The Past is Never Dead

Chapter Four

The man seethes, glaring at the dark matter that fills his veins and runs up his arms. It pulses through him, the malignancy begging to taint everything in its path. He needs to lay down to sleep, but rest doesn't come easy when you're a month or two from death. Besides, he's cold, so utterly cold. The tattoo on his forearm flares and burns, attempting to satiate the cold that covers him like a cloak.

He slowly rises his head, meeting his own ill eyes in the cracked mirror. They're bloodshot, the curling veins a much darker red than usual. A pinkish-red blossoms from around his pupil, covering area that was once green.

He smiles at himself, gums black and slimy, black matter dripping onto his teeth and lips. Disgust crosses his face, wrinkling his nose and curling his lip. He spits into the basin and turns away, walking into the main area of the room.

He pauses for a moment, staring at the spot where his knees have hit the floor many times before. Praying has brought him no good, Aethchoret and Carafon ignoring his prayers. He reckons the gods have abandoned him, leaving him to die cold and lonely.

A new chill runs through his veins, revenge settling itself in the front of his mind. He knows people are after him, treating him as just more money in their pockets. He'll show them who he really is, who he can be.

***

"Hey dude," Kissos mumbles, food stuffed into his cheek. Phigalia looks at him dumbfounded, shaking her head before taking a seat beside him.

"Chew with your mouth closed," She scolds, thankfully accepting wyau sir fôn from Rithelm.

He gulps down the rest of his bite, "I wasn't even chewing!" Arken laughs quietly from his left.

She raises a brow then takes a bite of her own food, the potatoes, leeks, and egg forming a more traditional breakfast than she's had lately.

She takes pause for a moment, glancing around the gathering patrons of the tavern.

"Where's Macsen and Kelric?" She asks, turning quickly towards Kissos.

He widens his eyes, slowly extracting the fork from his mouth and bettering his posture, "I don't know, asleep maybe?" He shrugs, "Macsen must've gotten worn out last night."

"Yeah, but Kelric would still be up early." Her face morphs into one of worry.

"It's no cause for concern, Phigalia," Arken reassures her, "None of us have been getting good sleep lately." She nods, reluctantly agreeing with them. She still finds herself glancing up to the stairs periodically.

Macsen awakes groggily, gearing up to turn over before he sees the sleeping form in his arms. His mind halts, grey hair pooling onto his arm. He debates over whether or not he should wake Kelric, and he decides to follow through.

He's not sure how to wake him up, so he props himself up on his elbow and shakes Kelric's shoulder. He wakes up almost immediately, turning to face Macsen with tired eyes. They look at eachother for much longer than should be appropriate, Macsen's gaze finding its way to Kelric's lips every split second. The sun's rays hit him square in the face, highlighting the gold specks in his eyes.

A deep blush forms on Kelric's cheeks, staining his porcelain skin. Macsen wills himself away, planting his feet onto the cold wood of the floor. His throat slowly bobs as Kelric sits up, averting his gaze awkwardly. Kelric's eyes stay on him, though, shamelessly scanning his body and lingering on the tattoo on his arm.

"How are you feeling?" Is the first thing Kelric asks, clearing his throat quietly as he tucks the blanket below his armpits.

"Fine," He shrugs, running his hand over the heavy stubble of his chin.