Chapter Text
Khun did not believe in trust. In a family where it was commonplace to kill others, disbelief was an expectation; however, Khun was naive at the start.
Before his fall from grace, he ached for trust. He yearned for the light of the moon to embrace him, to comfort him in the isolating rigidness of their family, but her mellow voice and assuaging glow vanished to an abysmal emptiness. Maria left him with a simper teasing her cheeks. He could hear her tinkling giggles in his ear as he pushed himself off the wet ground.
Did he think I would stay with him?
Did he not see the amusement in my eyes?
So.
Pathetic.
He could hear the whispers of his cousins, aunts, and uncles as his soaked oxfords trudged through the mud.
Such a pitiful man.
Have you heard about the rumor about Aguero and Maria?
Aren’t they half-siblings? Gross.
So.
Fucking.
Pathetic.
His mother always told him he could only trust himself. It was ironic; trust betrayed everyone in his family when it was the one thing everyone desired. Kisea entrusted him to help their sister, his mother demanded him to use his intellect to bring honor to their branch, and his sister had faith in his ability to make her a princess of Jahad. He walked away in shame with Kisea’s abhorrence, his mother’s screams, and his sister’s cold, dead body. He hated his father, hated his authority in making the families fight meaninglessly amongst themselves. No one hesitated to gnaw through the flesh of kin to provide a princess or lick shoes for a place closer to Eduan’s palace. If Khun Eduan did not exist, trust would be possible. Until his demise, everyone would act for their benefit, favoring backstabbing and apathy over human bonds and love.
Khun made two promises to himself as he broke into his father’s treasure room: never be controlled by authority, and only trust in your abilities. He was going to climb the tower, mark his words. Everyone would know of the exiled Khun, especially his bastard of a father. He would rip the smile off his face, even if it killed him.
He vanished into the night with the manbarondenna stuffed full of goodies.
He was ready.
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The being was well acquainted with the dark and had been for as long as they could remember. The darkness was not kind, no, but it gave them food between rocks and taught them to hide when the earth shook with thundering steps. There was a time where darkness was not their only company; a rumbling baritone that made their stomach twist used to echo hauntingly through the walls. The voice would repeat a jumble of cadences and noises: “Arlene,” it would gnarl with a raspy tone, “Arlene.”
It had been quite some time since the voice droned through the caves, and the being began to grow curious. In its absence, they scurried and hid, desperately searching for any indication of its whereabouts. Crawling through nooks and crannies, dropping through holes, and climbing up walls, the being had yet to encounter any hints towards the voice’s presence. With every failed exploration of the cave, the being felt the pain in their chest swell in size. It was not the same as the pain that came with monsters slashing their skin, their knees giving out in exhaustion, or even the agony of seeing their foot bent out of place after a dangerous fall. The pain was different; it was an ache without a visible wound, one that would fester rather than heal with time. They curled inwards to their core to assuage their suffering, to will the agony away, but this would be to no avail. The pang in their chest would only double in size with the stiff, dead air around them.
Frustrated, they began to vent their emotions. They lugged rocks at walls, growling and gnashing their teeth with the ferocity of a lion. When that lost its charm, their feelings craved corporeality. Animosity charged their surroundings with electrifying gusts, the atmosphere miraculously bending to the strength of the being’s agony. Each wave was a siren call, leaving a clumped trail of corpses strewn about behind their dominating path. The being’s march created a masterpiece of gore. Entrails became garlands, slathered maroon became glistening paint, and cold meat became stiff statues. The stomp of the being’s bare feet reverberated with bloodlust, an outcry for the pain of their loneliness.
They marched onward.
Their feet dragged along the sharp terrain as the embers of rage burned out. Their eyelids twitched in a battle to stay open, and their stomach gurgled with empty words. When they looked back, they faced the path of death they forged.
Glassy eyes, severed limbs, and an eerie silence smiled at the being.
The being shook, panic clawing at the nape of their neck.
The sound of clicking muddied the silence, an acerbic rhythm that swelled towards them, splitting them from their spiraling mind.
The noise stopped. On instinct, the being did not dare to move an inch.
Something carded through their hair, pushing the strands away from their face with a warmness that never before graced their scalp.
“I have come to bring you to the light once again, my God.”
The being looked up, staring at the new monster with critical eyes.
Red was not a safe color,
But at least they found a voice.
A bloodied, calloused hand enlaced with a soft, nimble one.
Hwa Ryun smiled gently at the being.
“Let’s go, Viole.”
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