11-15-2016, 02:24 AM
Bruise did not hunger for crowns and kingdoms—not yet, not now.
For the moment, he was pleased to help pave the way for his father, the keeper and origin of the Fear. He was pleased to have secured his spot at Pollock’s side, to have earned the Krampus’ favor. In time, perhaps, he would turn his dark gaze toward greater things, reach in ambition for titles and the power that came with them—but not now. For now, he slunk in the shadows and played along the edges of the Fear; for now, he learned the curves of his own gifts, the weight of it as it sat in his own palm. He learned how to wield the darkness, to slip the edge of the blade between the ribs, to pull out terror between the teeth.
For now, he held onto her gaze, his gaze unwavering and disturbingly still.
“I have,” he says simply, letting it rest between them for a moment. The best part, however, was that he did not have to beg to have the power flood through his veins once more; he did not have to sink to his knees and feign regret for sins he did not commit. He was sure that she had heard stories of those who had clawed their way back up the mountain to ask for forgiveness, to beg for gifts and mercy. He had not.
He does not share that though—does not show the tricks up his sleeves. Instead he just tilts his coltish head toward her, shrewd in his youth. “What if I was to tell you I could help you recover just as easily?” His grin grew slow, languid as it spread across his mouth, deliberate and empty. “What would something like that mean to someone like you?”
Bruise
head like a hole; as black as your soul.