𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧𝐤 | Ink Bendy x Depressed! Reader

✒️SIX: The Shepherd's sorrow

Fairytales.
As a kid I always wanted to live through one. I didn't know what the hell I was asking for. As a teenager I researched the true story told in every kid's fable: Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella. They all had such tragedy in them, yet so many elements that were unbelievable. A child-eating witch with a hut of candy, a beanstalk that shot up into the sky, an enchantment that gives her the best of her life until the clock struck midnight.

That's how this experience is.
A fairytale.
I'm living through a real-life fairytale.
And like real life, it wasn't fun. It wasn't cupcakes and rainbows. It was the raw, authentic fairytale, not the one the modern world shaped, the one made by those grim authors.

My eyes shot open, my vision slowly coming back through the blur. I blinked, once, twice, groggy, then began to panic when I realized I couldn't move. I was tied to a pillar, a pillar that loomed tall, supporting the room from collapsing. In front of me, the man sat in a wooden chair, strumming at a banjo. His fingers moved naturally, as if all along he was made for this moment, playing a song, and this moment alone. Then when he noticed I was conscious again, he stood and faced me, and I finally took in his appearance.
He was a tall, lanky man, yet his build was muscular. You could tell that somewhere down here, despite the lack of food except bacon soup, he found himself protein and has been working out. Probably from jobs like this.

His entire body was covered in ink, head-to-toe. In fact, I think he's made of ink. But how can it be so, really? How can a man like him be made out of ink? What the hell was Joey doing down here? The more I ask that, the more I really want to know. What am I up against? I need to know. I need to get out of this madness, before it takes me with it.
To cover his face, the man wore a mask of Bendy's head, the black paint chipping, and ink stains all over it.

"Is this real?" I asked him, cringing at how feeble and weak I sound.
He stepped closer, touched my face. I whimpered, his hands being cold on my skin. His grip on my face tightened, "Does it feel real?" He replied.
A tear fell from one of my eyes. He caught it with his thumb, then backed away.

"Fear not, little sheep," He said in a comforting tone, but it only freaked me out more because of what was coming out of his mouth, "Death comes for all. But a death as valuable as yours is a gift. Yes, you are being given a gift, a chance of a lifetime, to be sacrificed to our Lord like this. So don't you cry."

"Who are you?" I asked, "Where am I?"
"Dear, oh dear, what many questions you have," The man seemed amused, "I am the Prophet, that's all you need to know. Once this sacrifice is done, our Lord will be pleased, and then mayhaps, he will set us all free."
In other words, he's a cult leader. That's fine. Everything's fine.

I tried to get my nerves under control, tried to find a way out of this.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Why you?" He repeated, "Why you?" A chuckle came from his lips, "Have you seen all who's down here? We have all been taken by the ink. But you, little sheep, you have not. Your blood," He grabbed an axe he had resting on another pillar. I watched in horror, as he stepped closer and closer to me with the rusty blade pointed at me.

When he came close enough, he sliced open my shoulder, cutting through the cloth of my (f/c) hoodie, "Your blood is pure."
My so-called pure blood drizzled down to the wood boards below, my cries a whimper.

The man gave me a close inspection, looking at my features, his eyes seeming to burn at my skin, which made me very uncomfortable, "You look," He paused, "Familiar..."
I carefully inspected him, then my eyes widened with realization. It was the music director. It was Sammy Lawerence.

The former cranky music director looked baffled at the look of recognition in my (e/c) eyes, but he brushed it off as banging began high above us in the vents, "Not now, for our Lord is waiting.."
He sliced my legs open as well, so I couldn't run, and concluded enough blood had been spilt to summon his Lord, walking into the other room, his footsteps pattering until finally, the sound disappeared.
I protested, trying to move my wrists in hopes I could break free from the ropes, but the pain surged through my shoulder and kept me from doing much. The same was with my legs. He's obviously had some experience with his sacrifices running before, and now, unfortunately for me, he knows what to do about it, how to weaken the opponent enough to be a willing sacrifice, and yet strong enough to be a worthy sacrifice.