I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

 

He was enjoying this—perhaps too much.

Having his father as King of Pangea certainly opened up a world of possibilities to him, but he knew that even if Pollock had not stepped up to claim the wasteland after the dark god had deserted them, he would have found a way regardless. Having Pollock there simply…reduced limitations. He was free to bring his pretties home as he saw fit—free to use his powers to mold the world around them, chase them down the empty corridors of his making without interruption, without having to answer to someone higher.

If anyone was to understand the hunger that brewed within Bruise, the dark need that clawed at the inner workings of his stomach, it was Pollock. He was nothing but a shadow of his father. He understood.

Still, as much as he found the land convenient, it was not always enough. Lately, Bruise had enjoyed peeling away from Pangea to find more material, to hunt down more who he could test on, feeling out the malleability of them. It was how he found Heartfire, the metal mistress who he planned to weld into his latest masterpiece. Perhaps he could find others here; perhaps he could find more material.

So he left Pangea in the middle of the day, the chill of winter settling in and putting his teeth on edge, the frost of it almost more than he could bear. It did not take him long to find the forest once more, the trip helped by an alien speed and agility, his endurance carrying him longer and faster than he had any right to travel. When he finally reached the border of it, he dipped his head down, sniffing at the ground with the focus of a bloodhound, with the discernment of a maestro. Now the only question was where to start.

I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

Bruise does not like being interrupted—not when he has his mind on greater things, on mapping out the constellations of his next masterpiece, the image of it hazy and forming on the edges of his mind. So it is with irritation that he responds to the voice that crackles across the space between them. His black eyes sharpen and he rolls his heavy-horned head toward the colt’s direction, taking in the size and shape of him but not recognizing him, not knowing him as one of their own. Perhaps he would have been softer for it.

But probably not.

He does not respond to the question that sounds like a demand, instead only lifts his head upward, his flat, shark eyes appraising him, studying him, lip curling into a smile that lacked any of a smile’s warmth. “I don’t see any reason to tell you that, boy,” his voice as hard as his gaze, low and guttural. Bruise never did enjoy raising his voice much. Let him whisper and let the world strain to hear it. Let them suffer for it.

“Be on your way,” he growls, motioning toward the trees that blanket the area behind the boy, the trees from which he had come. The silver of his tail snaps behind him, the edges of it cracking along the curve of his haunches, the muscle there hardening, maturing. He has no real desire to prey upon someone so young, but he also has no moral argument against it. He can feel his hand upon the edge of the Fear, the beast of it bucking and roiling beneath his palm, but he quiets it for now, soothing its temper.

If the boy does not listen, then they would play. If the boy does not leave, then he would have his fun. But for now, he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, expression hard and unforgiving, and he waits.

I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

He snarls, ashen lips peeling back to reveal the yellowed, blunt teeth beneath. Ears pin back and find their home amongst the vines of his mane, his expression turning ugly with annoyance. “Then you can go enjoy your space over there with the rest of the pups.” His voice is pointed, flat, dismissive, and, for a moment, he takes a second to focus on the colt, the yellow of his coat, the split of his hooves. The resemblance causes his stomach to roll, a jealous possessiveness rooting in his belly as he thinks of their father. He has worked too hard, done too much, to share Pollock’s haphazard affection with some brat.

“If you think I was sniffing the ground like a common dog, then you’re more idiotic than you look,” a flat growl, ears never leavening their place against the curve of his head. He shakes his head and the light glints off the heavy horns that adorn his skull, their weight regal. The next question that comes though brings a smile to his face, the curve of lip flat and wide and cold. He was not a hunter first and foremost (he was an artist, he was a master of his craft), but to make art, you sometimes needed to root out the very material. Bruise was not afraid to crack the bones between his teeth to reach the marrow.

His nose twitches again as the smile settles onto his angular face, as he takes a step forward to the whelp, to the half-brother who is a threat with every breath he draws into his youthful lungs. “I am hunting,” he acknowledges with a dip of head, his mind reaching outward and finding the threads of the Fear that race over and above them. “You will not like the answer.” Without a sound, without another word, he lunges forward, the motion faster than any horse has the right to move, the grace of it like running water.

