Chapter Text
This story will contain dark themes, that may or may not make you feel uncomfortable. Just because I write stories that involve dark themes doesn't mean that I support the actions of the character(s) committing them. I'm very sorry for the mistakes I missed. I will fix them later.
I hope you all enjoy.
In its commencement, it had been determined to be nothing more than an intruding thought. A taint within his avowedly impeccable vessel. Of ribbons of flowing silver. Of lustrous porcelain, that merit a field of awe-struck and misty eyes. Of an anatomy that was often embraced by well-constructed armor.
An unforeseen deformity had infringed upon what had been thoughtfully woven.
With a brief acknowledgement and momentary acceptance. He encapsulated everything up to a droplet of ill fortune. One that had managed to invade the currents of causality. He surmised, with unparallel indifference, that this is what he was now reaping. For befouling that child within Casca's womb. Guts' child. An entity that he knew was there but willingly turned a blind eye to. Didn't take it into consideration, until many grains of time had slipped between his fingers. It was never a thread meant to be woven into the grand tapestry of predestination.
Considering everything. He hollowly assumed that it would just simply perish. Whether within the confines of Casca's flesh or moments after its birth. Yet, it survived despite the circumstances. Its body the polar opposite of his vessel. Burdened with hideous masses of flesh and irregular extremities. Unsettling and poorly received.
It had a conscious. A heart of the metaphysical kind. Compassion that was able to burgeon into something far stronger than instinct and cruel intention. A strong sense of duty towards its parents. For it knew them. Mourned alongside them. Wept for those it will never have the opportunity to meet. And it had loved them to an unfathomable degree. A mother reduced to a babbling wanderer. Completely infantile in every aspect of her being. A father reduced to a snarling beast of a man. Who viewed it as a threat. A damnable monster. One who deserves every violation imaginable. No different from the one who had willingly sacrificed everyone. Forced them to endure deaths, so indescribable, it would drive a wise man insane. The one who shattered Casca.
Yet, it never turned its face away from them. It protected Casca and redirected the aim of Guts' sword. All because it loved them. And when its enervated and shriveled form was taken, with care and compassion, by that apostle. Its yearnings and sentiments towards its parents were emitted and effortlessly entwined into the foundation of his body. Blessing budded and charred wicks, that were abandoned long ago, with petals of flames.
Those yearnings and sentiments had taken up an ultra-fine existence within himself. Within the confines of his chest, hidden behind sublime armor and garments, it had initially manifested as a tenuous heartbeat. Short lived and faint. Yet, it had successfully discomposed him by contradicting every single minuscule filament of his being. His declarations of freedom.
When he wordlessly watched Zodd and Guts' battle developed into something more savage. And once again when his thoughts settled onto when he safeguarded Casca from the falling boulders.
He felt nothing towards either one of them. Since the very moment he had started to sink into the seemingly endless void, whatever sentiment he once held, had vanished. Each fallen hawk, with bulging eyes of fading awareness and faces adorn with unraveling ribbons of crimson. Were no more than a feather. No longer beneficial to him. Unable to carry him to his dream. And they were no longer willing to stay with him. Old and damaged. And like any other bird, he merely molted them from himself. Rejuvenating his mind to a pellucid state, and upon seeing his former comrades. Those who survived and unwillingly carry the weight of the ramifications of his decision. Remorse didn't enter his mind when he saw their afflictions. Of a broken mind. Of a missing limb and eye.
And for this reason. For a time. He was able to pacify himself with a convincing excuse. A logical one. Not govern by impulsiveness. The heartbeat had been merely the result of that infant. Rejuvenated by their parent's presence. However, his observations had been skewed, by his unwillingness to accept ownership of that oddity. And that murkiness within his mind remained unaddressed until he had to face it.
The realization didn't really sink in until their brief and uneventful reunion. When he was sitting imposingly on the back of his alabaster steed, embellished by avian barding and a pristine caparison. A breeze strolls through and sweeps its delicate fingers through his silvery and beguiling hair. The target of his scrutiny was being tended to by his companions. That jarring little group of his. An amalgam of social classes and entities. The waves rock their rowboat softly, coaxing the heavily exhausted swordsman towards a slumber. Before he submitted to it. That lonely eye of his eventually found him, lingering on him for as long as his wavering consciousness would allow, before slithering away.
It only lasted for a moment. Quicker than one can blink. An outwardly insignificant event. But it resurfaced within his mind a dozen times. Guts had practically abandoned everything he still had to call precious, to chase him. Yes, it was a fruitless endeavor. But it was his burning ambition. A dream to call his own. And every encounter they've had. He had always been the aggressor. His hands going towards his weapon out of pure instinct. His gaze set ablaze by unearthly hatred and animalistic bloodlust, as his teeth lay exposed to the world. Seeking to tear his shiny gorget into shrapnel and rip open the smooth flesh of his neck.
He had expected Guts to overturn the boat. For his blood to become completely saturated with rage. To witness the chaos and panic his efforts would unleash among his group. His voice raw and almost inhuman as he bellows his name. In his mind, Guts would have attempted to reach him with his sword. But in reality, he merely stared back at him.
The exhaustion and the early stages of his diminishing senses weren't responsible.
He had witnessed Guts' beaten down before. Bloodied and barely able to keep himself upright. However, he managed to close the distance between them. Blood cascaded down his nape, as his brand wept unapologetically. The throbbing ache, it had produced, gnawed at his senses. Yet, he was able to wrestle against the currents of mind-numbing agony and tried to cut him down.
His gaze had radiated that beckoning alloy of scorching loathing and repugnance. At that time, involving that slug apostle and once again at the hill of swords. That alloy, that he came to treasure, wasn't there. It has vanished without a trace and was replaced by a common rock. Guts had simply just acknowledged his presence. Something had changed between them. Like a shift in the salty breeze. For he was no longer Guts' focus. His motivation to live.
He was leaving.
Once again, he was leaving him.
He assumed that this could happen. He also assumed that a lot of other possibilities could happen as well. The lack of complete clarity of the future was a burden. Seeing such an unfavorable outcome unfold in front of his very eyes, had summoned something unpleasant to his mind. Echoing deafeningly within his skull.
" Take care,"
He shouldn't be acknowledging such things. He should no longer be chained to emotions and attachments. Especially to those that had once chained him to Guts. But here he is. Drowning under a past misery, while battling with future uncertainties.
Lashes meet softly, as the pair of sublime eyes are completely veiled from the world. He banished those two words to the hungry shadows of his mind. He speedily scolds and reminds himself why he's here. Reorganizing his mind towards his goal and the current tasks at hand.
Guts had, before he realized it, became infused with his dream. To the degree that he couldn't picture its success and glory without him. Couldn't continue on without him. It seemed impossible to him. The very foundation of it, when he left, had decayed and crumbled away beneath his unsteady feet. Sending him down an endless spiral. Desperation robbed him of his cognizance.
