11-19-2016, 03:03 AM
Bruise hungered, but not for the things she may have imagined.
He had no desire for love, for peace, for revenge. He did not thirst for worldly things, did not burn with the ambition of his forefathers. He was content to see his father upon the throne without entertaining thoughts of his own ascent. Bruise’s mind was angled toward other things, more insidious things. Things that had haunted him since he had made his way down the mountain, when he had first seen just how beautiful of a thing it was to watch a mare sink to the ground, her body slumped and empty.
He hungered for that same Fear he had wielded that day—the beauty of it.
At her answer, his smile grew cold and wide, his flat eyes measuring her carefully. “Good,” he said carefully, his voice monotone and lifeless. He did not need to know that she did not fear him specifically; he did not care. He breathed in deep and could feel it on the air, her fear and despondence. It was purer and more beautiful a feeling than he could ever imagine or ever try to explain to someone. How could he put into words the majesty of feeding off of someone’s pure fear? Of gorging himself on the emotion.
“What is your name?” he questioned, although it sounded more of a command. Taking a step, he closed the distance between them, his body humming with the Fear on the air, although he did not call upon it yet. He did not need to enhance this moment or induce it. He simply needed to appreciate the honesty and rawness of her emotion. “Tell me more about your Fear,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, growing smoother, more velvety. He shivered slightly as he held onto her gaze. “Tell me now.”
Bruise
head like a hole; as black as your soul.