His name is an omen.
A promise, of the future.
A thing that he knows is coming.
So he is not surprised when his mother once again falls into the shores of death, of life, of something beyond him. She has never been a good mother—has loved her children, perhaps, but did not always make sure to be there—and thus it is no great surprise that she lets him slip between her fingers.
That within days of his birth, it was just him.
Him and the world stretching before him.
It was not some warm welcome. Not some grand unveiling of the goodness of people. It was just him and the strangeness of Beqanna. It was him and only him; it would always be him, he was convinced.
Today though he allows himself a moment of feeling like he belonged. He allows himself the chance to walk amongst them, as though he belonged, as though he could convince himself that this was not some lie. It feels strange—other—and he wonders how long he will be able to keep up this charade.
Someone passes and he nods his head, as though he did it every day.
Another catches his gaze and he does not immediately avert it.
When he sees the young girl, purple and covered in frost, glowing in spots, he is unable to look away. His red eyes sharpen and he pauses, his face going from soft young boy to predator in a moment and then back to unassuming boy within another breath. He thinks of walking away, but he is not fast enough.
Instead, he remains—steady and still and watching.
I want to see your sadness. I want to share your sin.
I want to bleed your blood. I want to be let in.
