11-14-2008, 02:38 AM
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Everything had changed.
He remembered everything. He remembered those dirty streets, those men. They had wandered down the wrong alley, into the wrong stranger. Ahren had struck with the precision of a trained killer, each time with the knife. Some times, he disemboweled them and read signs in their entrails. Sometimes he moved the bodies, finding their patterns holy or sacrilegious. Everything had come together in one fell swoop, and in doing so, he understood what his mother had intended for him.
Azathoth was a God, living and breathing. Azathoth was within him because it was him. The demon, the god, the devil, it was Ahren. It always had been. He was surprised it had taken this long for him to realize it, but he had come to the realization as he left Laruku in the cabin to await his death. He knew it then because he knew he was going to die. Nothing else mattered. All of those dead men had been impulsive kills. What he had imagined himself doing to his mother, his father, his children, his ex-mates and long gone in-laws, well, that was all him. The demon was real, but the demon was a lie.
Something pulsed in his palm and he stopped dead in his tracks. Someone was nearby, and that someone’s scent brought a tidal wave of memories flooding back into his head. The scars on his chest began to burn, and he felt his face twist into a snarl. He closed his hand around the scar and tightened it until he saw blood. Red was the only color he could see. He intended to see it drain out of that damned woman before he fell under the weight of days.
Two steps, another two, another three. She was backing out a cave, but not quite. Coming to a halt behind her, planting his feet like iron in the ground, Ahren had the knife in his hand and felt his own blood marking it, branding it as his own. “Do you remember when you told me you wished you had died?” His voice was mocking, condescending, and his mouth was grinning. It was his eyes though, that seemed to have changed. The were the eyes of a man who had nothing left to lose, and the eyes of a man expecting death.
Everything had changed.
He remembered everything. He remembered those dirty streets, those men. They had wandered down the wrong alley, into the wrong stranger. Ahren had struck with the precision of a trained killer, each time with the knife. Some times, he disemboweled them and read signs in their entrails. Sometimes he moved the bodies, finding their patterns holy or sacrilegious. Everything had come together in one fell swoop, and in doing so, he understood what his mother had intended for him.
Azathoth was a God, living and breathing. Azathoth was within him because it was him. The demon, the god, the devil, it was Ahren. It always had been. He was surprised it had taken this long for him to realize it, but he had come to the realization as he left Laruku in the cabin to await his death. He knew it then because he knew he was going to die. Nothing else mattered. All of those dead men had been impulsive kills. What he had imagined himself doing to his mother, his father, his children, his ex-mates and long gone in-laws, well, that was all him. The demon was real, but the demon was a lie.
Something pulsed in his palm and he stopped dead in his tracks. Someone was nearby, and that someone’s scent brought a tidal wave of memories flooding back into his head. The scars on his chest began to burn, and he felt his face twist into a snarl. He closed his hand around the scar and tightened it until he saw blood. Red was the only color he could see. He intended to see it drain out of that damned woman before he fell under the weight of days.
Two steps, another two, another three. She was backing out a cave, but not quite. Coming to a halt behind her, planting his feet like iron in the ground, Ahren had the knife in his hand and felt his own blood marking it, branding it as his own. “Do you remember when you told me you wished you had died?” His voice was mocking, condescending, and his mouth was grinning. It was his eyes though, that seemed to have changed. The were the eyes of a man who had nothing left to lose, and the eyes of a man expecting death.