deicide

They cannot breathe. They inhale because they must, but it’s shallow. It’s shallow, because with each micro-movement another little flower blossoms within what remains of their rib cage and brings with it its own small torment. They exhale because they must, but it’s gasping because each breath brings a little more blood to pool where it should not be, and now he thinks he might be drowning.

There’s an eternity within each thud of their heart, and they spend it dazed. Their fingers on their right hand do not obey them fully. They feel them twitch when he commands them into a fist, and wet leaves stir beneath their fingertips, but they can do no more. The nausea that overwhelms them when they roll their eyes to investigate brings hot bile to settle in their throat, but they get their answer. Their fingers cannot respond to what they cannot hear. Their arm is a mess of ripped tendons and exposed fatty tissue, bent at an unnatural angle.

“You look pale, little slayer,” he says. He sounds like he’s pushing the words past a throat of gravel, like he’s spent the nights screaming his vocal cords raw and this is the first time he’s spoken in weeks.

For such an impressive beast, his footsteps are silent ( or, more likely, they’re bleeding too much and everything is starting to go quiet ). Everything is swimming- everything is leaving- they can’t focus. There’s a moment where they’re looking at the sky, then it’s black, and they think they might be dying. When they find consciousness once more, the sky is blotted out by a bloody maw. The wolf drools pink onto their chest, gristle and sinew hang from beneath red stained teeth. It takes them a moment to register that that is them, that the gore was once part of them, and that realization once more sends their stomach rolling.

“You look scared.”

They are. They are, and both of them can hear their jackrabbit heart because of it, as if it is an answer to the question not asked. And, as if accepting this answer, he inclines his head.

“It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Where is your lion’s heart, slayer? Where is that courage?” He lowers his head, and the laughter that spills across their chest is warm despite its cruelty. Though the slayer cannot see what he looks at, they know. They know this lycan saw their silver pendant - a staple of their order - and mocks it with his proximity. In fact, they think they feel his teeth brush against it.

“Arrogance, coiled in that broken skull of yours. That’s what killed you. That snake in your head, telling you that you are god,” he sounds nearly sympathetic. “I hear your friend calling for you, little slayer…”

Their courage bled out of them with the rest of the scarlet, and their hope leaves them in the salt of their tears, cutting little paths in the grime upon their face. They do not have enough of their mind to worry for Ike. In death, they are reduced to nearly animalistic instinct. They weep for themselves. A hand reaches for their face, clawed and large enough to crush them between their palm, and it is gentle. It brushes away a tear tenderly, then faces them east.

“He is that way. But he is farther than I think you can wait, isn’t he? You’re already part way out the door, aren’t you?”

Their vision swims. Death is colorless. The sky, the trees, the eyes of the wolf - everything is muted, and gray. They inhale and they exhale because they must, but it is difficult to call it breathing. They are a bed of flowers: agony blooming. They are cold.

“In this world, filled with its terrible beasts and their slayers… Perhaps it is best to die young, hm?”

His voice is fading. Everything is. They inhale and they exhale because they must, but it is slowed.

“Can you hear me, little god?”

They inhale. They exhale. The lycan pats their cheek, and sends a numb ache through them. They can just barely make out his smile.

“I have given you a gift. If you die here, I will have given you mercy. And if you live?”

They inhale.

“I have reminded you just how mortal you are.”

They exhale.