First Homestuck Fic...so be gentle. Or harsh. Just leave a review, constructive criticism is appreciated. I don't know how this is gonna be accepted...so yeah. I'm just gonna.. *runs away awkwardly*

I do not own Homestuck, or any of it's characters. Those go to Andrew Hussie.

His sixth sweep came and went, and as it passed, he began to feel things. Something stirred within the back of the Prince of Rage's mind.

Something black, something dark, something hungry.

It whispered to him from the other side of a splintering obsidian wall, a wheedling voice slipping through the cracks. The voice was both quiet and loud, screaming at a whisper, gnashing unseen fangs against his skull until he wanted to tear out his own hair. It told him to do terrible terrible things.

It was his blood rite, who he was, who he was meant to become. He didn't know if it was The Messiah who told him to, he didn't know what it was, but it never stopped.

Kill them, kill the lowbloods, paint rainbows to honor his Lord with their filthy blood, killkillkillkill.

He couldn't sleep without them coming, the nightmares.

He couldn't eat, sickened by thoughts he couldn't stop.

The only thing that kept him going, was Meulin.

He wasn't just the Prince of Rage, he was Kurloz.

There wasn't just blood with her, there was hair caught in fingers, greasy paint coming away on another's grey skin, fluttery kisses, and something bright and warm enough to sear away the dark.

She kept him centered, a bright star in the center of a disintegrating black hole.

She was his matesprit, and being flushed for her added warm red into the darkness.

He could be content with her warmth, even if for a short while, as his world began to splinter.

But the voice became voices, they became louder and louder.

Kill. You are higher then they, it is your caste-right.

But why?

Filth runs in their veins, the world must be prepared for his arrival, it must be purged of the filth and the muck. It is your duty to eradicate all that dirties the world before the coming of the mirthful messiah.

She, with her olive-tinted blood and wide eyes, did not see his horrorterrors. She didn't know how his hands had begun to quake to take up the mirthful work. She didn't realize how he had begun to devolve.

He didn't want to, oh please messiah please, he didn't want to kill them. Oh, he didn't want to, don't make him.

But he must.

He became darker, sinister.

He heard them whisper. He had become unsettling, as he tried not to slay them. His mind became poison. They were unimportant.

Except her.

She still flushed for him, still pressed feathery kisses to his brow and smoothed back his hair away when it all became too much.

He kept her close as the world became distorted and hated.

They all were unfitting, the voices were right. Sullen and toxic, worrying the world with their unmiraculous problems. He tried to get them to convert, a final respect to the memories of his once loved friends, where had they gone? They could praise the messiah and live, avoid the angel of double death on this world and in their dreams.

They did not covert.

They would not be saved.

He existed in this middle ground, the darker prince, still finding solace in her warmth and existence in his arms.

She'd asked him why he'd become like this way, why he was fading.

He'd spoken of the messiahs, and shown her the way.

She lit his dreary path, until the messiahs saw it best to take even her from him.

He had fallen asleep with the comforting purr of her in his arms. Her scent perfuming his clothes, and her steady breath and the beat of her blood-pusher lulling him to forget what lurked behind his eyelids.

The nightmare had pooled inside his mind, filling his vision with death and despair. The messiah came and stood on a pile of bodies, their blood pooling to a river.

He kneeled before his Lord, and watched as he devoured the impure. It wasn't until he held a familiar form inside his Lord's massive hand, that horror hit the kneeling Prince.

Her normally kind eyes were a pupil-less white and staring at him, asking him why. Her thick black hair was slick with green, fanning down to hang unnaturally. Her ever-smiling lips were a line of horror, immobile.

The Messiah lifted her to his lips, which opened to reveal a cracked blackness. He bit down, as Kurloz cried out.

A single plea to accommodate a splash of olive green as the world splintered.

As his wall splintered.

As he splintered.

The world tore itself apart, and he was in the center, screaming.

Screaming and screaming, louder and louder, as he ceased to exist.

He awoke, his mouth wide, still screaming.

Wild violet eyes, he was suffocated by a scorching weight.

He pushed it away, still unseeing.

The world was still too bright, swirling colors pressing into him.

Hands gripped his, which were clasped around his ears.

Kurloz! The voice was pain-wrought, primal, filled with tears and hurt.

He had no air, he shut off. His cry died off, leaving only silence.

In which there came a drip.

A drip of olive down her face.

Meulin kneeled before him, green lines trailing down her cheeks to drip down to pound against the floor.

Thick black hair, matted with olive blood, more dripping.

She sobbed, breathing heavily, large eyes filled with green meeting his, before she dove into his chest. She hid from the world, as he shakily whispered words of comfort.

How was he to know that they fell on unknowing ears?

She didn't acknowledge him, he said her name. She didn't move. He said it over and over. Look at me, keep me whole, Meulin, MeulinMeulin, why won't you look at me? Meulin please.

He shook her, fear crippling him.

How she'd looked at him, confused, fearful.

He'd said it again and again.

Meulin please, say something. Speak. Can't you hear me? Meulin this is not funny. This isn't funny at all. Please. Oh please. Say SOMETHING.

She'd raised petite hands, ones that had caressed him, to her ears. Understanding, fear, sorrow all jumping into her eyes.

She couldn't hear him.

No

He couldn't have done this. Couldn't have hurt her. HIS MIRACULOUS MEULIN. Couldn't have done this to her.

Yet he had.

She did not hear again.

Trapped in a world of silence, that he had pushed her into.

She kept on smiling, even as she suffered.

How could he have done this?

His cursed voice, his curse, her curse.

He would never harm her again.

She had always loved his voice, and now, she would be the last to hear it.

The voices continued to whisper as he bit down again and again, filling his mouth with his own tangy blood.

They shouted as he threaded coarse black thread into the silvery blunt needle.

He deserved it, deserved pain.

For Meulin.

FOR MEULIN

They were silent as her face blanched in terror, as she reached trembling fingertips to brush the stitches that now bound his lips.

He held her, olive staining his chest, indigo pooling into her hand as his tears slipped away from him.

His blood pusher ached as he raised a hand and traced it over and over again.

So sorry. Flushed for you.

So SoRrY fLuShEd FoR yOu.

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