[html] read only. mkhai encounters samael for the very first time.
Within the moonlight the landscape took on a haunting appearance, filled with darkness and shadow that painted everything in thick, dark lines and monochrome shades. This place was utterly alien to Mkhai, but the night was a familiar friend, welcoming him with open arms and beckoning him into her close embrace. It protected him, shielding him from unwarranted, prying eyes and allowing him to melt right into the backdrop as though he didn’t even exist. He didn’t fear monsters or devils, for he was a prince of hell all on his own. If his body was destroyed he would return again before dawn—immortal and eternal as the sun and moon in the sky above. They’d been traveling for days, but the terrain had begun to melt into one long blur within his mind—indistinguishable and uninterested to the homesick young jackal. He didn’t wish to be here. He wished to be back home surrounded by lavish things and others of his kind, that knew his ways and understood his actions. The creatures here were unknown, and though he didn’t fear, he knew that he didn’t belong.
He nearly stumbled across the creature, prone and nearly invisible in the shadows. Bathed in black with a pelt kissed by shadow, only the tell-tale gleam of an eye revealed life within the sea of darkness. Bristling, he stood as still as stone, waiting for movement. A breath exhaled into the cool night air before the thing moved, shifting only inches. The coppery stench of blood hung thick in the air, though the source didn’t seem to be fresh or profuse. Mkhai’s lips pulled back over his teeth, daring the beast to make any movement that he didn’t approve of, but he didn’t. He wondered if he was dying. Perhaps then the boy would receive a fresh meal that consisted of more than just small game. Sepirah had her serpent and Mkhai his knives, but a small group of fast-traveling jackals were not prime candidates for decent hunting. They could not waste food, nor could they afford to carry around large quantities of decaying flesh as they went.
“Only a boy,” a serpentine voice hissed into the night, turning that single gleaming eye away from Mkhai. Bloodlust rose within his chest, longing to sink his claws and fangs into the creature that was in no position to brush him aside so easily over his short, youthful stature. He may be a child now, but he would grow—one day acquired a lean, muscled form that he would put to good use. Of course, the thought hadn’t yet occurred that he was facing a beast that didn’t care whether he lived or died. He saw only disrespect and his mane bristled, adding weight to his lanky form. “And who are you? A weak, pathetic man on the verge of death? I should finish you off and devour your heart,” he replied back, lifting his chin.
“Go ahead,” he whispered, voice as soft as the wind passing through the barren branches above their heads. There was no rise to be gotten here, and Mkhai was disappointed. He fed off negativity—off fear and hatred and anger, yet here was only apathy. His hair fell back into place and his nose wrinkled, already bored. There was no point in killing someone that was already dead—there was no game or entertainment there. Footfall sounded behind Mkhai and he turned his head, watching the sleek form of his mother approach. He wondered what she’d make of this worthless beast, and whether or not she’d wish to sever his head. Blood was blood and flesh was flesh, to be devoured and used to further their existence. But she only slowed to a standstill beside him with a curious look gracing her delicate features.
“Samael?” she called out cautiously, causing Mkhai’s gaze to immediately dart back toward the prone beast. He wouldn’t know his father’s scent, but surely his mother was mistaken in her eagerness to locate the hell beast they sought. There was no answer. Djeserit slunk forward, lowering her head as her eyes locked on the shadowy form. “What’s happened to you?”
“Samael?” the creature said, voice alight as though with laughter as he shifted faintly, pushing his body slightly from the ground. “You are mistaken,” he said, the ghost of an amused expression lingering on his lips before fading back into nothingness.
“Then you are a liar,” Djeserit responded, her voice cold and harsh. “I can see your scars and smell your stench from here. You are also injured. Did you bang your head and lose your mind?” she said, crossing the last of the distance between them. Mkhai remained silent, watching his mother as she confronted the stranger. “I came here to find you.” Then their task had been wasted, the hybrid boy mused to himself, if this was all that there was to find. If he was a demon he was a pathetic one. Mkhai housed the soul of a god, yet this creature bled and crawled as a prey animal before the kill. If this was their father, than it was a shame that his siblings remained back in the cave, laying on dirt and grass when they had once laid their heads in comfort. He was almost angry, for he longed for better.
“Matanbuches is the only title that I know,” he said, his voice soft in the darkness, as though he were honestly contemplating her words—as though they stirred something sealed within him. “I have fallen, and my body decays as I reside within it,” he said, fixing blood-red eyes on Djeserit. “If you say that you know me, then it may be true.” He’d forgotten everything. If this was truly the creature his mother sought, then something had happened to him that’d robbed him of his consciousness. He was dying, and here alone in the forest he wouldn’t last long. Mkhai left them, uncaring what the end result would be for he realized that he didn’t feel anything for this creature. Let his mother deal with it. He didn’t want to have anything to do with either of them at the moment.
