m e k h i (incomplete)

p r o l o g u e

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p r o l o g u e 

"What does the Law ask of me?" his voice is low, head tilted up with a throat exposed to the sky, eyes shut firmly and jaw tightened as his torso wracks over with tremors.

He's repressing the beast within in him, the beast raging, clawing out at him, ready to take throats and soil earth with crimson. He can feel it's poison flush through his veins, stilling his heart, burning throughout his form. It's anger burned, but the bounty of pain the beast carried was scalding, corrosive and ripped through matter. His form wracks, trying not to break into fur. His skin is taut against his bones, clutching himself tightly, restrain too hard for him to deal with. Tears fall from shut eyes, gathering and making his lashes wet, coveting on the dark skin beneath his eyes.

Tattooed fingers are curled into fists, pressing so hard into the palm of his flesh, that blood leaks, wet and warm and tainting the floor, diving deep and colouring lycan grounds. The veins on his bare arms are deep and prominent to the eyes, muscles tensing too hard and letting them come forth. They're constrained to the point where vessels may burst, blue and black in colour, painting the skin.

The air in his lungs isn't enough, the air around him no longer with the intention to aid him, now trying to suffocate him. The spear he held limply in one hand is dropped to the floor, point turning over. The grey cannot be seen, everything red instead.

He'd used what they had used on her.

He doesn't feel relief from his actions, breaths hard, in and out, in and out. The scars on his chest are open, bleeding and wallowing down the torso of his abdomen. They'd never leave him. They'd always be a reminder.

He had failed his half.

He swallows down a sob, eyes opening to meet with the figure on the throne. She says nothing, dark eyes watching him carefully, features stoic and unreadable. Her figure is poised, elegant as she sits up there, but her eyes churn, head thinking more than she'd ever let him know.

"You must take another Mekhi. That is what you must do," features youthful, but her eyes are old. She's beginning to fade, ready to pass on the title.

Mekhi's feature curve into agony, features crumpling with the heavy hurt his heart bares.

"No," it's gritted out with all of his might, tone low and deadly, brows knitting together and breathing raspy.

"That is what the Law dictates. That is what you must do to take the throne. I can no longer hold this Kingdom," he can see it, see her fading. His head shakes.

"How am I meant to have another, when she is all I was meant to have?" it's roared, his fury emanating from deep within his core, canines elongating and the beast ready to cause havoc.

He swallows is down, muscles shaking furiously. He inhales deep and out. He'd never take another. It wasn't his place. His destined half was gone, how could he continue life without her?

The female on the throne says nothing, a soft sigh falling from her lips.

"She's dead Mekhi. You live as a lycan for more than a century after today. How will you rule with no female? The Law won't let that happen," his jaw hurts, eyes strained.

Humans would call the current day a birthday – he had lived for two decades now. And now with aging to twenty, he'd stay twenty for years until his throne was passed down, just as his mother. For him, this was a day he had been waiting for an entire lifetime. A time where his soul would find it's half and become complete. A time where he would descend to the throne as a King, with his Queen in hand.