let the past die [Cryphe] Feb 17, 2020 23:31:15 GMT -6
Post by Samson on Feb 17, 2020 23:31:15 GMT -6
Samson speaks | Samson thinks | Samael thinks
Sometimes Samson dreamt of killing his father.
When he awoke it was usually with a bitter taste clinging to his lips. Bitter, he knew, because he would never again see Goliath. Bitter, too, because despite his absence, he continued to occupy space in Samson’s busy mind.
Perhaps Samson’s head was a graveyard, filled with dead souls and spirits and half-dreamt, half-lived nightmares of consciousness.
These days, Samson let Samael lead him through the menial tasks of existence: sleeping, waking, eating, shitting, pissing, snarling. Samson was too distracted to attend to them himself, and did not mind Samael’s guiding hand at the small of his back as much as he once had. It was the only intimacy he had left anymore, after he’d left his family. The loneliness was overwhelming sometimes, but mostly Samson just dealt with it because he had to, because the only way to put a stop to that itching inside of him was to die, and he wasn’t quite ready to die.
Samael had little patience for his morning reflections. Rather than continuing to lay there and ruminate, he hauled himself bodily off the ground, his joints aching from being horizontal for far too long. Samson’s enormous body had once been a source of pride to him, but now he considered it as grotesque as his pale appearance. It was unnatural to be so large that it caused him pain, but the gods had seen fit to curse him with it.
Piss, Samael instructed, so Samson did. Drink, Samael instructed, so Samson ambled through the forest toward the water’s edge.
Samael must be bored of him, and yet the spirit remained. It was impossible to tell whether the spirit was trapped or waiting, as Samael kept that particular information from him. It felt strange, to have a hole in his thoughts -- a huge, gaping empty space that Samael had severed from him. There were answers there, answers that Samson was not allowed. He suspected Samael wanted him to discover the answers himself, which he could appreciate but nonetheless found irritating in a juvenile sort of way. Their relationship, which had once been defined by vicious power struggles, intense emotion, and a battleground that played out across his mind, now more closely resembled a long-suffering relative taking care of their ailing elder.
Drink, Samael repeated, less of a word now and more of an impulse. It cut through his self-pitying thoughts like a talon, and Samson inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. In the moment of clarity, he realised that he’d left his egg back at the den, and halted suddenly, wondering whether he ought to go back and get it. Samael despised the damned thing, which made Samson suspicious that he’d forced Samson to forget it, but the only response from the spirit was a general feeling of apathy. It must have been Samson, then, who forgot. But Samson never forgot about his egg.
Later. Drink now.
Yes, he supposed he would remember the way back, so he acquiesced to Samael’s demands and continued to the lakefront. Samael’s hatred of the egg had only served to intensify Samson’s childish, stubborn refusal to leave it behind. It was brown from dirt now, and had begun to smell awfully. Samson didn’t care. It made for a better companion than Samael sometimes, and besides, it was all he had left of Kairos.
Samson realised errantly that if he’d brought it with him, he could have cleaned it in the lake, and returned it to its former glory. A mist clung eerily to the lake’s surface, hovering over the cerulean void like a monster skulking. Samson supposed he was the only monster doing any skulking today.
Without sparing his reflection a glance, Samson dove his tongue greedily into the blissfully cold waters, glad of the way it fragmented his watery visage. He already knew what he must look like: dirty and unkempt, with matted fur and poorly healed scars littering his body, an ear torn to shreds by a stranger called Yara. Nobody would greet him today, nor any day. No wolf in their right mind would approach someone as gruff and dishevelled as Samson, whose insanity seemed to ooze from his crusty eyes.
Besides, there was hardly anything left to greet.
Word count: 714
Notes: man I missed him