He grabs at the Fear and begins to pull, begins to dance the landscape around them, manipulating it to the beat of his own pulse, to the dreams that beat against the back of his skull. His flesh peels back to reveal the skull beneath, the gore that drips from between undead teeth, the eyes that roll in bony sockets. “Run,” he hisses to his flesh and blood, snapping his jaws near the boy’s haunches and then dancing out of sight again, dipping in out and of vision as he continues to thrum the strings of Fear he knows so well.

Let the boy know terror. Let him quake. Let him recognize the Krampus before him.

(Boys will be boys. Let him experience this brotherly love.)

I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

He snarls, ashen lips peeling back to reveal the yellowed, blunt teeth beneath. Ears pin back and find their For a moment, brief and hot between his teeth, Bruise is pleased to see that the boy reacts, that the Fear begins to drip down his throat and curdle in his belly. And he is pleased. Incredibly so. His mouth splits open, the naked skull grinning in this illusion of his creation. But it does not last. Because the boy is not just annoying, he is idiotic—he stands his ground and bites back. Bruise suppresses a growl in his throat.

His hand pauses on the Fear, eases his control of it, but the illusions remain, and he speaks through the gore as it gushes between his rotten teeth. “Because you are blind,” crimson spittle flying forward, his head cocking to the side and giving him a gruesome smile. “Because you bear father’s colors and his shape but not his true self.” He does not have the Fear rising up within him like smoke, like poison.

It is a victory for the young Krampus.

“You will have to pay for that,” Bruise counters and when the rage rises within him, it is sweet, and he savors the taste of it, playing it around his jaw. But he has had enough with this pleasantries. He’s had enough of conversation so he pulls the Fear again, manipulating the natural emotions and amplifying them. With alien grace he rushes forward and strikes out, teeth against flesh, before dancing away again.

Then on the other side, he rises up and over the colt, striking out with ragged, cloven hooves. His nostrils flare to drink in whatever of the Fear he can reach and he laughs low. Another blow, this time aiming to hit the young boy’s shoulder, before he comes down and lunges, blunt teeth snapping at any area he can find purchase: his neck, his ear, his eye. He breathes steadily but says nothing—only continues to sculpt.

I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

She comes and his attention is drawn to her, to the hardness she wears like armor, to the sharpness of her Pleasure races up and down Bruise’s spine—pleasure at the Fear that runs thick around him, as tangible as  the oxygen that pumps through his lungs. He can taste it, each hit licking up his side and radiating through his brain. The boy is like clay, so malleable, so perfect, and as he rains down blows, as the blood begins to flow from Feast, Bruise begins to feel what he can only assume is some level of brotherly love.

His eyes glaze over and he ignores the words that come simpering from Feast.

“More,” he growls as he comes for him again, as his teeth lash out, as he pulls upon the terror—a mad man intent upon sucking the marrow dry. This is nirvana, he thinks, as the boy breaks open before him like ripe fruit, bruised and splintered and ready. Still—still. Bruise has enough control that he does not continue forever; he does not continue until the boy lays wasted and cold at his split hooves.

Eventually, he comes to a stop, breathing hard, his golden sides dark with exertion. His eyes though, those are sharp and glittering in the darkness as he considers the boy—still standing, despite the obvious gashes and wounds. He does not respect him for it, but he does appreciate it. The boy would be ready for another lesson eventually and Bruise would be all too happy to oblige. Pollock’s kin could not be weak.

He considers demanding that the boy kneel, but decides against it, instead tilting his head and considering him, expression clean of any mercy. “You are loyal to me now,” his voice is hard and unrelenting. “Blood is thicker than water,” he reminds, “and I am your blood. Therefore you will show the proper respect.”

He takes a step forward, a warning, perhaps.

“You will be loyal.”