This used to feel like heaven.
He used to feel at peace. The heat from the fireplace warming his skin, crackling with the logs he had cut himself this morning along with his son. His wife's voice soothing in its normalcy as she pitter-pattered around the house cleaning up after yet another day. The house warm and cozy, quiet now after a long day of activity, his children's laughter and voices still hanging in the air.
It didn't seem much but it had been hard earned. He had paid a very high price for what would appear to be a boring and mundane life to the untrained eye. But then he had made sure that no eye, untrained or otherwise would ever fall on them. It was a stolen life he had carved for himself and he had gone to great lengths to make it happen, to ensure it would never be threatened, never need protecting and defending. And lately, it had started to feel like a trap.
The wind howled. The dog barked. And as his wife continued her daily charade about how she wished they lived elsewhere, a big city, or hell even a small town, somewhere closer to other people, not like nomads in the middle of the forest, where he had kept his family captive in the middle of all this wilderness with just animals as friends, he suppressed a grimace. Everything was just as it should be.
Until a few years ago, her very same words would have gotten a rise out of him, left him raging and reasoning - trying to get her to see sense with as much honesty as he could spare her. Danger lurked out there, amongst the people, cloaked under those friendly smiles and neighbourly concerns. Eyes constantly watching, keeping tabs. He used to warn her about monsters hidden inside men, but never about monsters amongst them. That knowledge was his curse to bear alone.
Monster, he had learned quickly was a very loose term for the human race. Anything unsavory, frightening, complex and confusing, contrived, morally dubious, slightly dangerous (well, slight for him), of the Other kind - anything that didn't fit into the set order and norms of mainstream society was conveniently deemed a monster. He loved that word. Loved it for its insignificance and magnitude. It didn't take much to become a monster for this race, and under the cloak of that term, they had efficiently (albeit naively) taken care of hundreds of their own and built a fear around hundreds of Others from hundreds of realms. Or they would if they knew of it. Which the majority of them didn't and for good reasons, he supposes.
They were a harebrained race, ruled by fear and insecurity. Having their staunch belief that they were the only race in the galaxy, the smartest life forms to exist shattered would have a similar effect as that of scattering ants running amok after having their ant hill trampled. Fun and amusing to watch but a pain in the ass to control. He knows that's why no one ever messes with their race and their illusions. Too much hassle for a few moments of amusement. They were insignificant in the bigger picture and yet believed themselves indispensable. It was far more fun to watch them as they were. Caught up in the small intricacies of their lives, believing this to be the be all and end all of everything. Their curiosity was cute too, he thought. How they always wondered about The Big Void, made ventures to explore it, reach out, contact other life forms but always coming back empty-handed, bewildered and surprised.
It was no coincidence that they had never met any of the Others. It was a universal ploy, an intergalactic agreement to keep them existing as they were in their small bubble. There is nothing more dangerous than a fool who believes himself wise. And here was a planet full of them. And it was this very reason that he had chosen this realm.
He feels soft lips brush against his forehead, breaking his reverie. He looks up to take in his wife's soft, tired face. Tries to see himself in her eyes - to remind himself yet again of how he looks. He forgets sometimes.
'Coming to bed?' she whispers.
'I'll be there in five.' He needs to time, time to recollect his thoughts, himself, time to put his thoughts to rest.
She nods, kisses his cheek and walks away. Used to his off moods. Used to his withdrawn looks and silences that echo louder than his words. She never asks him what he thinks of, what past scars he carries. Knows somewhere deep inside it might shatter everything they have built together. She's scared of all that he holds within. He's hers. But never completely. Yet, she loves him enough to accept how much ever of himself he's offered her.
The first thing he does once the bedroom door creaks shut is walk into his study. He stands tall in front of the full length mirror and lets his eyes roam over himself again. It's placed right across from his desk, he needs to remember the shape of his skin often. One of the after effects of eons of skin mapping. His hair is cropped short, brown. Same as his eyes. His skin is darker too, bronze and sun-kissed from hours he spends working on his land. His eyes shine bright with knowledge older than the realm he lives in. He lets his fingers, calloused and rough, slide over his features memorizing them yet again. No matter how often he tries to remember, always tends to forget. His trimmed French beard is shorter than he prefers, he would love to grow it out but his wife hates it. It's a small sacrifice compared to the ones he made to get here, to have this life with her.
Yet, now it all seems so futile, so pointless. He's been constantly craving lately. The bite of stagnancy slowly driving him mad. The small things that used to bring him joy rub like sandpaper against his skin while he feels his throat parched with an unquenchable thirst. The taste of blood calls him, tugging on his insides. There's a fire in the pit of his stomach that he can't blow out no matter how hard he tries. Doesn't even recount stirring it awake. But it hums to the beats of violence. Late at night, as he lays on his bed in the dark, he can almost hear his sword calling out to him, beckoning him, luring him away with visions of the past glory days.
Some days he has to physically push away the urge to murder the entire village he visits some times. He's slowly coming undone, but he will fight himself to his last breathe. He put too much at stake to get here to give it up now. He shakes his head and turns to leave.
That's when he notices it. The eerie silence. It's abnormally quiet. Quite uncharacteristic for this time of the night. The dogs have quieted down and the winds have stilled, even the logs burning in the fireplace make no sound. That's all the warning he needs.
He is out of the backdoor and rounding the corner of his cottage in no time. Feather light on his feet, not a sound made to alert the intruders. Centuries of practice engraved in his bones, he shakes his head, even his bones are younger than his experience.
'Glad to see you haven't lost all your skills,' He stills. He knows this voice. 'Although, you were awfully slow to notice the signs.'
'Dmitryus' The name leaves him in a rush of breath, feels oddly foreign on his tongue. Yet the familiarity and connotations associated with it twist his insides.
'How did you find me?'
'Find?' He chuckles mockingly, 'Oh my dear boy, we never lost you.'
The taunt stings, like it was meant to. Intentionally derogatory. Dmitryus. He should figure if someone was going to find him, it would be his brother-in-arm. They were created together, trained together, raided, ruled and wreaked havoc together. But eons of companionship too, it seemed, could be easily diminished with betrayal. When it came to emotions like trust and loyalty, all souls were equal. Even the ones created by the Old Gods. Even the ones created to cause mayhem and chaos.
'Why come to me now?' He asks. No time for small talk, no need either.
'The Old Gods...'
'The Old Gods are dead! Have been for eons. So why are you here now?' He feel white rage coursing through his veins. He couldn't believe Dmitryus would bring up their origins, recount their history to magnify his guilt, twist his arm.
Dmitryus's eyes blaze. A flash of glowing red in the night. A warning that demands his silence. When he speaks again, his voice roars.
'The Old Gods' He begins again and looks at him mockingly 'had an order. That order is in peril. We must do what we were made to. The time has come, once again. The realms are colliding. The order needs to be restored. The balance must return. And so must you, Razkel.'
- Too tired to proofread. Anky please do the needful. And if something needs to change, lemme know.
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