Darkling Prince

The Darkling Prince

There was something decidedly off about the landscape surrounding Asphodae Street.  Everything seemed to hover uneasily around a state of dullness, as if the land had intended to shift into a black and white existence, only to get caught halfway there.  The ground was a pale brown that was determined to never look rich, and the grass that grew from it a was a sickly shade, more yellow than green on a good day and an unappealing golden rod the rest of the time.  Even the brickwork on the houses seemed faded, washed-out pink and tarnished puce left in the place of regal crimsons and royal maroons; wrought iron railing stood crookedly, like old sentinels bent from standing guard for too long.  Even the thrushes were faint, their calls low and devoid of the jollity that usually accompanied their soaring songs.  Solemnly, Asphodae street sat in an exhausted yet unending state, a wash rag that had been rung out one too many times. 

                However, there were a few features that slunk along Asphodae street, here and there, that stood out in a stark and unsettling contrast to their ashen background.  A boy, tall and wiry wandered the street, the flex of faint, sinuous muscles whispering below the stretch of his dark clothing.  He was no different from the stray cats that stalked along the same pavement path; both they and the boy shared a certain unkempt litheness and the ability to convey warning with every step.  The boy was dark and solid in comparison to the world around him; an ebony shirt clung to his ribs and dark pants hung from the illiacs of his hips.  Unnaturally pale hair sat in a messy shock atop his head but the inherent bronze of his skin and the haughty arch of his cheekbones muttered aged tales of ancestors from the original North American tribes; the mild suggestion of Japanese blood showed itself in his face.  The boy was the Prince of Death, strolling along the wastelands of hell. 

                The boy was not prince-like in many regards, however, apart from his appearance.  His stroll was uncertain, as if he was prepared to bolt with every step, an unconscious habit he'd like acquired from unhappier times.  Like a sapling in a storm, he walked stooped, his spine curved noticeably and his eyes glued to the pavement.  It wasn't so much that he looked ashamed, just broken, as if he was the sapling that had been pushed too far.  The fractured light of battered suns glowered in the dark depth of his eyes. 

                He was alone, the darkling prince, scars invisible but undeniably present as he walked down Asphodae street, silent like the grave.