He walks through the court like a whisper of what-might-have-been, his sides slatted with a hunger that should have disappeared upon the cusp of summer -- he is a shade chained to life, his steps heavy and slow as he meanders his way along a beaten sand path. From the corner of his eye, he sees a mother pull her son away from him, and his smile is twisted and bitter -- he wants them to fear him, does he not? To be wary and to stay away from him? His chest clenches with loneliness, a constant hollow ache that he has never understood, and it only serves to help fuel the fire banked low in his veins. He whirls and offers the child a bared-teeth smile, stalking towards the stilt-legged thing -- the same age as his own sons, the one and only time he had laid eyes upon them, when he’d left a bag of gold for each of them at the doorstep of the orphanage they’d been brought into, a letter tucked inside as well that had explained his side of things, their heritage should they ever wish to seek it out. “Do you believe in the bogeyman?” He mutters to the child as the mother freezes, torn between the urge to run and the instinct to defend her round-eyed offspring. The boy shakes his head, too quickly, and a harsh laugh burst from his chest. "You should." |
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