Now, Guts and his approaching kingdom were two separate things. Now, Guts was nothing more than a sacrifice. No longer a need to him. A struggler. Only trying to fix and maintain what little he has left.
And his dream is greater than that, and his kingdom will be greater than Guts.
Existence is plagued with many inevitabilities. A fire will eventually emit frolicking embers. Trees will shed their leaves as winter approaches. Death always results in greedy maggots. And since the moment that infant had been fused into his vessel. His reforge attachment to Guts had been inevitable. Even now, as he reaches another threshold towards his goal, his focus wavers. He should have known better. Prepared himself for it. Afterall, if the apostles are able to reforge and gain new attachments. If his very kinsmen have their own affixes towards things. Then, it was foolish for him to have thought that he would be spared from such things.
Guts returns from the obscure bowels of his mind, as he effortlessly invades the Kushan Emperor's mobile palace. Unruffled by the various statues that welcomed each soldier, servant, or prisoner that entered. His movements precise and fluid. Each thrust of his blade was invisible to the human eye. The emperor's guards collapse to the ground, like forgotten broken dolls, as he advances towards him.
Guts' vessel falls away from him, but remains nearby, as he brought up his hand. The emperor could only watch, completely enthralled by the flawlessness of his body, as he brought up his visor. His lustrous and alluring pupils, arouses a degree of pure reverence within the sweating apostle. One that nearly derailed the emperor's resolve and herded his mind into a spell of intense mania.
The emperor's confirmations drifted easily into his ears as he closes the distance between them. His cape flapping behind as the defiant apostle begins to tremble. His sublime armor chirps and rattles along with each unhurried step.
' I'm trembling,' the Kushan Emperor's mind rattled in alarm and dismay, before it mutates into pure disbelief,' I, the ruler of the greatest empire of the world, is trembling?'
" That's instinct," his immaculate voice leaves his smooth lips, and finally grants the emperor's ears the honor of hearing it. Rich and luxurious, it effortlessly devalues both gold and precious jewels.
" The instinct of one whose veins flows the blood of the demon realm," he continues. Not missing the unraveling horror within the apostle's gaze.
A quavery exhale left the conflicted apostle, before its quickly followed by a shameful gulp. He lets himself be silent, while Ganishka deconstructs his voice and presence. Comforting and refreshing. He's truly an oddity to this world. To those ignorant and desperate sheep of his. He makes everything sufficient but nurtures hunger and thirst. The sensation of it all, to the apostle who had fought so long to resist his nature, was completely maddening. Wisps of mist escapes his abominable jaws as his frustrations grows.
" You seem to suffer," he emitted mellowly, and gained a fresh wave of disbelief and terror from the apostle, before wordlessly lifting up his hand again.
A horrible mixture of fright and desperation oozes from the emperor, as he merely extends his hand out towards him. Those fears. The heart aching understanding of the price, the simple and unhostile touch, will demand. That everything he had savagely fought to gain. Those years of escaping death and being the bringer of it. The seemingly endless days of mistrust and self-isolation. It will be all for nothing. His hand will force him to heel. The vanishing distance and the approaching doom that was his hand. It summons something, not only to the apostle, but to himself. He understands that bone aching and mind-numbing terror and desperation all too well.
A storm of swirling ribbons of mist consumes Ganishka's body. He's not escaping his subjugation but unknowingly prolonging it in his error to maintain control. Now he towers over them all. His tantrum on full display. The act of defiance and disrespect earns a growl of displeasure from Zodd. One he doesn't miss. An echoing step follows, and within a second, that same hand is brought up again. The wordless command immediately calms Zodd and those within his squad down.
" I am the Kushan emperor," the enraged apostle shouts," The supreme ruler and devastator of the world. I am he who takes. Never he who is taken from. I am the indestructible Demon King!"
He stood in all his immaculate glory, his expression not giving any indicators of how he feels towards the fit of temper and displeasure.
" Even if you be the Hawk. To expose yourself, unaided before me, is the height of folly. Now burn and regret this!"
The Kushan emperor's form, warps and flickers around like an unkempt flame, as his declarations and promises rush into the air," I won't kill you. But once you're too numb to move. I'll take you as my captive and I'll sully that beauty of yours,"
The edict of future torment doesn't summon any reactions of dread or terror. Only a vacant acknowledgment. Instead of addressing the empty threats, he comments on something else.
" The air in here seems a bit stagnant for a birdcage," he expresses with an air of indifference.
His words are quickly followed by the boisterous cries of cracking stone and splitting wood. A continuous rumbling is paired up with the increase shaking of the mobile palace. The fury that had been woven deeply into the emperor's features melts away. Replace with confusion and shock, while a rain of destruction greets him. An echoing thud travels throughout the space, as grunge and rubble soils the floor.
The air cleans itself of the impurities, and multiple armored figures are made clear. Their bodies unnaturally large and ill-proportioned, as they hoist up the still intact roof. All the while, he stands tall and potent, despite the height difference between them. Wordlessly observing and patiently waiting.
The roof of the mobile palace is unceremoniously tossed to the side, stirring up the Kushan soldiers, like a hornet's nest. Their collective horror and confusion thick in the air.
Emperor Ganishka, after recovering from his shock, finally finds his voice. His gaze falling back onto him.
" What are you up to?" was all he was able to summon from his tongue, as he failed to rein in his perplexment towards the turn of events.
He didn't provide Ganishka with any form of explanation, and simply expresses an observation," I smell the salt of the sea,"
The breeze mutates into an unforgiving gale. It swipes and claws at Ganishka's form, threatening to tear it apart. To reduce him into nothing. Into something far more inferior than what he is.
He is unmoved by the emperor's surfacing panic and dread, as his body distorts. Panic shapeshifts into self-loathing, as the strength within the Kushan emperor's knees withers. The last of the threads of mist detach from his human form, and he collapses onto the floor. His gaze rises and halts upon seeing a pair of gleaming greaves. After a moment, the shaking apostle regains some degree of composure and fully takes in the towering and radiating magnificence of his master.
There. Right as he had reached that necessary page in this chapter. When he had unleashed a storm of thrashing loathing and despair within the great emperor's mind. That was when the image of the black swordsman returns to him, almost merging with the sight of the panting apostle. Instead of a mixture of well-crafted exhaustion and dismay towards one's own weaknesses. There's that nacreous alloy of smoldering hostility and poison.
What they once had. What they once were. It was now all ashes. Scattered in the wind. Always just barely within reach but forever intangible. Guts will never hold that glint of admiration and inherit yearning that both the reformed Band of the Hawk and the apostles held towards him. Guts will never willingly seek the confines of his presence. His destruction is what Guts wants.
