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Dies Natalis Solis Invicti	By : screamer1234 Category: +S through Z > Silent Hill Views: 3840 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dies Natalis Solis Invicti
- 1
I'm starting to notice that whenever I take more than a couple weeks on a fanfic, I start to get all neurotic about it. Even if it's done, I know it's done, I've reread it over 9000 times and it's FUCKING DONE ALREADY, I start to get the creeping doubts about it and have to almost physically force myself to post the damn thing.
The title is Latin for "birthday of the unconquered sun" and was the name of a Roman sun festival (Googling is relevant to your interests because I'm tired). I actually had a title that made more sense, but after wangsting over the title for longer than it took me to WRITE THE FUCKING THING, I went with the title that sounded better. Why does that not surprise me? :P
This whole mess was inspired by a creepy-hot fanart by crowlee called "Silence" (http://yaoi.y-gallery.net/view/278434/). Go check it out.
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Most of the Sacraments had seen him coming. Henry, however, had not. Walter watched with a certain sense of fulfillment as he crumpled to the kitchen floor, absently stroking his borrowed steel pipe.
This was his final sacrifice. The shining apogee of what he had pursued through death itself. It would not do to simply, crudely blow out his Receiver’s brains. Or stave his skull in from behind, although in his uncharacteristic enthusiasm he’d come dangerously close. Or break his neck over his knee. Or even stab him in the throat.
No. Henry Townshend, his Receiver of Wisdom, merited—was entitled to—a death more…ceremonial.
Walter Sullivan sighed. It was a musical noise.
“All for you, Mother,” he said softly. But his eyes did not leave the man on the floor.
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He’d carried Henry, one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees, to the room where he had kept his mortal shell. The way Henry’s warm, lithe body fit and pressed against his chest made his dead heart jerk and shudder. That metal cross stood empty now; it would serve his purposes nicely.
Walter stripped him quickly and tossed his clothes in the corner—decorum was unnecessary, his Receiver would not need them again—then pushed Henry up onto the cross. He drew the limp wrists tight against its frame with strong, neat knots so that Henry’s toes barely touched the floor. He worked fast; it would not affect his plans one way or the other if Henry regained consciousness unexpectedly, but the resulting delay would be tedious, and Walter was feeling atypically impatient today. But even he could forgive himself. It was not every day that a ritual for the Holy Mother ten years in the making neared completion.
Henry moaned and stirred just as Walter secured the last knot holding his ankles secure to the cross’s base. Walter got to his feet and watched intently as his eyes rolled under their lids, then opened blearily. He tried to speak and produced instead a pained groan. He tried again and finally slurred, “Nnngh…what…fuck, my head…” They opened wider and Walter could see the awareness seeping back into them. He could watch the horror stretch Henry’s face as he realized his clothes were gone and who stood in front of him. He did not touch, only watched, as his captive pulled at his restraints, first tentatively, then with greater and greater panic, thrashing wildly until his muscles gave out. He sagged, chest heaving, dark eyes huge and liquid and shining with fear. Deer’s eyes.
Beautiful.
Henry’s mouth was dry and slack, but Walter was not disappointed. His Receiver was warm and tasted like salt and black coffee and humanity. Walter explored him thoroughly with his tongue and bit softly, then harshly at his lips, relishing Henry’s quiet winces and the drops of blood that welled forth. After a moment he withdrew. Time enough for that later.
Walter knelt and, without ceremony, ran his tongue along Henry’s limp shaft from tip to base. Henry gasped sharply. “What are you…!” His shock liquefied into a stifled moan when Walter hungrily descended on him as far as his mouth allowed. He pressed the slim blade of his knife flat between abdomen and palm, fascinated by the dual sensations of warm flesh hardening under his tongue and twitching away from the cold metal in his hand. Henry struggled to stay quiet; only small, choked sobs clawed from his throat. The Conjurer half-smirked, half-smiled around his flesh. His Receiver had always been so stoic. So reserved. One way or another, he’d make him scream. He’d bring his sacrifice to life before he offered it to God.
