𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐞

34 | Necrosis

(A/N: A Couple of warnings before we start; Implied Sexual Assault, Minor (?) Gore)

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I spoke in nervous tones
On the day of your death
And found myself lacking all sensory depth

Some time next Spring
All the flowers eroded
And I couldn't care less

I looked at my reflection and saw everything I hated
In the form of where you used to stand
And what was now left in its place

Gaunt and bitter
I adorned your absence
Like a crown
Hollow as my chest

- Akemi

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

7,800 years ago

Death.

Death is an ending and a beginning.

It is the darkness at the end of life's light. It is the sky on a moonless night when everything is still and no animal breathes as if in fear of an unknown danger. The nights on which Aria, Canon, and Sonnet lie slumbering in their palace. The nights on which not even the wind brushes the blades of grass. It is an uncontrollable factor even for those that old age does not hunt down. For those of us who have lived long and impede, death is a silly fantasy. A fantasy in which we cannot — and possibly will not — grasp until that uncontrollable factor's dice roll in place.

For those whose lives are as lasting as a flame cradled in the arms of spring's raging squalls, the idea of an eternal rest from which you cannot wake is foreign. Terrifying.

After all, when you have lived such a long life, the idea of an abrupt end is as incomprehensible as a god's true form to a mortal.

However, some immortals aren't as lucky as to live long, eventful lives. Some come face to face with death so many times it's something they begin to understand, to analyze, to wonder about, to fear. Not much separates immortals from mortals — simply a matter of semantics and a roll of luck. Yet, there are fates far worse than death for those cursed to live such long lives. Fates so terrible they mar history like an ink blot upon a page. Fates like his.

His face haunts every dream — every nightmare.

Forever changing. Forever many instead of one. Twisting and writhing like maggots in boiling water, it distorts and melts, switching violently from one identity to the next. His voice grows ever closer, whispering honeyed words and promises of more. His body bends and contorts every millisecond as if it pained him to look one way for too long.

Red, softly glowing eyes with pupils the shape of a four pointed star track movement like a hawk. They were the only constant amongst that mass of forever shifting flesh. Every twitch of muscle, every inhale of air, every crunch of footsteps. He watches. Waiting. Waiting for even the tiniest blunder.

In dishonor of the strife and terror he rained upon the settlements of Prophis, He was dubbed Belphegor.

﹝•••﹞

"From what I've observed, there's three stages of Death. Early Stage, Middle Stage and, finally, Final Stage."

I grunted to show I was listening as I continued on repairing a hole in my tunic. I've got to stop getting caught on brambles and twigs. The sun was warm on our backs as it streamed in through the windows, bright flowers blossomed in the field that surrounded our home as the sound of small animals scurrying in and out of sight as if afraid they may suffer the consequences of improper camouflage by way of their larger predators making them an early morning breakfast played out.