No. That wasn't entirely true now. In the past it would have been. But not now. He is no longer chasing after him like he had before. Like a mindless blood hound.
No. Casca is his sun. The fire that keeps his resolve from freezing and shattering into pieces. His reason for living. To witness her mind be put back together. To stay by her side. To help her overcome those deep scars. To comfort her. To rebuild and strengthen her walls. To live as her sword and shield.
That's right.
Another inevitability of their futures. When Casca is healed. Able to take care of herself. Will Guts ever return his gaze to him? Will his sword ever seek his life? Could he even be tempted? To fully abandoned his humanity in order to obtain what he has bled for. Endured countless sleepless nights for. What he's losing his senses for. He couldn't see the future, but he had a slight idea on what choice Guts will make.
And he couldn't stand it. And he couldn't comprehend why he felt such a way. Why does he both yearn for his destine kingdom and desire Guts? Why desire a weakness? The source of his madness and torment. The cause of his fall.
Jealousy and uncertainty swirls towards him. Forming a deep and uncomfortable pit within him. One that nearly derails his thoughts and shifts his mind even further from what's occurring before him. Right. He shouldn't be focusing on Guts, nor should he be concerned about the possibilities involving him. There were steps he needs to take before then. Before he could fully set his attention back onto Guts.
Ganishka's disbelief and observations reach him.
" Why don't you withdraw...Great Emperor," he advises unassumingly.
The gap of the emperor's mouth widens upon hearing his smooth words. His indecisiveness evident on his face.
" If you change your body into mist again. Our swords won't reach you. Taking you captive won't be feasible," He cataloged the emperor's advantages, before destroying what little confidence his words had sprouted within the apostle," But in the midst of this wind. You can't wield your power without the risk of your form scattering. And if you were to vanish from this place. You will never regain control of this huge army. The attempt will only invite useless confusion,"
" I think this is a stalemate for us both. So why not make the royal capital our battle ground?" He suggests.
The suggestion relights the apostle's strength and willingness to press forward, and he brings himself up to stand on his trembling legs.
" Very well...," the emperor agrees, his voice rough and unsteady," Our showdown will be in my demon city. And I shall meet the flight of the Hawk with the most wicked battle line ever,"
That declaration sealed his fate, and without another glance or word. He pulls his gaze away from the apostle's figure and he wordlessly motions for his soldiers to withdraw from what remains of the mobile palace.
It had unfolded just as he had suspected, when Ganishka had transmuted into an off-putting entity. Composed of writhing faces of squirming branches and slithering vines. His ability to ponder possible consequences and learn from blunders was taken from him due to his desperation.
After two failed opportunities. An apostle had finally been twice reincarnated. And now the other essential component had arrived, his unsightly sword having provided him the optimal path. As usual, he was on the back of his valiant steed. The light creeps on the segments of his horse's skeletal barding, as the harsh and rapid clopping of its hooves echos off of the various walls of the living chamber.
Mere seconds after the weapon is posed, faster than Zodd could spring into action, the enemy of the inhuman had slashed at him from behind. The attack traveling across his back, and he could sense the anticipation and premature triumph that arose within the Knight of skeleton, as he waited for the vortex to awaken.
To watch him, the fifth member of the Godhand, be dragged and forever confined within that never-ending current of condemned souls. Of conglomerate identities and merged appendages.
Odd. For an enemy, such as him, to be blind to so many things.
Now cradle gingerly within his hand, was the slash meant to seal him away. Swaying and twisting around, like fabric in the breeze. He doesn't acknowledge Zodd's retaliation, nor does he seek to observe the shock within the Knight's posture.
Everything around him had faded away. Ganishka's face. His features slack. His eyes close with acceptance, and his cheeks stain with tears. Everything devolves into a blur, as a single talon prods at the flowing string.
He should be providing his enemy with an explanation. A verbal preview of what he had unwillingly contributed to. To redirect the slash of space and time towards the weeping apostle beneath him. But his movements came to a halt, and that scarred nose visits him. Right as the moment had arrived for him to bring forth that great roar.
" I won't betray my dream. That's all it is,"
He had sacrificed everyone to gain another opportunity to reach that alluring ivory castle in the distance. That seemingly endless cobblestone path unwinding beneath him. Beckoning him to continue. Without any weaknesses to hold him down. Without any regrets he can denied by justifying them. His kingdom waits eagerly.
But now he hesitates, and Guts is the root cause of it all. Once again, despite his best efforts, Guts had overlapped his dream. He resisted. He brought forth many excuses and distractions, but all had failed him. His kingdom and Guts can't coexist without one crushing the other. He can't have both. At least not now, with how everything has unfolded. And if he were to pluck Guts' fire from him. Who's to say he won't simply fall into an unforgiving cavern of despair.
Unfortunate. Once again, he had underestimated Gut's worth. The impact he effortlessly has on him. Never fully treasuring him until he's gone. There is no arrangement of chess pieces to bring Guts to heel. Nothing to convert him into a blind white sheep or into a cursed black sheep. He feels a tug at his attention. And his gaze falls back onto the ribbon in his hand.
At this moment, he holds absolute authority over everything. The power to bring forth anything he desires. And he wouldn't be scolded nor shamed for whatever he chooses. He was given the reins of his own destiny. His will changing existence.
A light. Pure and welcoming. It floods his vision. The key in his hand hears and grants his unspeaking wish. He's enveloped by it, shielded from the Knight's second attack, before being taken away.
Despite how humid it is. A blood chilling shiver managed to overwhelm his body. Beneath the blanket, he squirms around like a unearth worm on a hot day. His sweat causes everything to cling onto his exhausted but restless body, as he once again turns onto his side. He couldn't provide himself with a logical reason on why he felt so unease tonight. He received a coin, two smiles, and words of encouragement from Gambino. He should feel satisfied. Excited for tomorrow. No. For the approaching days ahead of him. There was a promising light that rain down onto his relationship with Gambino. Warm and pleasant, like the first kisses of daylight. It comforts him.
Will Gambino ever approve of him? Accept him as a son and not only as a soldier. Will that deep and vast moat between them ever vanish?
His figure continues to quiver. His thoughts towards Gambino serving as the firewood for it, as he brings his limbs inwards to hug himself.
' No,' his mind murmured shakenly, before settling his anxious soaked gaze onto his belongings,' He can't be why...,'
Beyond the walls of his tent, a melody of crushing grass reaches his ears, and he assumes that one of his comrades was wandering around drunk.
It wouldn't be reasonable to put the blame on Gambino, when this trembling is a reoccurrence. Always around the same time. During these sultry nights. Alone within the thick shadows of his tent.