Walter cupped and rolled his balls with his other hand, slid the strong middle part of his tongue hard along the sensitive underside, and Henry gave a raw, desperate gasp. He sucked until his cheeks hollowed and Henry made a strange, almost pained keening noise. He swallowed his darling sacrifice and his cries vibrated the warm, close air.
From the way his prey was trembling, he was close. From the salt leaking slick down his constricting throat, he was clinging desperately to the edge with only the long, fragile claws of his pride. Walter would be lying (be sinning) if he pretended he wasn’t affected; his groin was already painfully tight with anticipation.
Time, then.
Henry shrieked when the knife tip abruptly pierced the muscle of his abdomen; Walter’s back arched at the hellish noise. But he stayed at his work.
He did not have to look up to carve the Halo of the Sun—he carried the shape like a longing in his heart, the words he used to ask his prayers, emblazoned on the inside of his skull, inscribed on every cell carried by a pulse now rushing rabbit-fast. Henry gave a shrill scream that slid as if on blood and guttered into a sob. Walter’s body went rigid with the effort it took not to buck.
Bit by bit, he shaped the circles, one within the other, three upon three. One by one, the symbols spread, like the eyes of a peacock’s tail, like the Order’s thousand watchful eyes, like the Red God’s, the Yellow God’s eyes, the eyes of Valtiel Her Right Arm Most Blessed whose infinite fingers ran all through him now. He desperately tried to ignore the thick salt-copper blood flowing over his hands and face, though he could not hold back deep, bestial moans; all of these, all these slim fibers of Her eyes, were fixed upon him, and Her Eye itself at the apex of this holiest sign. He almost felt Her warm gaze on his back.
His mother was watching.
So soon, so close, Mother! You’ll be brought up from your sleep like the Sun into a new day!
Henry was panting, trembling again, but he was almost done. Just one more curve, one more tiny dig of the knife that forced a last weak, agonized mew from his sacrifice
one more fan to the sweet, unbearable Sun tearing him apart from the inside
and it was done. Reverently, he stowed the knife in his coat, and with equal reverence stroked the insides of Henry’s thighs. Henry came hard with a whine as his shuddering strained the torn muscles of his abdomen. Walter swallowed every drop and sucked for more until Henry gasped.
He opened his eyes—the numbers, now, the last of his neat tally to reunion. “Mother,” he murmured, though the very brush of his clothes on his skin was torture; the time for salvation was at hand.
Walter rose and abruptly couldn’t breathe.
Henry was wet and slick and shining with sweat and viscous bright blood already drying to tackiness. Tears tracked down his rough cheeks, he could see every muscle trembling under that fragile skin and, oh, Walter was burning in a holy hellfire, it had burst out from inside and it was consuming him and he was kissing his beautiful one so hard that his lip split
and the taste of blood wasn’t helping
and he had to concentrate he had to finish this couldn’t get distracted even though the Mother was so close so close
he could taste
Paradise
he must have fallen to his knees because he could taste Paradise
thick blood on his hands on his mouth in his mouth on his tongue
face pressed close, nose digging into the deep wounds of his Receiver of Wisdom, head pounding with his beautiful moans of misery and pain, he was nursing at Her breast, every second warmer, closer to Her, good thing he didn’t need to breathe because his nostrils had filled with thick blood and he was drinking it in pushing him to Paradise white-hot like the Sun oh further oh God
and he was
there
the Sun ate him to ash
and nowhere
and then he fell
inhumanly human again, weak, empty, trembling, sticky with sweat and wet like spreading blood between his legs. His fingers had left deep, purpling marks on his sacrifice’s thighs. Slowly, he withdrew them.
As if through fog, Walter noticed that Henry was cold. But he still felt warm.
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Dies Natalis Solis Invicti