#ideaofevil

The air did not stir as he ran. It parted around him as though water that did not move, merely spreading aside around him and closing as he chased the sound that had now been taken away, the jangling of glass ebbing, the shards of twinkling light slowing. His cheeks were wet. His breaths hitched between his teeth, but he could not hear them. A swell of pain throbbed within him like the light that had blossomed in the dark. He ran, and his footing dispersed beneath him.

He cried out, a sharp, jarring noise.

He fell, endless, the white of his surrounding bleeding into darkness once more, until the light his outstretched hand sought for disappeared altogether, swallowed by the surrounding gloom.

His descent slowed, and hit a stop. He felt nothing beneath him, and as he looked, his heart pounded faster, his shudder of breath heralding another wave of tears. He wrapped his arms around him, and crouched down, knees drawn, head tucked. Hot tears dampened the fabric of his trousers. He sniffed, lips pressed. He could not tell how long he stayed there for, only that a hand, so warm and gentle, touched the top of his head, and combed through his hair.

He gasped, and looked up. There was no one around him, but a distant murmur of voice stirred just at the very edge of earshot. A woman’s voice, soft, unfamiliar, speaking to someone, and he was merely a voyeur, eavesdropping into a one-sided conversation. The voice laughed, the sound akin to the trickling of streams in a forest. It waned to silence, but he stood, and walked in the direction from which it came, wiping at his eyes and pulling away loose strands of white hair that stuck to his cheeks.

He walked, and walked. In a straight line, every step following the previous. There was nothing around him, only an ever expanding realm of darkness. He was afraid, but not of the dark, nor of loneliness. There was something at the end of his journey that spoke of boundless terror. However, he knew that was where he must go, no matter how much he shook, no matter how much he wanted otherwise.

The air grew thick with moisture. Fog. He realized, tiny beads of vapour that tickled his lungs. The soles of his shoes touched solid for the first time. It was soft. His every step rustled. Grass. Was he in a forest? His surroundings remained black as the night, without stars, without moon. He could not see the mist, but it hung around him, thick, caressing, cool touches against his face and arms.

He stopped. He froze.

There was another pair of footsteps, just before him, unseen, walking the same way.

The gallop of his heart thudded against the cage of his chest. He gaped, but he could not see. He held his breath, and there it was, an even cycle of respiration, slower than his own, deeper, that of older, stronger lungs. The other pair of footsteps had stopped as well. It was waiting for him, and at once, he felt calmer than before, only slightly, but it was every sliver all the more precious due to the company.

He began to walk once more, and took great comfort in the sound of the other footsteps. His companion’s strides were longer, firmer, speaking of greater age and taller in height. As they traversed through a forest unseen and ripe with the scent of dawn, he heard another sound, a dull splatter on the grass. He couldn’t make out what it was at first, but as he followed the other’s trail, another smell reached his nose, one he could never mistake for anything else.

Blood.

The sound was large pearls of blood dribbling onto the grass.

His eyes widened. Fear overcame him, and he ran, chasing after his companion. Unlike what he’d expected, the other did not match his pace. Before long, he stumbled into something solid. A body. Covered in armor and cloth, and straps of leather. He clutched on, pressing his cheek against the small of the other’s back, and he cried, tiny noises bleeding from his throat, dissipating into the dark of their world.

A hand, much larger than his own, cupped over his arm. It was soaked with warm fluids, which continued to leak onto his skin, the scent of metal swarming his senses.

“…I’m glad…” a voice murmured, “…to see you cry…”

It was a man’s voice, soft spoken, little more than a whisper.

He raised his head, and tried to peer through the dark to see the other’s face. However, his eyes were blind in so murky an air. He opened his mouth to speak, but the warmth between his arms dissipated, in a split of a moment gone, without warning, melting into the mist.

He looked around, despite the futility of his sight, and searched with tears streaming down his cheeks. He shouted. He wept. He ran without direction, now lost, driven to the brink of madness, for a heart so young knew not to calm in face of trouble, only to scream for help, into a world which could not hear.

A hand slammed onto his shoulder. It caught him, tearing a shriek from his lips. The hand was heavy, skin calloused and coarse as it grabbed his wrist. He thrashed and kicked. He yelled protest and calls for help, but he was little more than a helpless pup yelping and whimpering in a grip of iron. This was a man. Surely, it must be. The figure towered above him, a mountain of clattering plates of metal. There was no gentility in the touch, only a goal, dragging him along no matter his reluctance, his will of no consequence to a tide stronger in the making.

