Desolation

[QliphothicCorvid 177]

Shadows crept along the grimy, foot-torn paving as that elf-thing wept in the corner of an alley. Silence took hold of the night for a brief moment. Then, the nauseating sound of tendons separating, of sinew being stretched to its limit, ripped and tugged at every which way at full force, however weak that force was. 

 

Blood caked his hands, but he saw it not. For he saw nothing now. Nothing, save them. The figures of rapacious neophytes draped in red and grey still haunted and tormented his vision. Still berating him, still kicking and biting and scraping and hurting him. 

 

The elf-thing set his eyes to his side, he didn't need them anymore. Bloody tears streamed down his face from his sockets. He fell back onto to the cobblestones and sat there, lying supine in quiet agony. The feeling of the warm, life-bearing fluid across his hands and face, paired with the tears and dirt from the last several weeks, it was unbearable. Hands clasped, and empty prayer fell on deaf ears. Just as before, God would not hear him. 

 

The world just seemed to slip away, he fell away from his body, as if being lowered into a grave.

 

There was naught but darkness now. 

 

Then, there was It.

 

It fell on his chest.

 

It took mount of him.

 

It gazed into his soul.

 

It pulled the wool over his eyes.

 

And he was revived.

 

He quickly sat up, breathing laboriously, sweat, blood, and dirt, remained as an ever present sensation on his skin.

 

He looked down at his hands as if waking from a dream, then to his right and saw his eyes. He didn't need them anymore.

He felt the cut tips of his ears, brushing aside his hoary hair. He didn't need them anymore.

He thought of his past prayers and renounced them, he didn't need God anymore.

 

All of this pain, all of this loneliness. It was his. He didn't need anything anymore.