His thoughts were interrupted, by a pillar of moonlight that manifested before his very eyes. His eyes widen as that radiating light stretches, and he prompts himself up. He rapidly blinked away the lingering dread and exhaustion from his eyes, before resting his squinting eyes onto the colossal and muscular silhouette.
" Who's there," he inquires, successfully managing to keep his uneasiness from slipping into his voice, while the opening of his tent widens.
The shadowy figure's face was still hidden, but he could make out parts of his armor. The figure finally enters, and some of the features of his face clears up.
" Donovan...," he mumbles, his voice a mixture of confusion and oddly trepidation.
His thoughts derails and his heart painfully skips a beat when his eyes take in the horrible sharp curves of Donovan's lips. The glint within his sole functioning eye, served as an omen, that made his body shiver. To him it felt like the parts of his figure, the ones Donovan's eye can confine, were being peeled back layer by layer. He felt exposed and vulnerable despite his sword resting within arm's length from him.
The silence only adds to the growing since of dread within his stomach. The horrible feeling develops a bitter taste on his tongue and makes his stomach twist. Before he could demand for answers. The large man steps forward wordlessly. His body picks up on the foul intention and screams at him. He immediately scrabbles in a mad panic to his sword. His shaking hand just barely wrapping around the hilt.
Horror storms his mind, when the hilt slips from his hand, as the world around him shifts sharply. Large hands, twitching with anticipation and heavily burden with rough looking callouses, pins him firmly to the ground. His blanket now entangled between his squirming legs as he sharply inhales the perfume of dirt and grass. The sound of his still sheath sword collapsing onto the earth, rattles around in his mind. It was there. But he couldn't move. Couldn't regain control over his arms, before their manipulated against his will.
One of the hands jumps away from his arms and snaps down sharply onto his head. He manages to turn his neck, and stares at the man looming above him. His face resembling something a deranged rutting beast would own, and not of one that belongs to a man. A man that could be reason with.
"...what-,"
His words were immediately slain by a strip of fabric.
" Quit struggling," his fellow mercenary orders without any consideration towards the wounds he will cause," I ain't here ta eat ya. C'mon relax and it'll be over soon,"
Donovan's advice doesn't calm his racing heart. It does the complete opposite, especially when the side of his face is press deeper into the sheet beneath him. The chuckle that reaches his ears made his chest ache.
" Happens all the time in armies," Donovan informed him, before grinning victoriously, while his eye burns with desire.
His teeth threaten to shatter, as he bit down onto the fabric in his mouth. Never! He didn't care that it happens in this unforgiving world. Because it would never happen here. Gambino would never allow such a thing to happen. No! If Gambino were to walk in and witness what Donovan was about to do. There's no way he would let that happen. He would kill him without any hesitation. He won't let Donovan have his way.
Never!
His elbow slams into the sick bastard's jaw, and spit corrupted by some crimson, trickles down his chin. The hands leave his body, but he doesn't give the mercenary any time to recover. His feet bury themselves deep into Donovan's stomach. A groan greets his ears as he twists his small body away. His eyes locking onto his waiting sword. With bared teeth, he stretches out his hands, while his fingers tremble.
A sharp and unforgiving kick is delivered to his stomach. Throwing him off his course and sending him towards the nearby chest. Colliding with it releases a broken shout from him. He let out a raspy gasp as his body lowers to the ground. His rump cries out in agony upon impact.
" Damn kid," Donovan mumbled while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before spitting at the ground,"...fights like a wildcat,"
Donovan's hand formed a tight collar around his neck, before bringing him up. He kicks out his legs franticly and fruitlessly, as he claws at the hand.
" Enough o'yer wrigglin. I paid Gambino good money,"
His struggling. Those curses that were waiting heavily on his tongue. His will to fight. To kill. All come crashing down. Reduce to sand and never to be reconstructed into anything ever again. His shock. The heart-rending disbelief, that had halted the winding spool of survival within his head, was his downfall. Draining him of all his energy. His back is slammed harshly into the earth, before he's easily overpowered.
" I bought you for the night. Paid Gambino three silver coins," he enlightens jeeringly.
Those words, thick with glee and lust, were just as deadly as a stab. Each word made it even harder for him to breathe. To think. To resist. He couldn't move. Couldn't think as his ability to speak was cruelly robbed from him.
" Gambino sold yer ass out!"
His arms were pulled back, causing twinges to develop within their sockets. A shiver overwhelms his spine as Donovan positions himself behind him.
' No,' a frail voice meekly challenges from the depths of his mind.
His tears mutate his tent into a blurry mass of warping colors and shapes. Of thickening shadows, that threaten to swallow him whole, when he feels it.
That's a lie! Those words of pure despair never cease. They swell and threaten to diminish his thoughts into something that is frighteningly vacant, as the invasion of his dignity and innocence begins. His toes unfurl and create trenches in the earth. His nostrils flare and shrink along with each greedy inhale. Tears blossoming from a place of humiliation and despair. Donovan was sinking into him, unbothered by his fleeting kicks and strangle sobs of anguish.
Donovan's revolting groan oozes into his ears, and bile rises up to the back of his throat. Another laugh greets his ears, and he could only assume with an aching heart, that the pain will only worsen from here.
He squeezes his eyes tightly, trying to banish his stinging tears, when he feels his assaulter begin to withdraw with deliberate slowness.
For a second, he thinks the agony had driven him to madness. That his ears are starting to hear things that weren't really there. That reoccurring chime of spurs was only in his head. The clanging of metal wasn't there. The rustling of the tent's entrance was merely him hoping that someone will help him. There was no one. He was alone in this suffering. That is his reality. A painful fact. The only true thing about tonight is that no one was coming.
There's a shushing that fills the air around him. Not produce by human lips, but of dragging steel. But he convinces himself that nothing is there, even though Donovan stalls above him.
But then he sees it. Another silhouette. One that looms beside the abomination, that his and Donovan's merged shadows, had created. His mouth flexes as a name slides down his tongue. It would have flown from him if it hadn't been for the gag.
A grisly gurgling showered him, before those hands peel themselves away from his person. That horrible weight is lifted from him, but he remains frozen. His ears seize the wet gasps and feral groans, that interrupted every single attempt Donovan made to speak. Every sound heavily distorted. Threats? Begs? He really had no clue what the man was trying to say. He had no desire to find out.
He turns his head, and that's when he witnesses it. A sight he never would have expected to see. Donovan, a giant in his own right, looking so frail and trivial. He had scurried away from him, leaving behind an uncoiling bandage of glaring red. The wall nearby was now ruined by a chaotic scattering of deform crimson petals. His movements had gone completely frenetic. Items had been tossed around, toppled, and crushed in his wretched search for anything to stop the bleeding. His large hands leaving behind smudges of red on everything. Corrupting all he owns.