There was a glow in the distance, that of a horizon of red with a blackened sun, swirling, gorging on the meager light around it. They were walking toward it, and the scream that ripped from his throat hurt even his own ears to hear. He struck the man. Kicked and bit and scratched the hand. However, the man did not budge, not even when a fresh burst of blood trickled onto his thin, captured arm. He dug his feet into the ground, sobs choking his voice when it did little good. He was weak. He had no control. He could only watch as they neared the goal of their trek, and the man, the only one he would see in this world, stopped in his tracks.

He was tall, dressed in armor of black. There was a giant sword on his back, which he took, the gesture almost languid, as he at last relinquished his grip.

“…Griffith…”

A name. His name.

Griffith gasped. He’d forgotten his name.

The edge of the sword glinted under the red glow of the horizon. The arc it swung was wide and heavy, but it was quick, quicker than he could stumble back and run.

Pain pierced him. The splintering of bone and sundering of flesh filled his mouth with blood that spat through his lips. The agony was indescribable, but shock had stolen his voice. The sword should’ve cleaved him in half. He was so small a child, but it stuck inside him, penetrating straight through his heart, the sinew of his torso, laced with torn vessels, smeared over the blade.

He coughed, the last wheeze of torn lungs as he looked up, to witness the man’s face. His vision blurred before he could. As the sword withdrew, taking the remains of his heart, he stumbled back, and the black sun caught his fall, drinking him in, engulfing him, until the tips of his digits sank into its liquid folds.

He floated, lashes fluttering closed. A chill spread throughout his frame, and the pain faded, even as the darkness swallowed the leak of his blood, cleaning him, dressing him, the gaping hole in his chest healing without a heart.

Music. Gentle plucking of notes.

He peeled open his eyelids, as though he has slept for years.

The world was dark, but there was something darker still, a deeper black, a silhouette that hungered for all light, even in darkness, a castle of living flesh atop a spiraling tower. Its mass was incomprehensible. Its make utterly impossible for the mind to behold. It was utter alien in nature, beyond the scope of meager human perception, a shape that morphed to every flicker of eyes, every blink, every breath, every stir of hair in a perpetual wind. It could not be understood, so vast as though every universe lived within its manifestation. Rapturous and terrible, an existence beyond and encompassing all existence, an idea yet much more than what this mere word could convey, living death, a hyperbole parodying every rendition and depiction of its nature in church and temple.

“…My Son.”

It spoke, yet did not speak at all, in harmony of sound, pure and beautiful, words that were not said but felt, only in the most instinctual definition of syllables strung.

“My dearest Child.”

It addressed him, and Griffith knew, beyond a doubt, that this was no mere turn of phrase. It was literal. A claim of parentage. One that inspired in him the greatest awe yet terrified him to the innermost depth of his soul.

He could not scream.

He could not cry.

Not a tear shed from his gaping eyes, frozen, the hole within which his heart once dwelt throbbing with what it lacked.

And then he woke.

Without warning, without a clear end, a retreat so swift he was left winded, reeling from its aftermath, bile at the back of his throat and tears streaming from his eyes.

He looked around, gaze wild with fear. He did not know where he was. It was dark, as dark as when he’d fallen asleep. He could not move. He could not stir even a digit. His heart pounded. His breaths raced, lung squeezed for air. Cold sweat matted his hair to his face, but his cheeks felt so hot, as did his eyes, heat wafting from the collar of his tunic.

Around him, mist shifted, so heavy a curtain of vapour as to cover him completely. It dissipated, revealing tips of trees and blades of grass, his belongings in a small bundle beside his slumbering horse. The forest emerged, and with it, the night sky. With a gasp, the weight holding him down lifted, and he cried, a raspy scream wrenched from his gut as he curled on his side and hugged his knees, shivering, rattled of bone, torrents of tears gushing from the pinch of his lashes.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there for, a trembling ball on the grass. Dawn broke. Birds started to sing. As though urged by a greater power, a glimpse of strength returned to his limbs, and he crawled, toward a creek close by, eyes swollen and red, sniffling, breaths in hiccups. He only wanted to wash his face, and grab a fresh drink. Or so he thought. As he looked into the lively sprint of water, familiar shape caught his gaze, inciting a wavering inhale of air.

The Crimson Behelit. His own.

With quivering digits, he sank his hand into the water bitingly cold, and took it from its nestle within pebbles and mud. He looked upon it, eyes agape, as warmth return to his digits and spread through the rest of his frame, from the very trinket he held.

“…Papa…?” He whispered.

The Behelit stirred, eyes rolling before its lids pried apart. It stared up at him, its gaze beholding every truth of the world.

Griffith laughed, the sound little more than choking on his tears.

“…Papa…” He croaked through a scratchy throat, and held the Behelit to his heart.