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Of course his mother would bring the creature back home. And of course she’d tend to his wounds, attempting to revive him back into a state of supposed glory. Mkhai hadn’t any idea what his siblings felt for the man, but he despised him. He should not be so pathetic—he should not be dying. He had not met the man when he’d seduced his mother, but all that he saw and had seen was a worthless beast on the verge of death, bleeding from lacerations that no devil should possess. Peering across his body from the edge of his eye, he saw a man utterly covered in past and present physical injury—reveling in the destruction of his body as he was more than likely unable to defend himself. Scars were weakness, blood was weakness, and death was ultimate failure. Mkhai was beautiful, and he’d never allow someone to mar his features so easily. Samael was marked from head to tail, bearing the image of a beast that didn’t care whether or not he was wounded, and held no respect for his body.
Mkhai’s body was his temple and his prized possession—he had to respect it for none else were worthy of such an honor. Djeserit had left, presumably in search of food. He could care less where his siblings had vanished to, despite his adoration of them. Silently, he approached the sleeping coyote, moving above him to peer in silent revulsion. Perhaps, if he’d been something better Mkhai could have grown to love him. But he’d been disappointed, and so terribly at that. He was so great, had been told such great things, and yet he’d been lied to. This was unforgivable. Slowly, his fingers made their way to his throat, gently stroking the flesh there as thoughts of murder filled his head. He could so easily take away his life, removing him from the world. Was this all that there was to be found? Viciously, he sunk his fingers into his neck, feeling claws part skin effortlessly. He wanted him dead, and he’d do it on his own if he had to.
Suddenly, vice-like hands gripped his, pulling him away. Blood-red eyes met his—a Cheshire grin forming beneath them. “Patricide is frowned upon in many interpretations of the bible,” Samael said, pushing him to the floor. He was larger than he was, and not as weak as he’d initially thought—at least, not physically. Within an instant he was on top of him, muzzle inches from his own. “You wish to kill me that badly? Then do it. But don’t expect my life to be simply handed to you without any effort on your part,” he continued. The dark, bitter anger steadily seeped through his veins, hating him more than anything in this moment as he felt utterly helpless—he hated the creature, and he hated himself for possessing such a small body hindered by both breed and age. A soft sound tore past his lips, but he didn’t move or respond. He turned his face away, unable to stare back into the eyes of the man that held him down, able to kill him instantly if he so chose—and with reason, for Mkhai had just attempted to take his life as he’d slept.
But Samael moved, removing himself from Mkhai and returning to a seated position on the ground before him. “You wish that I was something that I’m not.” Mkhai rose as well, quickly pushing himself into a dignified position as if nothing had just passed between them. Crimson eyes were narrowed, staring suspiciously at his father. “What is it about me that you hate the most?” Samael asked. “I’d love to know.” The bastard couldn’t even remember who or what he was, and yet he wished to ask questions. Was there some semblance of a self there within his tattered soul?
“I was expecting something else,” was all that the boy said, rising to his feet and turning away. He didn’t wish to be around him anymore. He couldn’t stand the sight of the features that so mirrored his own. He’d have been surprised if he’d come after him, striking into his turned back as he walked away.
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He couldn’t remember. Everything—it was all gone as madness consumed, stealing away his soul and leaving behind a hollow shell that was nothing more than an imprint of his former self, like a ghost unable to depart from where it was cursed to haunt eternally. He was a prisoner on this plane; the demon Matanbuches, for he could recall nothing else. He was Belial the worthless, and nothing more. Shadows scratched and clawed at the inside of his head, threatening unholy, ungodly shrieks to burst forth from his lips. His body was wasting away, laying tepid in a pool of his own bile as a single chant echoed through his consciousness, becoming a mantra of sorts that consumed his entire being: you failed.
What, who, why, where—he could piece nothing together. Alone, he wandered the landscape, allowing his body to drift as a paper boat on an endless ocean, so fragile and powerless as to be swept away and beneath the waves at any moment. There was no mind behind hollow eyes—a walking corpse that barely breathed, inhaling only the slightest traces of air to keep the skeletal limbs in unending motion. Blood, excrement and bile burned his senses, melding into a nauseating sea of sickness as the earth swayed beneath his feet, rushing up to meet him as darkness fell. The boy, so small and delicate wished to destroy him. But he brought with him something else, and he followed, allowing himself to reach out toward a black-winged angel with eyes of flame and hellfire.
A sense of self crept to the surface, but he was no longer who he once was. The archaic name of Belial became his title, brushing aside what was presented to him with open hands. He couldn’t be who he’d once been, for that man was dead. He’d died long ago on the burning plains, dragged back down into the depths of hell raging and screaming like a banshee. They told him what he needed to know, and he played along—the elegant actor starring as the hero of the play, yet cast as the villain in the eyes of others. Cheshire smile, wicked and broken graced his lips, imagining the blood of the innocent on his hands. But was that who he truly was?
He refrained, questioning and desire to learn more, yet afraid to unlock what lay hidden away just out of sight. He wasn’t who he was, and yet they wished to call him such. He didn’t wish to think anymore. Darkness was his only escape, though it was tinged with desperate nightmares, tearing him apart with devilish figures and haunting echoes. He was a coward of the highest caliber. But what was it that he was so afraid of?
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