All that time, his neck continues to drool and violently spit out blood, while he eventually falls onto his knees. Swaying from side to side, while his crimson fingers swing at nothing. That terror-soaked eye lingers on him during his final moments. A loud thud, paired with an unpleasant wet sound, echos throughout the tent.
The stillness that followed is frightening. His eyes remain locked onto the flaccid and horribly bloodied body. Unwilling to turn away. Unwilling to uncurl himself from the mortifying and exposing orientation he had been forcefully bent and twisted into. A position that the one, who murdered Donovan with cold precision, can see. His violation on full display.
After a moment, he parts his dry lips. The fabric falls from his mouth and comes to rest beneath his chin. The sheet beneath him shifts, while he finally readjusts himself. Bringing his legs inwards and resting onto his sore shins. His eyes briefly acknowledging his sword, while he straightens up his back. However, he still refuses to show the person his face.
Friend or foe? He didn't know what category they fell into. They're a stranger. He knew that much since his name wasn't being shouted with alarm and concern. He killed Donovan, who was technically an ally to Gambino and by extension him, but he was also his assaulter. To Gambino and the others. This stranger would be a foe but to him...
A Friend.
His thoughts travel into a dark and frightening territory. A question scalds him. Almost sending him into a frenzy. Why? To befoul him even further? His throat tightens as sweat trinkles down his shivering form. Some of which, mingles with the splatters of blood, that had landed onto his back earlier. He begins to turn away from Donovan's corpse.
This stranger. Terrifies him far more than Donovan had, and he couldn't articulate to himself why. Everything about this...man, is a contradictory to everything he's ever witnessed in his life. Compared to them, this man towering over him, was beyond immaculate. It was as if he had once been a fearfully carved statue. One that had gained a conscious.
Each section of his armor, from his helmet down to his poleyns, is adorn with a feather motif. It possesses an opaline gleam and holds no impurities. No dents nor abrasions. Despite the amount of blood, that had gashed from Donovan's fatal wound, none of it had sullied him. Even his blade was spotless. But that couldn't really be possible.
His breath wavers in his throat, when his eyes reach the man's face. The man's visor was up, allowing all of his pristine and delicate features to overwhelm him all at once. Tidy swirls of silver hair, serve as a barrier between his face and the helmet. His plump and sleek lips remain frozen in place. However, what made his heart want to bury itself in his stomach, was his eyes. They're unnaturally translucent and only own a slight tinge of blue. But all that was there, within his gaze was inexpressible. Some might say empty. It wasn't blistering nor was it chilling.
Just surveying him silently, with an uncomfortable level of acknowledgement, that he couldn't describe. Maybe his eyes were trying to trick him, but for a brief second, he thought he had managed to decipher bewilderment within those blue orbs.
He forced himself to recover from both his shock and fright towards the man. His eyes hasten away from the pure vessel. What was he doing? No thinking? This man....
He gets to his feet and ignores the unpleasant wetness that unravels down his body, as he hastily takes hold of his sword. He needs to alert everyone! Swallowing down both his uneasiness and dread, he bolts past the stranger, nearly tripping over one of the items Donovan had thrown earlier. Shockingly and terrifyingly, the man made no effort to stop him. Only watching him silently, as he flees from the tent.
" Help! Enemy raid!" His voice, irregular and quivering, echos hauntingly throughout the stationary camp site.
Like a rock thrown at a hive. His voice, completely saturated with distress and lingering fright, effortlessly stirs up everyone. Tents begin to glow, warmly and invitingly within the thick darkness of the night. Beckoning gingerly at him, as a twisted amalgam of voices overwhelmed the silence.
His allies, those who he had known throughout his whole life, pour out of their tents. Weapons drawn. Their eyes hastily scanned around for threats. Rough facial hair. Heavily scarred skin. Torn clothes. Impure armor. He takes comfort from the familiarity of it all. His shoulders went slack, as his heart finally slows, when multiple pairs of eyes locate him.
Undress and disheveled. His cheeks stained from dry tears. The eye-catching blood that clings onto his person.
" Guts," his name left the mouths of his comrades in various tones and were delivered to his ears unpleasantly," What happened?"
" Where's the enemy?"
" Why are you...?"
" Guts?"
" Guts!"
He swallowed before quickly gesturing towards his tent without taking his eyes off of his comrades," A man? He attacked and killed Donovan. He...,"
His voice dies on his tongue, when another figure emerges from the shifting crowd. Sword in hand. His eyes regarding him with various emotions that he couldn't name. Or more rather ones that he refused to name. Because that would lead to accountability.
" Gambino....," he emits meekly.
A shiver caresses his spine when the swishing of his tent reaches his ears. A mixture of dread, and uncertainty arose in the eyes of his comrades, as they focus onto the figure behind him. Uncharacteristically and eerily, tears surface within a few of the men's eyes. Their shoulders shake. But no words were summoned. Just shaky breaths and short-lived sobs.
He doesn't turn around. He refuses to. He stands there, serving as an unwilling gate between the two parties, while everyone is showered with a confident footfall. One that's paired with the rattling of metal. He doesn't attack nor does he flee. He simply remains still even as the weight of the presence, that's approaching him from behind, threatens to crush him.
A silver gauntlet chirped near his ear, as a hand is lowered, before gingerly being place onto his shoulder. All he could do is shiver and stare at Gambino. His heartbeat drowns out everything, as another hand enters his line of sight. Holding a clean and unnervingly welcoming cape loosely between two fingers. Intending to cage him in. Everything shatters. His body burns from the contact. With a loud and quivering yelp of terror. He escapes through the narrowing opening. Practically throwing himself away from the man. His breathing quick and unorganized. His blade cries out as it's freed. His eyes lock onto the man.
It's not until those eyes leave his figure, that the pressure on his chest falters. The hand, that had once been on his shoulder, returns gracefully to its owner's side. It's quickly swaddle in white. The pristine and once imposing cape seems to shrink.
Tears falter and blades were immediately aim at the man. Accusations and curses were hurl along with graphic threats. But none earn a reaction.
" Who among you answers to the name Gambino?"
That voice. It was the breeze on an unforgivingly hot day. That first sip of water after an exhausting and draining hike. The burst of energy when swords clash violently against one another. The cries of a battlefield. He was all these things but so much more. He's both soothing and terrifying. He was something beyond fighting for survival, money, and women. Something one desires but can't have.
Everyone's gazes hurried over to Gambino's figure. He wasn't sure if they were waiting for orders or just wanted to see his reaction to this unsettling yet comforting man.
Gambino takes a step forward," You caused a lot of trouble. All just to find me, huh?"
" Guts' right" a voice cries out, and multiple heads turn to acknowledge the man who had been brave enough to peek inside Guts' tent," He killed him. That bastard killed Donovan!"
