FALLEN | rowan whitethorn x oc

CHAPTER TWENTY - a talk between gods

Kilax played with the sharpened knife with one of his hands for mere seconds before he lifted it up, only to bring it down on the piece of meat in front of him, slicing it.

His hands and corporeal body moved gracefully, swiftly. Methodically.

His mind, however, was a vastness of utter wildness. His thoughts were untamed. The images flashing behind his open eyelids were uncontrolled. And the emotions the visions stirred inside of him were unregulated.

Kilax hated that out of his control, which was absurdly ironic, for almost everything was far away from his control, now.

As usual, his physical body continued the diurnal tasks any reasonable living being would do, while his spirit travelled between the infinite layers of worlds and foreshadows and unprecedented futures and parallels dimensions.

Kilax knew of life and death, and everything there was in between.

Kilax knew of Time.

He knew of the first whispers of the wind and the first songs of the moon, for Kilax had been one of those born from Before.

So even as he finished cutting his meat, and started preparing his utensils for the next step in his culinary routine, he saw.

In one world, a girl was hiding behind her covers on her bed while she held a flashlight in one hand and a book in the other, rebelling against her parents' orders by staying awake late into the night to read her favourite book.

In another world, far from the one where his blood ran, a beautiful winged male was befalling destruction into a village full of those of his kin, in an act of vengeance. Or what he thought was justice.

A few layers down more, a blonde female reread the words she had written on her computer as she made sure to alter the reality behind her story and turn it into a fantasy for those who wielded no magic.

Somewhere else, an angel fell from the sky. Punished and exiled, while his glorious white wings shifted to grey and then black as the wind and his sins called him to roam on Earth.

And, then, in a corner of his mind -a corner that he refused to admit was slightly bigger than he would have preferred- the future unfolded. Or, at least, a few possible futures, for it was still undecided.

Kilax studied one of the possible foretellings: a rising shadow, fallen soldiers, and a rotten crown being placed on the head of a monster.

That one was a strong possibility.

Then, his attention shifted to another one: a flower blooming in the middle of winter, and a little kid staring curiously at it. Mesmerised, even. So transfixed in the oddly plant that he could not hear the desperate cries of his mother calling for him.

Kilax's eyes closed instinctively when the image of the little kid's mother being brutally murdered played next. Yet, the kid noticed nothing, for the flower had sung and drowned out the sound of his mother's throat being slit.

His mind looked desperately for another scene from the future, one where the same creatures living on the ground did not play at being the Fates and brought destruction with their hatred and fear.

It was worryingly harder to find beauty in the future when it was always so phthartic.

But oneirataxia was even harder. Perhaps, a natural consequence to the horror of what was not real but could possibly be.

However, Kilax was used to seeing every little -and gigantic- terror the world -and worlds- had to offer, so even as millions of very probable nightmares played one after the other in a corner of his mind, he continued cooking.