08-28-2010, 02:51 AM
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There was a sickness within Gabriel. It had been there since his brother had died. Perhaps it had been in there before. He knew of it, though he would not face it. He lived in the shadow of a terrible monster with a crooked smile, one that still came for him in his dreams. In a very real way, that wolf had become the shadow within himself, the shadow whose face had changed from one madman to another. Gabriel was a wolf. He had always been a wolf despite the mark on his shoulder or the title he carried.
So it was a wolf’s face that grinned and laughed and swallowed blood and fire. It was a wolf who shoved the heavy body from him as it toppled like a paper dragon. Gabriel was painted in the blood of his enemy, fur a deep scarlet black, as dark as the grandfather that had given to him this gift of madness.
But it was his mother’s eyes that would not leave the face of his greatest enemy.
It was his mother’s fury that drove his hands, that ripped the blade out of the throat, that carried it high and brought it down once into the heart. He held it there, perched next to the fallen beast, tongue lolling from his mouth. The laughter had died down into a low, dreadful thing, a mad giggling that was as deep as his voice. It was a sound filled with hatred.
He leaned forward over the dying wolf and the holy signs around his neck dripped with his own blood. Like before, Gabriel had killed his own brother.
And like before, he felt exulted.
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There was a sickness within Gabriel. It had been there since his brother had died. Perhaps it had been in there before. He knew of it, though he would not face it. He lived in the shadow of a terrible monster with a crooked smile, one that still came for him in his dreams. In a very real way, that wolf had become the shadow within himself, the shadow whose face had changed from one madman to another. Gabriel was a wolf. He had always been a wolf despite the mark on his shoulder or the title he carried.
So it was a wolf’s face that grinned and laughed and swallowed blood and fire. It was a wolf who shoved the heavy body from him as it toppled like a paper dragon. Gabriel was painted in the blood of his enemy, fur a deep scarlet black, as dark as the grandfather that had given to him this gift of madness.
But it was his mother’s eyes that would not leave the face of his greatest enemy.
It was his mother’s fury that drove his hands, that ripped the blade out of the throat, that carried it high and brought it down once into the heart. He held it there, perched next to the fallen beast, tongue lolling from his mouth. The laughter had died down into a low, dreadful thing, a mad giggling that was as deep as his voice. It was a sound filled with hatred.
He leaned forward over the dying wolf and the holy signs around his neck dripped with his own blood. Like before, Gabriel had killed his own brother.
And like before, he felt exulted.