Falls

The sins of the father did not make the sins of the son.

Sex and blood had tainted him, etched into his flesh and stripping him of his empathy. He stank of it, of war and of blood, and even his children had disposed of him, tossing him to the wayside as if he had never existed.

This was the curse of his father- the man that had created him and the man that had abandoned him. A wave of selfishness, one that had settled into his belly like a disgusting, ugly beast, had been the downfall of his family.

Anawar needed no kin.

He is a loner, sticking to the water’s edge, his white skin fading into the wintry whiteness around him, blanched by the sun of a distant land. The waterfall is silent, frozen solid by the winter and glistening like diamonds in the night. A great wall conquered by the walking white of the snow, looming overhead. He cannot see it, for his dead side is turned towards it, a puckered and scarred eye staring out into a nothingness.

He was no gifted golden boy.

He is battered and scarred, a permanent stain etched into the crook of his face where the wounded eye weeps and there is no one to wipe it away. He looks villainous and lonesome, standing as a carefully painted creature in the dark, visible and invisible at the same time, one good eye skimming across the trees that surround him.