" Let's string him up then," another voice shouted before others join in. Emitting shouts of agreement.
" Shut up!" Gambino orders harshly.
He can taste the confusion in the air, as his father figure takes another step forward," You killed one of my comrades. A good one. Your reason?"
" The boy," the attention collectively falls onto him, and he hates it," I've seen him fight. I wish to take him under my wing. Name your price and I'll double it,"
" You came to that decision after seeing the boy's first battle," Gambino asks as he rose a brow with skepticism," The boy was almost killed. No. I know your kind. This is about something else huh?" he challenges.
His heart drops to his stomach, while his breathing quickens.
" Paid Gambino three silver coins,"
"Gambino sold yer ass out!"
No!
His eyes plead with Gambino, a thousand times within a single aching heartbeat, as he steps forward. Please! He wants to scream. Donovan is a liar. That man is a liar. Prove that to him. Kill this man.
" My kind. I'm afraid you're mistaken. My offer comes from a place of care. After all, you handed him over so willingly before," he proclaims, his voice soft like velvet, as he scrutinizes Gambino with hollow eyes.
His lips quivers in distress as Gambino's eyes widen with fright, while many faces are directed at him. Disgust and horror deeply woven into them.
" I...,"
" Three silver coins. That was the price you settled with Donovan, correct?"
Various voices arose from the crowd, none of which belong to him. His mouth refuse to function. His tongue remains still no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't challenge the silver haired man's words. He couldn't defend Gambino. No. His heart is drowning. Held down by despair and bone chilling grief. He didn't realize he was crying again until he felt tears trickle down his cheeks and gather at his chin.
" Gambino...?"
" Sir, I thought that wasn't...,"
" He's lying right?"
" Boss!"
" Sir!"
" You didn't sell Guts, right?"
" You raised the boy like he's your own! And you did that to him?"
" Why?"
Gambino. Well...something snapped within him as the other's confusion, hostility, and disgust were unleash upon him all at once. Like a charging cavalry. Each question. Each demand. Cuts deeply and what bled out from those wounds wasn't regret. It certainly wasn't sorrow. But a sense of poison that's directed at him. A hatred he couldn't understand.
" Why?" Gambino repeats roughly and unsteadily, his voice saturated with rancor, while his form shifts from side to side briefly," Why!? None of you are stupid. You all know why!"
He subconsciously takes a step back. Gambino's gaze could rival a sword's blade. It felt as though he would go blind just by simply meeting it. The sword that he thought would be used to protect him, was now being pointed at him.
" That boy...," the voice belonging to his father figure, morphs into a low growl, as the sword in his hand trembles, "He's a curse. A bad omen! Nothing good has ever came from him,"
" Gam-,"
" You!" the sword rattles with wroth," I allowed you to stay with us. You! Nothing more than a weak and shriveled up thing beneath of tree of hanging corpses!"
Stop it...
" I foolishly thought you would just die and that would be it. The end of it. But instead Shisu died in your place. You cursed her," Gambino's voice echos off into the night, each time reinforcing his pure hatred.
I didn't...
He goes to move his arm. To reach out towards Gambino. But he freezes. Out of his peripheral vision, be it blurry from his tears, he can make out the sudden differences in the odd man. Seemingly encroaching in on him. He moves his feet, refusing to show either one of them his back, as he backs away from both of them. However, after the fifth step, his back immediately collides into one of his comrades. He doesn't turn to see who. Especially when Gambino quickly undid all of his work.
"You took her away from me! Then you follow me around like some lost dog! I was sick of it!"
"...Gambino,"
Weak. Threatening to break. Unrecognizable. All these things make his stomach twist into a knot. He has never heard his voice completely hollowed out like this before. A husk.
" Shut up," Gambino's voice is sharp and thunderous in his ears," You're a devil's child, Guts. Nothing but bad luck,"
His sight fully settles onto Gambino, while he now looms over him. His features twisting while his gaze burns with a horrific hostility.
" You should have died," The blade is now risen into the air, demanding his life, as a grin surfaces onto Gambino's lips," On that horrible day. Eight years ago. When you were laying beneath your mother's corpse. You should have died," he roars.
His legs move on their own. Driven only by the purpose to keep him alive. Even though his mind hasn't fully processed Gambino's onslaught. That attack! Once his mind finally catches up with his legs. He quickly realizes that if he didn't move out of the way. He wouldn't be alive to stare back at Gambino in unalloyed horror and dismay. His head would be at his feet. His countenance of terror permanent.
The lily-white cape rouses, similar to how a bird stretches and tucks in their wings, and his comrades rush Gambino. Shouting his name as they attempted to disarm and reason with him. During the burgeoning chaos, he's knocked down to the ground. Gambino wildly swings his sword around. Brutally blinding one man while detaching the hand of another. All while his eyes frantically searched for him.
He needs to go. Gambino won't listen. At least not now. He'll leave and wait somewhere quiet. Someone will come and get him when Gambino calms down. He'll listen. He has to listen. And after, they can get to the bottom of everything. He wasn't cursed. He wasn't an omen to Gambino. He's not a devil's child. He...
He gets onto his hands and knees, while adjusting his grip on his sword's hilt. Shouts and screams rain down from above, as feet shift and stump about. The struggle rattles him. Deep down to his very nerves.
His head turns, and his gaze unintentionally locks onto lustrous silver. Unbothered by the chaos that had unfolded because of his presence. His embracing yet shiver inducing voice. His simple yet all-encompassing gaze. How infuriating. How confusing. How terrifying.
A never-ending horror. Growing a new layer of skin, with each second that had passed him by. That odd man was facing him. That realization settles down painfully inside his stomach. He couldn't see any other part of that man. And he knows he's hidden well within the forest of bodies. Yet, he could feel his gaze on him. Digging through armor, clothes, and flesh. Tearing his fearful eyes elsewhere, an ear-piercing scream collides with a shout. An uncomfortable silence follows. He kneels there frozen, only able to watch with widening eyes, as a body lands onto the ground.
The roars that follow made his heart quicken. The clashing of swords made his blood go cold. The uncertainty makes his mind heavy. Could he fix this?
He looks up into the canopy of bobbing heads and snarling faces. Towards where he believes the source of Gambino's vicious growls and groans are coming from. And far away from where he thinks that sublime face would be. And one of the many warping openings widens. Unveiling Gambino's face. Rage and anger still deeply interwoven into each curve and crevice.
Murderous. Unreasonable. Driven by one thing and will only be soothe by that one thing. And all doubts and excuses are shattered when those wide and frantic eyes locate him. Everything else might have completely faded from Gambino's focus. Practically non-existent to him. All that matter to him now is the bane of his life
" I'll leave you no doubts. No false hopes. Nothing," a cruel and brutal smile of pure delight stretches across Gambino's lips," I did it. He's right. I sold you for three silver coins!"
