Morons and Monarchs

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Phobos 🐖

I sit on the edge of Dystan's bed, and with my cold fingertips, trace the curve of her cheekbone.

I missed her. I really did. The way she yelled- the way she screamed my name when she was mad- the way she would look at something as simple as a garment lovingly yet at a sword with desire. She was dangerous yet soft.

But she was forbidden.

She is barely in her 400's, not even an adult yet.

She had fallen asleep today, to a lullaby I used to sing to her when she had nightmares.

I lean down- careful to not awaken her- and brush my lips across her forehead, smoothing the knot that formed between her brows.

I move her hair away from her ears- displaying one of the strands across her pillow- and she stirs.

If Dystan knew that I had touched her hair with the hand she thinks I ride- she will laboriously clean it every five minutes for at least a year.

I would probably encourage her- her hair looks a bit greasy at the roots.

I look around her room. There are a few mosaics from when I was here, but mostly, it is as if she had forgotten me.

I dislike being in my physical form- I muse as I walk around the room, picking up peeled posters of bands long gone, and gathering a bunch of parchment that deserves to be thrown away; It is the least I could give them.

When Drystan writes, she practically impales the paper from pressing so hard. I cringe every time I have to watch her do it- I think I sympathize more with her paper than the souls I torture.

I tuck my wings in uncomfortably.

I haven't flown in eons.

Nor will I for a few more.

I stride over to her desk, picking up the countless stray bottles- full of what, I can only guess. I sniff one that looks as if it has been molding for at least a year.

I gag.

I hear the springs on Dystans bed groan, and my back straightens, turning slightly to survey her as she awakens.

She always looks so darn ugly when she does.

All immortals do. Mortals as well. And Drystan drools- which makes everything evidently worse.

At least she hasn't snored yet.

That is a sight to behold- one would think their is a feral hound on the leash when she snores in her sleep- each guttural noise sounding like a roar from pre-mortal times.

I gently pile all of her trash onto her carpet, laying a small note on top reading:

Throw these away, you pig.

I am the nicest person ever, I know. AT least it is a PG name, I could always make it worse.

Drystan's mind is a bleak place- one of the worse. It is empty other than of thoughts that constantly pile atop each other until death they will release. They make her ponder the existence of the world, of which is a dangerous thing for one to wonder- for secrets are often tossed to the wind if one only dares to look within the particles.

But when one does find out such secrets- it can drive them to insanity. A foreign concept to many, is hard to grasp for few- yet when majority of the population want to know the truth- it becomes apparent that one must hide the falsities of the world, the pain that they would feel if they only knew what I did.

I wonder if Drystan would understand if she found out. I wonder if she would look at me the same way if that particular situation ever occurred.

I sit back on the edge of her bed- reclining ever so slightly in order to lean against the adjacent wall.

I reach over to her as she shifts again, making a soft sound escape her bound lips. I touch my fingers to her temples, closing my eyes and exhaling as my physical body dissipates. As my being dissolves into find mist and enters through the cracks in her grandmother's sewing.

She did a shit job.

"Good morning, darling." I tell her as she finally clears her eyes of its crustiness it so often regenerates.

Disgusting.