It's not without its own flavor, waiting. After all, Kian's been waiting for hundreds of years…
There are benefits, of course. He can observe more this anomaly which absorbed his wing.
He strokes Ethan's hair, sliding his fingers down the veins of his neck.
The blood's pulsing—rushing—
His wing. It seems to have passed through many, many bodies.
He feels their distant touch; Ethan's aura carrying a hint of their soiled, rotten blood. But not one of them adapted the way Ethan's did. They died. In agony.
From the rejection, of course.
Because the echoes of Kian's soul reduced them to madness; their bodies ripping apart from his past fury.
Unaware, Ethan sleeps pleasantly; his rosy cheeks nice and healthy.
It's not whole, Kian's wing. Perhaps shriveled and used, this one pales in comparaison. And where, pray tell, is the other one? Reduced to ash? Perhaps dead and buried…
After all, these experiments have been ongoing since his escape; and the bloody, violent massacres that followed.
What to do. What to do.
How much easier it would be to just kill him.
But that Daemon. Trying so desperately to eat what Kian hasn't! What hubris.
He kisses the lips pouting in sleep; sucking up the leaking aura. The taste of his wing, it's changed. In this boy's body, it rests peacefully…
Not even in his own body did it feel…complete.
Because he couldn't ascend properly. They forced his growth during the experiments, compelling him through pain—
And, in the end, they tossed him to the Heavens mercilessly.
His soul was shredded there. And in his broken state, Kian desperately turned to Tristan.
Only to be utterly betrayed.
Of course, before that humorous turn of events, Kian's heart was whole. And innocent…
Though he can't truly say. Thosememories, they aren't worth remembering.
***
He was someone before. That was what Tristan, his newfound friend, told him.
"I'm sure you have a name. I just know it. You'll find it. I'll help you find it once we get out of here…" His whispers sounded desperate. Did he, himself, believe what he was saying?
There was a dying light in those pretty blue eyes. But what was that light? He didn't know. Couldn't know.
After all, he only knew the light of lunacy. Has he, too, carried that unhinged shine?
And abuse always followed that strange empty glint in his captors eyes…
Lights die all the time. Darkness always follows. But that perfect blue shouldn't show such emptiness. It was wrong somehow. Like it didn't belong somehow.
What was he thinking, Tristan, as he ducked his head and cried?
The yearning. The longing. It wasn't the abuse that horrified Tristan. It was the memories of outside torturing him.
When he slept, he was plagued by dreams.
And when he ate? The stale, hard bread and watery porridge stuck in his throat like sand. Because of the hallucinations that followed. Because of the distance between dreams. And reality.
What does it mean to hallucinate? An illusion that rips the reality away. That was what Tristan said.
Wasn't that better anyway—?
But the sounds of the gate rattling. And his body stiffened. The lock clanked down on the ground. And the men waded inside.
Something—
Was wrong. Something was desperately wrong. The way they moved. The way they looked—
In the heart of darkness—!
There was an end in their eyes.
They grabbed and grabbed, taking recklessly. Almost carelessly. "Get up. Hurry! Or I'll kill you here! There, now! You too!"
One by one, all the kids were taken.
Where—? Crying. Sniffling. All they could do was follow obediently—
Hallway after hallway. Stairway after stairway. Down and down, they kept going down—!
There were no sounds. Not even breathing. How could that be…?
The march was timeless. Endless. And terrifying.
What were they planning?
Never had he seen these parts of the dungeon? before.
It was different. Unknown. And horrifying—!
But there was an end.
And that was far more devastating.
***
Tristan? Tristan! It felt like his mouth was moving. But his hands were stuffed inside his own mouth, frantically digging at his own tongue—
When his captors left, they tossed them inside an endlessly dark and dank chamber. And when they turned their backs resolutely—
It seemed like the whole world had changed. Because the stripped color slowly, gradually returned. There were eyes. What seemed like thousands and thousands of eyes—!
They were glittering. He could hear the growling. And the whining. The fighting—!
What—were they fighting over?
Some ducked. Some were frozen in the face of fear. And others—
Just didn't care at all, staring into the faces of their killers in ecstasy. Almost rapturously.
Because their wounds were already festering.
And he knew. They'd be the first to die—Though rotten meat isn't always eaten.
"W-what are we gonna do?!" Tristan whispered. His hands were trembling; looking into the ghastly lights as if they were the devil personified.
He didn't respond. Nothing could be done. Fight. Kill. And die—
The fighting stopped. And a moment of silence reigned.
A painful stillness. And an agonizing wait.
The smell—! The smell of rotting things—!
And then.
The nails tapping.
The sounds of clawing—!
And they were there!
Clawing faces—
Biting arms—
legs—
And feet—!
The yelling.
The screaming.
The pain—!
The tearing—
ripping—
And stripping of meat—!
He was running.
His wrist was bleeding.
There were four behind him.
His labored breathing.
What was Tristan doing—?!
But the leader was right behind him.
And he was passing by a boy being eaten.
There was blood flying.
And the sting of sweat in his eyes.
His cell—! The desire swelled.
His corner—!
The beast ripped the cloth on his back.
Even that chair—!
It tore into his shoulder, swallowing skin.
The doctor—! The Guards—!
The release—!
He kicked, bit, clawed his way out from beneath that hide; his arm, shoulder, and thigh bleeding—
What he wouldn't give to be back there now!
But there were three more waiting. And a predator's eyes remained.