Heads move, and faces contort. The opening closes. Etching that satisfied expression into his memory. The cries of swords and Gambino's demands get concerningly close. And with one last look, he flees from it all. Navigating around and in between feet. Only redirecting or halting when a foot nearly stumps on him. The desperate begs. The harsh demands. The calls for justice. Everything gradually fades away from him, as he continues to crawl forward. Gambino's words, his admission of guilt, slams against him. Over and over again. Replaying in his mind without any signs of ceasing.
Or more rather, ceasing in a matter that he didn't expect. A bone chilling breeze ran its fingers through his hair, as something massive and feral in appearance blocked his path of escape. His nerves and his heart were partially relieved by the complete lack of silver. But not completely soothe. He couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. His gaze travels upward timidly. Over the rough fur. Over the large muscles and past worn leather. His eyes briefly acknowledge the existence of a large and strange looking sword. Massive and impressive in both size and intimidation.
This stranger. Was everything he knew off, but an exaggeration of it. Brutality incarnated. Animalistic and rough in every way. Two orbs were aimed at him. Observing him silently and intently. His shoulders tremble. The realization galloping at him. Ready to crush him. This man was like the other stranger. Not human. Beyond the limitation of fragile bones, and muscles.
The snapping of a branch rips his attention away from the large entity, and onto the dense and dark foliage. In the outskirts of his vision, between the openings the various trunks made, were pairs of orbs that seem the spawn from one another. Their numbers reaching a considerable amount at an alarming rate.
His throat tightens, as those swarms close the distance. The bodies were soon unveiled by the glow from the campfires and torches within the encampment. They were huge and wearing armor that could only have been crafted by giants. The only thing he could make out is their eyes. Menacing and possessing the luminous glow of bloodlust.
Their forms blocking every escape route imaginable. Sealing him to an unknown but cruel fate. He couldn't flee. A constricted shout of a man, choking on his blood, alarms him to the approaching threat. Of pure murderous intent, that had been brewing for years, right under his scarred nose. He twists around, readying his sword in his trembling and sweaty hands, while his gaze wavers. A man is sent to the ground, before another is shoved violently away. And standing before him is Gambino.
A low rumble, deeper than thunder, is released into the air from behind him. Gaining Gambino's attention. Feeding his growing hatred. The crowd falls silent. The skirmish and struggling ceasing completely. As many eyes rest onto the beast behind him. War made into flesh.
Gambino's eyes fall onto him, hot and wild like a raging fire," Devil child!"
Bodies peel apart, making way for another. His eyes widen with discomfort and fright. The familiar sight of silver sends shivers down his body.
Gambino let out a harsh shout, that echos horribly within his ears, as he once again charges mindlessly at him. His blade seeking his life. Many eyes followed the movement of the sword, but no one made no effort to step in. No one came rushing forward to protect him.
Roots of terror and dismay keeps him from fleeing. Forcing him to face the threat head on, and even if he could. There was no way to escape the cage of bodies. His allies can't stop him. Those things would only do more harm than good. And that man.
No. Anything but that man. That unnervingly perfect creature. Undefiled by the world. He couldn't. No, he won't run to him. He won't seek his help.
Maybe...
He forces himself to relax. For his arms to submit. His weapon rests against the ground. His gaze leaves Gambino's face and lands onto the earth. His mind, without warning nor command, summons the last glimpses he managed to steal of Shisu. After her final moments of agony. Moments after that light had completely disintegrated from her gaze.
Her hand was pulled away from his own far too easily than he would like to remember. And he was far too weak to do anything about it. Her body unceremoniously carried away, by reluctant and fearful men. Destine to join the mass of death and decay, that grew larger with each day that had passed.
He's now encased in Gambino's shadow. The blade closing in on him.
She had called out to him. Her mind unreliable. Her body contorting and twisting around in pain. Her face almost unrecognizable. Yet, she had managed to summon him to her thoughts. Not as the cause of her suffering but as her warmth. Her stability. None of which included Gambino.
His limbs move on their own accord once again. His upper half bending to dodge the slash, before swinging his sword upwards to parry against the second attack. Blades lock in a stalemate, rattling against one another. Sparks almost cloud his vision. The roar of blades clashing in rapid secession nearly robs him of his hearing. It took everything he had to keep his sword from wavering.
Blood trickles out of a deep cut, and for a moment the battle halts. The older mercenary stares at the cut on his forearm. It's small in both appearance and impact but it unleashes a raging storm within those wrath-soaked eyes.
" Bastard," Gambino spat, his voice raw from yelling," You bastard!"
His mouth parts, coughing up vomit, when Gambino roughly thrusts the butt of his sword's hilt into his small figure. He stumbles back, his vision blurs, while his shaky hand comes to his aching stomach's aid. His eyes tearful, twitching without any signs of ceasing, as he looks up at Gambino. With a wet grunt he falls onto his knees.
Gambino towers over him. A reoccurring event that he can't change. His focus veers slightly, keeping Gambino within the cage of his vision while also allowing another to enter. What he sees terrifies him. Light chimes and chirps greet his ears, trying the provide him with some comfort, but it was fruitless. That man calmly unsheathes his sword.
Gambino was too invested in him to notice that the strange and unsettling man had inserted himself into their dual. Gambino raises his sword just as the man draws back his arm. Preparing to thrust his saber into Gambino from behind. A dark and terrifying gleam awakens within those blue orbs, and he rushes forward.
The face in front of him contorts into another unsettling horror. An unpleasant warmth coats his hand. And chilling roots conquer his wrists. A crimson. Hauntingly deep. It spreads like a forest fire. It consumes everything without shame. Sluggish drips reach him through the haze of shock and disbelief. His hand wavers turbulently, but his sword remains frozen. Embedded within muscle and bone.
He...
He had no idea how this happened. He only meant to warn Gambino. This was far from what he wanted. Why did he do it? Why didn't his arms obey him. He could have shouted. Apologize for every crime Gambino had attached to his name. Reason with him. Or more importantly warn him of the danger lurking behind him. But he mindlessly attacked. His sword now rammed through his neck.
" You...," Gambino's voice was no longer recognizable, just barely incoherent, and almost overwhelmed by a horrible rattle,"...killed Shisu,"
Gambino falls. A nauseating and agonizing sight. One that seems to last forever. More blood trails down his blade, as his neck slides down. The weight shifts, as the strength in Gambino's leg weaken. Sending them both to the bloody ground.
" Shisu,"
That was the last thing that departed Gambino's lips. No longer a leader. No longer a father. Just a macabre and distressing blanket, that's veiling the harm that had been caused by his hand. His sight grows increasingly unreliable. His tongue unable to move. His lips quaking from his grief. A sword is swiftly return to its sheath. The threat now gone. The very same eyes of those, who watched and refused to interfere, were relocated onto the bringer of death and misfortune.
