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Aimless is the river of the world. There is no start, no stop. No rhyme, no reason. There is no circle of life and there is no point in living a life in fear. Things come and go. The stars die and small children, just born, sometimes do not last a day.
From his throne of filth and forgotten, Bylah's eyes stared out into the world, disinterested. While overhead, the trees were starting to brown, gold, and red, little things ran by, playing. Most of them knew without having to be told to disregard him. They had not been warned but often, young things understand where the monsters are. In closets, beneath beds. They knew well what cracks need illuminating.
Watching them, Bylah felt a flutter of pity. They had not asked to be born. Their lot was a cruel one, filled with unspoken terrors that they were not yet aware of. They did not realize the great horrors, looming on the horizon like summer thunderstorms, rumbling deep in the distance. That distance was quickly encroaching, however, drawing inexorably closer and closer.
Vaguely, his head turned when they ran back by as children are want to do when the hour grows late: they rushed, headlong, into the safety of their homes, the four walls that they called sanctuary. Dirty faces might be washed before dinner in places like that.
A pause...and he belched. His ears flickered at the sound of shrill screams, the type only children can produce at the very instant that they realize that they are, in fact, now orphans.
Turns out, that flutter in his breast had not been pity. Merely indigestion.
