Nine chalices of blood, crimson red sloshing within glistening gold, have vanished. His lips were once upon the cold metal of each grail, and he has drank the liquid that fulfilled his desires and longings. The goblets themselves have fallen from his fingertips, their precious golden beauty forgotten as they clash against the ground, lost. Nine sacrifices of the finest blood have satisfied his thirst and brought harmony to the rifts of his heart.
Nine have have fallen; One, himself, has risen.
But, he too, falls.
A thirst, perhaps, has found its paradise, but his spirit cannot live amidst such joy for eternity. His soul is not immortal, and his heart, though broken, may never be limitless. His body descends to the floor, and he is lost within a sea of gold and glamor. His fingers find asylum in stillness, and they hang, unmoving. Blood spills from the tips of his lips, drizzling as fine droplets of red slide down the dry, colorless surface of his skin. The brown of his eyes dull, and soon they disappear beneath the pale hue of his eyelids. His mind surrenders to darkness; the world is shattered around him, and its remnants perish, lost. A single thought dawdles within the faded fragments that linger, obscured by a swirling mist; though soon, it will dissipate into the mist, gone.
I've always liked the number ten.
Kylar Knight is the tenth sacrifice.
