There was a boom.
A sudden flash of red—thick coating of ichor spewing against his entire body, torch being reduced to nothing but kindling ash. He could feel the weight of the creature crash into his side, dragging him forward and skidding across the forest floor.
Carefully did he tuck himself behind the thing's massive teeth, blocking the debris that was being flung into the air. All he could hear was carnage; Entire trees being felled by its careening corpse. By the time the beast came to a halt, he had realized something... he was alive... the eldritch was dead.
A thick clump of dripping blood smothered over his face, a small portion leaking into his open eye before he shut it due to the sensation. Slowly and carefully, he emerged from the creature's maw. For the first time, he managed to get a look at its harrowing appearance.
Cold. Slender. Disturbingly human.
Notably, the beast didn't have a head, instead comprised of a single, gargantuan mouth that sat immediately above its nape. To the boy, however, that wasn't what piqued his interest... instead, it was what killed the beast in the first place.
A monolithic glaive, ridges shimmering in an almost neon red, the rest being as dark as the night itself. Intricate patterns snaked their way up and down the dull shaft, which alone was easily three times the height of an average human. The faint glow from the shattered moon cast down through the thicket of newly-torn trees, and born from thin air was something that almost appeared from a painting.
Its unholy white skin began to blister and boil, the red glaive pulsing waves of pure energy through its bloodstream. Crimson smoke and ash began to rise into the air, tainting the once pure moonlight to a wretched red glow. The wind began to smell of charcoal and burnt flesh, akin to that of a pig slaughtered and paraded through the depths of hell.
The final nail in the coffin was the explosion; It combusted.
Enough boiling blood and ripped skin to fill an ocean burgeoned out from its source, paired with the unfavorable squelching and squirming from the corpse soon after.
As the blood beat against the boys skin, he could feel it start to burn—as if it had seeped into his very composition and was eating him alive from the inside.
It was only then that he appeared... the man who saved his life.
He stood on top of what remained of the eldritch corpse, gently encasing a portion of the glaive's shaft with his hand. Against what its scale would have you believe, the man was normal-sized. Above average, yes, but not nearly enough for any normal human to be able to wield such a weapon.
He wore a black and red cloak, tufts of dark fur placed at each rim of the attire. His hair was a short and rather untamed black, with eyes of a whitish-blue tint in nature.
Upon seeing his arrival, the boy couldn't help but let out a silent tear. Soon enough, they became audible. Soon enough, the tears wouldn't stop coming.
He had reached the end of his rope. He wasn't strong. He was weak. He was abandoned.
Still, the man did not judge. Quietly, he tore the tip of the glaive from the beast's jaw, launching it so higher up into the air, you'd almost think it reached orbit.
His boots softly pressed against the ground, each one steadily moving him closer and closer to the boy. Mere moments from contact, he kneeled, and with one fell swoop, embraced him. "You're safe now..." he muttered, voice low and soothing. This only made the boy cry more.
In the distance, a hollow shriek thundered from the imminent west, a flock of crows raising from the treeline and fading further into the dim sky.
"Come on then," He started back up, voice still the same though with a more urgent tone lingering underneath, "before more come... let's go home."
* * *
How long had it been since that time?
The boy had no way of knowing. Most of his days were spent staring at the musty ceiling above or peering around the room he was contained in, the man occasionally stopping by to take care of him.
At the very least, he had known it'd been a few days—the faintest bits of light creeping through a small window to his left. The blinds were always closed, but a tiny portion managed to seep through their edges.
Still though, he felt like he was going insane. A part of him questioned if any of this was even real; If it was one long continuous nightmare he'd be soon to awake from... but he never did.
A lot of those nights were spent crying. He couldn't help it. Seven years of age, and he'd been faced with death. His parents abandoned him. He was left with nothing.
That night was a masquerade of bravery, and he knew it. He was faced with two options: Accept fate or die trying to defy it. He chose the latter.
But after such an experience, he tended to have frequent panic attacks. Occasionally, his breath would escape him, and be near to borderline asphyxiation. He'd have hallucinations of the eldritch that hunted him, picturing it silently watching from outside the window or even watching over his bed.
He genuinely started to wonder if death was the better outcome.
Regardless, he lived on. Day after day, night after night, he laid there, not once ever leaving. This was his reality now... or so he thought.
One day, the man stopped appearing.
At first, this didn't concern him too much. Since that night, they hadn't spoken a single word to each other, and yet there appeared to be a silent agreement between the two of them. 'The man appeared nice enough,' the boy thought, 'so surely he'd come back.'
Twenty-four hours passed, and still there was nothing. Not a sound was ever heard from outside the room. The house had gone quiet.
Suddenly, the boy started to think the worst. Perhaps, just like his parents, he was abandoned once more. Maybe the eldritch didn't die, tracked them down and ate him alive. It's possible that whatever made that hollow shriek that night in the woods returned, and was only waiting for the perfect opportunity to eat him, too.
Come forty-eight, he realised he had a decision to make; He could leave, or he could stay. He could starve, or he could find food. He could survive, or he could die.
He genuinely started to wonder if death was the better outcome.
Even then... he didn't want to die. Not yet. He looked to the blinds, and the subtle glow had made it clear—it was day.
With a heavy, almost palpitating heart, he lowered his feet onto the floor. For the first time in an eternity, he was standing.
At first, he attempted to muffle his footsteps, trying everything to prevent the wooden boards from creaking under his weight. Unfortunately, it had been so long since he'd done anything physical that he nearly toppled over in an attempt, instead opting to embrace the sound.
To compromise, he moved only one step every minute or so, giving time to listen in on his surroundings. He wanted to make sure that he was truly safe.
Soon enough, he had made it to the wooden door to the room. He eyed the rusted latch on its side, contemplating if this was truly the only path. In the end, however, he knew he was committed...
He gripped the latch.