Khunbam week 2022

the inclemency wasn't forecasted

Day 1: Myths/Rain

warnings: some mentions of violence, blood and drug use

Somewhere. Someday.

Tiny fingers find their place in a fist, like a sparrow in a cage. The hands are warm but the cage is warmer. They burn like fire. Isn't it pathetic to remain inside the fire just because it's cold outside? Tiny fingers move ever so slightly, making themselves comfortable inside their fiery jail, somehow they fit perfectly inside. Was the cage built for them only, a perfect made mould, or were the tips and imperfections cut out instead?

"Do you know why there's no rain in a thunderful land?" The little fingers tremble slightly, danger is near them and they know it. They can not show it. "Rain washes away the mistakes and regrets, child. You will never know rain, my dearest." –a smile, the cage burns– "For the thunder will have already struck you down."

.

The myth goes like this; At the top of the Tower, resides the God of Destruction and Calamity. The being was born from bloodshed and now destruction cometh upon us. Pray, dearest reader, for a Chosen One to come and end the calamity. Pray for the Guardians' downfalls. Or pray for our own death to soon salve our souls.

.

There is a thunderstorm outside. The rain falls violently against the windows as if it's trying to break them, fall inside and drown everyone. Such a thing could never happen, yet his pulse quickens and his adrenaline rises. Had rain always been that violent? That demanding of attention? He looks at it falling, frozen in his place, the thin glass separating them.

"The weather is terrible today." Khun states. He hadn't even noticed him coming. Of course, it was expected. Khun had this strange gift of being by his side whenever he was in distress, ready to do whatever it took to put his mind at ease. His presence alone was enough to make him relax slightly.

"I don't like the rain." The words slip out without thought. Quick and easy without shame. Khun hummed as he took one step closer to him, letting their shoulders bump into each other, and stared at the falling rain.

"My mother used to say rain is for washing away one's sins," Khun admits. His reflection is seen briefly in the window. Mixed with the rain, the image is almost holy. He thinks having someone like Khun–beautiful, dedicated, the only beacon left–talk about sins, about the evil of the world, is heretic.

"You think she was right?"

"That rain is some form of a light divine punishment?" They both continue staring at the thunderstorm. The silence falls between them, the rain only becomes more violent, and yet Khun offers enough comfort to shelter him. He reaches out to hold his hand. It's cold. "I'm not sure," –he squeezes his hand, a promise that he's here– "but you already know, don't you?"

.

He keeps scrubbing to the point his fingers start to hurt. Despite the amount of water he's wasted, the blood remains on his fingernails. Some of it is most likely his. There is too much noise outside. The other man–the worm, the monster–is trying to say something but the injuries and blood loss do not let him speak properly. Outside, the rain gently taps the window. Both sounds irritate him but he must persist.

He glances outside. The soil absorbs the water almost immediately, and the small flowers look up and demand more. The creations of God are just as insatiable as he is.

He keeps on scrubbing.

.

The room is quiet; the windows are covered with pieces of wood and the walls are soundproof. It's meant to be peaceful, it's meant to protect him from the noise. Yet, possibly due to his lack of sleep, he can still hear the sound of the rain outside. He doesn't remember the last time the sky was clear. He shuts his eyes close and uses the pillow next to him to apply pressure on his head.