[open] you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to

[firion]

that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

The day had always been his reprieve.

It was when he fell into mortal sleep. It was when he could wash the ash from his mouth—when he could rinse himself in the river and feel his body come back to him. It was the only relief in his life and he found himself throwing into each and every day, sometimes refusing to sleep altogether so that he could have the hours of life to himself.

The hours where he was himself.

The hours where he could pretend to be anything else.

But then the night comes. The eclipse blots out the sun. The darkness is swift and thick, and he feels something strange twisting in him. The curse bubbles to the surface, swifter than usual, and he cries out against it as it moves through him. It mutates as it pushes through every inch of him, as it reclaims the body that should be nothing but the picture of health. Strength and youth and healing robbed as the muscles begin to rot, the skin begin to decay, death begin to creep through him, blood growing sluggish.

It is different this time though.

It does not overwhelm him until he is nothing but. It weakens its grasp, perhaps because in a world of everlasting darkness there is no true night. Perhaps because the world is not right side up.

Regardless, it gives him enough control to know what is happening. It leaves him aware enough to know that he is dying, that he is dead, as he stumbles through the forest. And this, somehow, is worse than when the curse stole his mind from him entirely. Because he can feel that carnivorous hunger roll in his belly and he can feel the cold air as it whispers against exposed bone. He can feel the way he is both weakened and decaying and still overly strong all at once—the entirely wrong way that he moves.

He groans low in his throat as he continues to move, dragging his feet.

The piece of his mind that is still his own is thankful that at least the curse moved fast. Were someone to see him, it is almost certain that they would not recognize him—a blessing, he supposes.

How low the bar these days.

so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried

@[The Monsters] - do your worst to his jaguar mimicry