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He has a hole in heart. A crack in the system, the dam near close to exploding.
And Ecorridor would burst apart if it weren’t for the closeness of a body, of wings folding around him as if a curtain from the world. The air pulling them close as he feels himself fill with that strange vigour.
He’s gained another life.
But the hollowness of his chest never ceases and he can feel it eat away at him as they separate.
He wants to be wrapped in that hold for longer and all at once keep himself as far away from it as possible. Closeness and trust is something that is so dear in this world, something sacred and rare. And the world is a cruel place; he wants to be free from its creeping eyes.
It’s not lost to him that the eyes that should hold his heart in a calm and caring rhythm, –their indigo pupils reiterating how secure Ecorridor should feel– leave him hearinghis heart thundering in his ribcage. The weight of that look, of someone who damn near worships him, leaves him wanting to curl up in a corner from its pressure.
Of course, it’s not like he’s always lifting up the world, sometimes a spot of sun helps dear Atlus with his chains.
Ecorridor breathes out heavily as he puts a hand on his chest, feeling for that socket. Feeling the beat of an incomplete heart. The imperfect thing answering with a sad, but perfectly normal thump.
He wants to tear it out and show his rotten core to Pentar. To lay bare his lies. To make whatever cycle of deceit they’ve danced up until now end.
To finally put down the world that, at this point, he can’t remember if he himself put on his shoulders or if Pentar propped it up there.
Maybe column A and B. Maybe something else.
But then his frailty would be far more easy to see; he wouldn’t know what would happen if the other man decided to rip the blood-pumping organ to shreds, eating every last life Pentar had given him till he was nothing.
Well he’d be dead. He knew that.
He’d seen the way Pentar came back from his escapades. Saw the sharp teeth stained with blood or his cuticles trapping the dried red. On those days he couldn’t say if he was more scared of Pentar or Clown. Which– That was a laughable statement really, everyone was afraid of Clown, you’d be a damned fool if you weren’t scared of him. But Clown was far away from him and the only thing that connected them was his faux immortality. Pentar was here, and while their trust in each other was enough of a deterrent, he knew that didn’t stop people from betrayal.
And besides, Ecorridor was the perfect prey for those would-be claws, his lungs shuddering as their gateway to their precious air was sealed and their neighbor ripped out. Ripe for everything but that damned hole.
Or, if presented the worm filled apple, Pentar instead cast it aside —cast him aside. Left him to pick up his pieces.
He couldn’t figure out what would leave him completely undone. Something unlike himself that even the Void couldn’t salvage.
It tried to last time.
But it had forgotten to take away that rot in his mind that whispered all his little insecurities, the thing that spoke in a voice that he couldn’t quite place.
And for a while, it didn’t really matter that this thing hid within him. He was only reminded of it occasionally with the odd nightmare here and there, or even when something gave him a moment of deja vu.
But then…
Well, it had moved to his heart, spreading so easily to his achilles heel. And while he knew Pentar had tried his best to dip him into the River Styx, to make him immortal, he wasn’t.
And here he was, standing at a temple, with a man who looked so reverently up at him. As though he were his sun and moon; everything that breathed life and light into everything else. Who would willingly taste the flesh of those who wronged him to feed his would-be god new life. Who had lied —and was probably still lying to him now— to keep Ecorridor thriving.
He wouldn’t know what he would do if Pentar found out his worthlessness. Void, he couldn’t tell if he could stomach even the possibility of eating that man’s heart.
But he would have to if everything went downhill, wouldn’t he?
If a knife were plunged into his back he would have to greet it in kind.
Or maybe that dagger wouldn’t pierce his flesh.
He dismissed that thought.
“Let’s go!” It was a soft yell, something that wouldn’t disturb the serenity of the night. But he knew Pentar couldn’t hear the tired burden settle again in his tone.
One more and he’d be full.
That’s how Pentar saw it anyways.
But he never would be full or pure. He’d never feel the weight of a life within his stomach, the one thing that could bring him closer to the immortal —the deity— that Pentar seemed to think him be.
And it’s not like he didn’t try. He made a crude thing, something that tasted of oil and bitter medicine, and it would’ve been that missing piece if it weren’t for its damning evidence of his lies. It had almost immediately filled out his hearts to what they were –how they should be– but it still left his body wanting. Needing. Starving.
He needed to sink his teeth into someone’s flesh and eat and eat and eat until their blood coated his face and then—
But he was “immortal”, he wasn’t supposed to feel the hunger, the Want.
Ecorridor wondered if Pentar could smell the desperation on him, his sheer and unmitigated Need to feast.
Would Pentar lay himself bare to Ecorridor? Would he offer his neck, head tilted a bit to the side, for Ecorridor to bite? Would he offer his blood and muscle just as freely, just as reverently, as he did the soft touch to the forehead when he gave Ecorridor hearts?
Ecorridor didn’t know. And he didn’t wish to know anytime soon.
He just wanted the hunger to ease.
Just for a bit.
Maybe the lie that he’d built up for so long would finally be satiated.
But he knew that was just wishful thinking. There was only one way to abate that small death of his soul.
An amendment for his crime.
But that would be for later. If this lie ever looked at the truth, was ever, truly, brought to the light.
For now he’d just be hungry.
And he could live with that.
At least for Pentar.