I was once the
leader of great men. A leader among leaders, the right hand man of a
powerful warlord. I was once called a demon lord, the devil’s right
hand, a barbarian, a murderer. Once, I stood on the summit of the
hill that would be the summit of the world, the next great empire
after the fall of Rome. I was once thought invincible, once bathed in
blood and black leather like a cape of roses. Once, I was alive.
Yesterday I saw my
reflection for the first time in two and a half years. By chance
alone, in my usual wanderings through dark corridors and toneless
halls, there was a small shard of a mirror, bloodstained in the lower
right corner, splattered and half-covered by a fallen rock. Perhaps I
was the one that had kicked it loose in the mindless pacing when my
mind became his, as broken and shattered as the partial reflection
staring back at me. Three eyes. Eyes that were once as hard and
immobile as stone, dark green-brown turned black by the bare light.
The pupils widened to leave only threads of color, a slim splash of
white at the rims, shot with cracks of tireless crimson. The third,
almost unblinking in my forehead, red and glaring and dead as any of
the beasts locked within these ashy stone walls. I shuddered at the
sight, pulled back at first into the comfortable, tangled crouch that
splayed my three sets of arms. I was still as horrendous as when he
had first changed me. From the neck up my skin had paled without the
sun, below that all hard black and red, marked in shapeless patterns,
two fangs barely touching my lower lip, some snarling beast with a
lust for blood.
The same blood that
stained the mirror. It reminded me I was hungry.
The rest I had only
seen in a flash. A body unclothed and dirtied, all six arms moving in
a knot to push myself away, my legs remaining the same, blackened to
eight sprawling limbs. None of that mattered, not any longer,
especially not now. I was a monstrosity—I knew that. I had known
that from the moment I saw the swirl of white light swooping towards
me, some blank avenging spirit from the fingertips of a man—a
creature—madder than I.
The hunger burned in
my chest. He had a new pet.
He. He. He. My
master. My owner. My creator. The creature I despise the most, and
that I know the best.
The white dragon.
Another shudder
made my arms tremble, this self-inflicted by mere memory. It wasn’t
yesterday any longer, it was today, and still I crouched by that
damned mirror, a rope just out of reach. It wasn’t important. I
stepped on it as I passed by at last, forcing my limbs to coordinated
movement. It cracked, broke, and cut a thin line along the bottom of
my black and hardened foot. Blood trailed behind me. I ignored it. It
would only mean that I would need to take more.
Halls upon halls,
doors closed and locked and lining the dank and dark passageways.
Voices — no — breaths — life, lingered somewhere among the
threatening chaos. Suho would be nearby. He would be in his chambers,
above us all, away from us all until his summons brought us forth in
a flash of blinding light. But only at his call. To do otherwise
would be to threaten a sudden foul temper.
That was a chance I
would take.
Being the favorite
of a madman is no prize. But of late another pair has been taking his
attention…it didn’t matter any more.
But
those centaurs.
Twins, male and female, as disgusting as day. No, as night. As this
entrapment. One, the male, defiant and utterly silent, kept in the
dungeons below. The other less physically defiant, bent on saving who
she can of his new captives, captives I need to survive. Whose blood
I need, while she heals and protects. From who? From me, and others
more dangerous that skitter through the halls as fleeting shadows.
Who am I to kid
myself? This is not my story.
The hunger is
growing, avalanching higher and higher, a dark pit in the bottom of
my stomach, gnawing at me a bloodlust I couldn’t satisfy on my own.
Suho knows this—he knows everything that goes on in his caverns. As
much as he knew that I was crawling and hurrying to him, to beg, to
suffer if necessary. Anything to cure the ache that threatened to
consume. I didn’t want to lose my sanity again—it came and went
in bouts of cruelty that reflected his. Not to say I wasn’t cruel
before, but then I was cruel and sane, I had control of it, it was
for a purpose. For war. This is for survival, to stave off the hungry
beast.
And is that truly
so different? What was war, compared to famine? All I do is survive
each timeless hour that shifts through the dripping stones.
Down here, there is
no day and night, only darkness and groaning walls. My eyes are too
used to that now. A few torches cough and sputter in sconces rarely
cared for, tarnished and leaving a blackened trail of soot down the
wall behind them. Only his room is ever bright, that only at his
whim. Here now is my home.
What humanity I
have left is dying. The sons of the dead would say I had none to
begin with.
Axsis. Isn’t it a
shame I can remember no more of my name that that? Lord Axsis,
Commander Axsis, the Devil’s right hand.
Or, used to be.
Would he be a white devil, too?
This is not my
story.
The hunger is
killing me. I had gotten lost in the halls I never get lost in, the
maddening honeycomb of chambers and screams. And they called me a
madman?
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