 Paths. They carve themselves deeply into his flesh - into his soul. He has followed many down and further down until the penumbras half-light blinded him - confused him - settled him like water collected in a forest left to stagnate.
Water rolls downhill until it can roll no more. As much as he would like to seep deeper until the soggy roots of the trees around him decided to drink him up (to give him purpose), they are not thirsty today.
So he wanders - following the languid trickle of a stream that cuts yet another path through the soil - revealing the tendons and sinews that stitch together his world in the form of pebbles, mud, and roots. Long, vein-like plants wave in the deeper pools of the stream, hiding the true depth of the water - leaving him to wonder.
Eventually he comes upon a stranger. Balor studies him briefly, as he had the depth of the stream, searching for the holes… for the fibers that hold him together. They are all made up of blood and bone, he knows, but there is always something… other.
Some time has passed since he’s known the company of another, but somehow he feels tired of “hellos.” Instead, he asks “When is the last time you watched something good die?” Perhaps because he needs to know if others are made like him.
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b a l o r
relic x chimaera |
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