. She knew how little there was left of him that was human. Knew that she, and she alone, now, reminded him of it. She must. She had to.
It had been that he would rewrite her. That he would reject her. That he would cast aside all she had become, for some golden dream of a past without blood, and a woman who had never dared to change herself. It was that he would undo the fundaments of her, unmake her as surely as he had unmade Mary Kelly, all those long, long years ago. That he would tear her apart.
But that ... that was all there was left for him to do. Surely she must see. Surely she must know. This thing in his breast ... he had held it for a century, he had cast it back, but he was human, or what was left of him was. He had never been meant to last a century. He had never been meant to fight it that long. And it was winning. Slowly, surely. How many times had he threatened her, threatened Helen, these last few years. How many times, had he come so close? It was winning, it was winning, and he couldn't let it.
He would tear her apart, one way or another. The day was coming. It was coming, when he could do no more, resist no more, and the howling thing inside him, the thing that tore him apart even now, the thing that demanded an ocean of blood to pay for what he had done on her behalf ... That thing would win. Would tear her, and unmake her, and he would watch. What was left of him that was human, would watch.
At least this way ... Adam had offered him another kind of unmaking. A bloodless unmaking. He would undo her, would tear apart her fundament, would unmake her, but there would be a Helen alive at the end of it. There might even, he had dared to dream, have been a Helen that was happy because of it. A Helen who would have lived happily with that past him, that innocent, stupid boy, that would never have taken Blood, and paid a century's worth of pain for it, a world's worth of blood. A Helen that would never have known, and never had to know, of the Ripper. An innocent Helen.
Unmake her. Yes, he would have done that. Destroyed a world. Yes, he would have done that, too. Reordered time, yes, yes, yes. He would have done it. Sacrificed everything, destroyed everything, remade her, remade Helen herself, yes. Yes, he would have done it. Had dared to dream of doing it. Had listened to the honey-sweet whisperings of a madman, soft and fragile beneath his hands, and dared, dared to dream. Committed what she believed the ultimate violation against her, to rewrite her very being. He had dreamed that.
Because in that dream, she had lived. In that dream, there had been no blood. In that dream, there had been a child, a golden girl who lived a long life, a hundred years ago, when she should have been born. A girl with no Source Blood in her veins to call down a Cabal atop her head, a girl who would have lived, and died, free and sane and herself. In his dream, they had lived. In his dream, he had not killed. In his dream, none of the blood that stained him, that stained her, had ever been shed. A world wiped clean, made new.
In his dream, there had been no blood. And now ... now that dream was gone, and there would be oceans of it. Now, when the howling in his chest finally drove him to his feet, when the hunger in his belly and the madness lurking in the shadows of his mind finally drove him out, his passenger's fury demanding payment, there would be a world of blood. Shed, once more, for Helen Magnus' sake. Shed to keep her safe, and whole, and herself. Shed for her, because she would not herself. Once again, doing what she could not, and would not, and yet, despite that, her hands were as red as his. She was made in blood. She had always, from the first, when the needle plunged into her arm, been made in blood.
In his dream, she had not. But his dream was gone. No matter what happened now, that dream was gone. His last chance, and all he could do now was wait, and fight as long as he could, and see how long it took for the last thing that was human in him to be wiped away.
The dream was gone. There was only the blood left.
And him, now, to shed it.
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