" Your leader is dead," that voice announces flatly," Who among you is the most adept to lead you?"
His head rolls to the side upon hearing that inquiry. Dread seeping into his heart, as he rose his tearful gaze. A sob crawling around within his throat, as murmurs and whispers arose. His shoulders shaking and his nostrils flaring, as a brave but understandably reluctant man steps forward.
" Your name?" The silver haired man prompts when the man's silence progresses for far too long.
The mercenary takes another step forward. A cautious one. His position hardly seems to move," Duncan,"
" Duncan," the sublime eyed man parrots," You were present during my earlier statements, right?"
"...Yes," Duncan's voice was hollow, paired with an unmissable tremble.
He hasn't moved from his spot underneath Gambino. His hands grip onto the blood-soaked shirt. Unwilling to let go. Unwilling to shove him away. His wet gaze meets Duncan's. Pleading desperately while trying to awaken a fire of defiance within him.
" Your name," Duncan asks.
" Griffith," there's otherworldly strength and confidence in that name and in his voice," The Commander of the Band of the Hawk. I'm not your enemy. In fact, anyone who wishes to join, I will welcome with open arms,"
Voices arose and Duncan immediately cuts them down, when the man's smooth lips part again.
" But that's a discussion for later,"
"...right," Duncan emitted, before his eye left the commander's figure and briefly acknowledges his bloody figure," You want Guts?"
" Yes," he confirms smoothly.
Duncan's throat flexes. A swallow of uneasiness and discomfort towards his unspoken decision. Eyes rest onto the beast behind him.
" I'm sorry," Duncan mumbled, his voice eerily firm despite the storm within his gaze.
The older man turns his face completely away from him. Hiding from him. And within his aching heart, he knew what Duncan was going to utter. He crawls back, leaving the shelter that is Gambino's body. His despair running over.
" Take him,"
He didn't think. He didn't wait. He didn't beg. He ran. His eyes, wet and frantic. Saturated with every form of agony possible. The beasts of war. The men he thought he could trust. That man who evokes undisrupted clarity and confusion. Gambino's corpse. He flees from it all without a second thought. Tearfully ignoring the shouts and pleas for him to return. And mere moments later, he begins to dread those voices, because they don't belong to men.
He hears them. Chasing him without ceasing. Without exhaustion. Without mercy. Yet they maintain a distance. To toy with him? To soothe his fears? He didn't know. Their appendages and feet of various natures, crush both rocks and branches. The impact sends shockwaves throughout the earth. The pads of his feet ache. His knees and chest cry out, begging him to stop, but he refuses.
It was a miracle that he even made it this far. No appendage made any sort of effort to stop him earlier. In fact, the wall of disproportionate and grotesque bodies shifted, and allowed him passage. Knowing that he would be unknowingly entering this twisted game of cat and mouse.
Their beseeches. Their promises. Their declarations of peace. They all twist in his ears, moving to flank his sides, and making way for another. A presence arouses a familiar and terrifying sense of terror. Then he hears it. The clattering and clopping of hooves. The flapping of fabric. And without thinking, he looks over his shoulder. His eyes stretch open to an unnatural degree.
Mounted on a galloping pale horse, ornamented by hawk inspired barding and a snow-white caparison, was the commander. Its nostrils frozen. Its breathing nonexistent. Of course, he would have a horse just as disturbing as him. With eyes as distant and cold as the moon.
He rips his gaze away. Watching would do him more harm than good. His feet threaten to give in. His lungs burn within his chest as he loses his footing. He stumbled around and nearly tripped over a patch of jagged rocks, before righting himself. The forage and trees had become less frequent. The ground hard beneath his sore feet.
Ahead of him. Nearly startling him, was a cliff. Its irregular edges frame by boulders. Drawing his eyes to the furthest point. Where the earth ends, and where the sky extends their waiting hands. To guide him. To comfort him.
He doesn't halt. He doesn't freeze. He doesn't redirect. He simply runs. And the man and his legion of beast continues to chase. The alarming thing to him, wasn't that he was still being pursued, but the sudden peace that had blossom within him. His feet remaining firm in their conviction, and his heart and mind both followed.
His figure is seized by multiple hands and his spine shivers with dread and horrible dismay. A scream, one of pure despair and horror, is torn from his throat. He struggles and thrashes around, while he's forced onto his knees. Those hands smudge and disturb the caked-on blood and sweat. He shouts and hollers. Letting curses and foul intentions spurt from his snarling mouth. Hooves approach, undisturbed by his grapple for freedom.
His heart aches, completely soaked with terror, as that man demounts. He kicks out violently. He bites and crawls at the hands. His attempts growing more frantic and mindless.
He freezes, his mind going painfully blank, as the older man kneels down. His feet slam and push desperately against the chest plate, but nothing dissuades the man. He continues to scream, like a cornered and broken creature, as arms slither around his figure. Those hands simultaneously pull away from him. Allowing him some relief. Even if it was short lived. He wasn't able to escape the cocoon of metal, leather, and relentlessness. Hands readjust to better contain his struggling. Not to be firm or oppressive, but soothing. A reassurance that he wanted to rip to pieces. It only serves to surface more tears.
" Get away...," he demanded, immediately hating himself for how meek and delicate his voice sounded in his ears, as he tried once again to separate himself. Their figures swaying forward and backwards slightly. He couldn't tell if it was because of his struggle to escape the unearthly vise hold or if the man had started to rock softly in an effort to pacify him. Either way both made his spine tremble and his blood boil. Brief shushes, light and nearly inaudible, reaches his ears at unpredictable intervals.
He reels within his flesh, nearly suffocating on his self-loathing, as his anger boils over within his heart," Get away from me," the command leaves his lips as a shriek, one that rivals the intensity of the petrifying scream of a dying man.
The man is completely unruffled. Maintaining a calm demeanor, even as more curses spill from his tongue. The coil around his body constricts, and to his growing panic and dread, the strength within his extremities begins to diminish. A loss of feeling blossoms within his shoulders before radiating outwards. His fingers twitch and his hands shudders alongside his heartbeat. His eyelids flitter as he tussles against the sudden and concerning affliction of fatigue. His chest flickers beneath armor. He tries to speak but all he was able to produce were lethargic grunts and meek broken parts of an incoherent protest. His posture is manipulated. A hand gently herds the side of his face to the chest plate, while the other rubs his back.
'I hate you,' he tries to scream. He wants the man to hear them. He wants his words to etch themselves deeply into his sublime flesh. Burning him like a brand.
' I hate you,'
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm very sorry for the mistakes I missed. I will fix them later.