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Death does not come for us all.
Fog hangs thick and low over the land of wine and song. The song of crickets can be heard amongst the soft grunting of boars as the predawn wind stirs across the cliffs and grass. This zephyr is a gentle call to the squirrels and birds that a new day is approaching. They all wait for the warmth of the sun to shine down and gently kiss their faces as it chases away the damp darkness that only night can bring.
A lonely figure— just a murky stain against the fog and dew-soaked grass— lumbers through the trees. A red, painted mask peers unseeingly through the darkness, covering the beasts’ figure where its face once resided. It is the same shade as the blood that drips down the creature’s side.
The mitachurl’s large shoulders sway with the movement of each of its labored steps. Large, clawed hands grasp the even larger axe. They are a far cry from the tiny things they used to be. Back when the beast was something other. Something before. Something small. Something—
Something…
Crack!
The axe comes up instinctively as the beast freezes mid-step. Its blade might have glinted in the obscured moonlight at one point, but now it is too scarred and dull. Stories of hard-won battles are etched into its metal. Even if those same tales never permeated the memory of the one bearing its weight, for the creature’s mind was just one of the many things that had been ripped from the mitachurl’s feeble grasp centuries ago.
For one extended and haunting moment, the beast stands still as it listens. The long, dark ears twitch with focus. The creature’s ragged mane rises and falls with exhausted, panicked gasps. Flecks of blood, dirt, and twigs are woven into it. It is a tangled, matted mess that only grows worse over time, yet the beast finds no shame in that.
Shame is an emotion that is too complex for its broken mind.
The mitachurl does not remember the times something gentler, nicer, was woven into his hair. It does not recall how kind, motherly fingers braided the once-silky strands with care and love. At least, its mind does not.
His heart is another matter entirely. Though, the mitachurl doesn’t even register the ache in its chest anymore.
The snap comes again, jolting the muscles in the being’s taught arm. The blade raises higher, lifted above its horns and head. It trembles with anticipation and the strain of holding the pose. The weight of the weapon pulls painfully at the injury on the beast’s side. Blood sluggishly drips onto the ground. The splash of red dribbles across the grass at the monster’s clawed feet.
Blood down its side. Blood on a woman’s face. Blood in the air. A blood red-moon—!
It is no man that bursts through the brush. Merely a simple squirrel. The tiny critter chitters innocently as it scurries about, eager to snatch the pinecones that had fallen during the night. The early bird might get the worm, but the restless rodent is spared the axe.
The mitachurl gives a gruff grunt as it allows the weapon to fall. Relief is brief and fleeting as it turns, limping on as it continues the trek to nowhere in particular. It is only all too glad the threat was no more than was a simple seed rat. However, it is only a matter of time before something more challenges the monster. It knew it wouldn’t be able to fight off any more men with swords tonight. Not when their armor was so strong its claws could not cut through the metal nor when the arrows were too true for the mitachurl’s continued survival.
The beast is lucky it had been able to escape the predawn attack. The one that had woken it from its slumber. The same one that had slaughtered and burnt the small band of cursed beings the mitachurl had dared to travel with.
The three small little hilichurls archers were dead before the mitachurl had managed to stumble to its feet. Apples laid scattered about as the screams of men echoed off the cliffs and trees ricochetted around. Their arrows hissed through the air; pain erupted in the beast’s side as one struck true. Its bellow of agony did nothing to stop the monsters and their swords. The banner of their god snapped in the wind behind them, brandished by the element Barbatos himself was made from. Ready to chase the refugees of the nation he had already helped destroy from his own land.
The moon watches as the monster walks on; a long, weary, wet sigh passes through the creature. It was sticky with blood and exhaustion. Centuries of being on the run had worn it down. Its bones ached from the constant march of time and the need to flee. The heart that thundered in its chest, no matter how many arrows had pieced its hide or battles the beast had managed to limp away from, longed for something.
Something it couldn’t quite remember anymore. Something that had once come with the smell of warm bread. Something that had wrapped him up tight in a familiar blanket. Something that felt like a small hand wrapped in his own.
Something…
Something—!
The wind stirs again. It pushes at the beast’s legs as it stumbles forward, causing the eroded thoughts to frazzle and unravel before the creature gets a chance to focus on them. Before it can remember. The canyon walls do little to stop its cold and tight battering. The clouds above follow the breeze’s orders, moving out like troops. The moon breaks through their masses. Its light falls over the mitachurl’s weakened form as it stumbles forward. Its hand reaches out to catch itself before it can fall.
A large blood-soaked paw rests on cold stone. The intricate stone archway it rests against holds strong. The monster traces the carved decorations. Following them with an overside finger. Vibration rattles up the appendage as claw drags the engraving.
Bringing more memories with it, as broken and fleeting as they are. They’re all just as frazzled and faded as the others, yet they make the creature’s chest ache for something it can no longer remember. Something it has no words for.
There was something to do with a lullaby at night. A gentle song that made his eyes flutter heavily and his dreams grow sweet. There was something about the taste of something sweet on his tongue. The smell of fruit penetrating his nose and coating his teeth. There was something regarding someone calling his name—
It shatters there. The memory collapses in on itself and crumbles to dust. Leaving the beast weary and shivering in the damp.
Something.
Something.
The large beast slowly slides down the wall. Coming to rest beside the cold stone, hiding from the wind that tries to find him hunkering down there. The stone gate stands strong, firm. Shielding it since there is no one else there to do so.
If the beast were to try, perhaps it would remember and retain the memories of a time it lived behind walls such as this. In a place the wind could not berate its tired form and injured side. Perhaps it could be able to recall the somethings that always slip like water through its mind and fingers. Like a mother’s love or father’s gentle kiss.
Perhaps it will remember the something he was before.
Before his bones broke and reshaped themselves.
Before his face folded in on itself and a mangled mane grew over it.
Before he forgot his name.
Before he forgot whose hand he used to hold.
Before he forgot why he was here and who or what he was searching for.
But perhaps it might remember something else. Something like the shouts of men with their swords and armors. Horses that trample the monster’s kin under their hooves. Or perhaps it will remember the fires of the gods raining down upon his home.
Perhaps the monster is too scared to remember so it simply doesn’t try to hang on anymore.
The mitachurl wines softly as it presses its hands into the injury. There is no one to comfort or heal the wound. Not even death, for She had long turned a blind eye to the people of Khaenri’ah. Those blood-colored irises held no pity for the cursed who curled up in agony under her gaze.
Not even the children. It is proof enough of that.
The mitachurl leans back, resting while it can. It does not bother hanging onto the memories that are already fading away. It would do no good to remember. Though, it pauses as it looks up at the stars above. They stare back at the creature, perceiving it in a way most do not anymore. Like it is something more than a mindless threat. Like it isn’t some giant lumbering monster with an axe full of bloodlust and hate.
They make him feel small.
They remind him that he used to be something more.
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