( all these eons and all those jumbled, fucked up memories, many of them lost or distorted into something they never were, and he hasn't quite forgotten how to survive. call it a persistent refusal to just die already, but he manages to eke out some semblance of an existence deep in the woods. not stealthily, mind you, and there's another inhabitant of this place that he knows he needs to beware of, but he can at least feed himself. find fresh water. and shelter. protecting himself is as easy as it ever was, at least: no creature would dare come near. he's terrifying when he wants to be, which is... never, really, but it doesn't take much more than standing up tall and extending his arms, puffing up his feathers, and showing his teeth. that does the trick.
malak keeps an eye out for him. thankfully hasn't narced on him to anyone that might want to find him. or, he worries, maybe there just... is no one. either because they don't want him anymore, or because they assume he's gone forever, or because they are... god, no. he can't bear it. as painful as it is not to know, that's his cross to bear. and nail himself to it, he's goddamn determined to do. forever, if that's what it takes. he can't go back. he can't, he can't, he can't.
anyway. just because he knows how to survive doesn't mean he's the craftiest creature in the wood. he's more than easy prey for someone like morga, who he never hears coming. malak must not even realize it. he's on the way to his fresh water supply when he's rammed into and pinned down, his own scream hoarse and ironically not dissimilar from malak's. for being such a horrible, ugly, fearsome monster, the fear in his eyes and all over his face is practically palpable. his clawed hands go up in surrender. he swallows against the speartip. his gaping mouth shows a dark tongue, an excess of sharp teeth. )
I—
( my god. that face. that voice. that ruthless presence. of course he knows her. it's obvious, the recognition. he goes slack all over, eyes widening even further. real? not real? not real, can't be real. even though there is no more hellworld, no more devil, no more illusions. he can't allow himself to believe it. he gave up trying to connect with the imagined specters of his past a long, long time ago. (but if he really doesn't believe it, why hide in the first place? hmmm.) )
my crops are watered
malak keeps an eye out for him. thankfully hasn't narced on him to anyone that might want to find him. or, he worries, maybe there just... is no one. either because they don't want him anymore, or because they assume he's gone forever, or because they are... god, no. he can't bear it. as painful as it is not to know, that's his cross to bear. and nail himself to it, he's goddamn determined to do. forever, if that's what it takes. he can't go back. he can't, he can't, he can't.
anyway. just because he knows how to survive doesn't mean he's the craftiest creature in the wood. he's more than easy prey for someone like morga, who he never hears coming. malak must not even realize it. he's on the way to his fresh water supply when he's rammed into and pinned down, his own scream hoarse and ironically not dissimilar from malak's. for being such a horrible, ugly, fearsome monster, the fear in his eyes and all over his face is practically palpable. his clawed hands go up in surrender. he swallows against the speartip. his gaping mouth shows a dark tongue, an excess of sharp teeth. )
I—
( my god. that face. that voice. that ruthless presence. of course he knows her. it's obvious, the recognition. he goes slack all over, eyes widening even further. real? not real? not real, can't be real. even though there is no more hellworld, no more devil, no more illusions. he can't allow himself to believe it. he gave up trying to connect with the imagined specters of his past a long, long time ago. (but if he really doesn't believe it, why hide in the first place? hmmm.) )
Nobody. I'm... nobody. Nothing but a monster.