— I'm not here looking for absolution —
He has never been concerned about whether or not he would be missed.
Either the answer was obvious (Desire would, of course, mourn his presence—as she should) or the answer was unremarkable (he had little care for whether the fleas of the world cared). It was a freeing sensation to not care about what others thought of him or didn’t; he was more concerned with the way that the dead rallied to his call. The way that he could crook a finger and they would come crawling from the worms and the dirt, pulling themselves forward on their bellies to grovel at his feet should he wish it.
These are the things that matter the most to him.
Still, he is interested enough in the young girl who lies on the ground before him. The one whose eyes grow large with wonder at his gifts (as they should, he thinks, as they all should). Was it repulsive how she craved the dark within him or exhilarating? Was he intrigued but it or turned away by it?
He mulls over this questions as he comes closer, as she simpers and coos, her tongue sugary syrup as though he could not tell the poison that lies beneath it. Nothing purely innocent writhes beneath the promise of death the way that she does. Nothing purely good would crave the shadows so intensely.
But his face remains impassive—that is, until she orders him again.
His eyes glitter cold as he leans down, the warmth of his breath contrasting with the ice on his heart as he lets his nose hover just above her. Almost enough to close the distance, to run teeth down her cheek.
He sweeps his fine head up to the sensitive skin below her ear and breathes,
“No.”
