Snippet #1484739

Every blight asserted some kind of allure. The Father was a barbarous example of the most seductive corruption; the slightest brush of adrenaline that keeps you coming, because you're terrified you'll never feel otherwise. Humans were especially weak to the webs he weaved. People sought purpose, and he gave them a place in the world. In exchange, he asked them to do as they pleased against neighbouring nations; rape, pillage, murder, slander, lie, violence, war, and all for the greater good of the world. Feeding such ridiculous notions worked. Sometimes, the Father would have to tell them that said nations were already planning to wage war on them; planning to slaughter their children nestled quietly in their beds; planning to mount their wives, share them with hungry-eyed troops; planning to steal their crops; planning to burn their houses and leave them dangling from crooked posts. Where fear is present, wisdom cannot be. The Father fed off of every negative emotion humans suffered; fear stunk the worst, tasted like bile swilling in his throat. As he looked down at Nike, he felt no fear sifting through her being—only an impenetrable, ceaseless sadness.

He made no movement to step away from her. Instead, the Father craned his head closer, observing the single tear that feathered down her shallow cheeks. She was crying?! He wanted to feverishly scream in her face, cause her to weep into her skeletal fingers—anything to make her stop with her pitiful display, anything to make her look away from him. The Father's nonchalant expression tightened, twitched into a solemn scowl that betrayed his thoughts. His fingers flexed at his sides, twitching with all of the negative energy engulfing the chamber; tightening and tightening, flowing with whatever positive emotions that stirred from Nike. Any mortal man would have bowed his head in shame at making Mother Nature cry so grievously. However, he felt nothing. Guilt was the hilt of the knife that we use on ourselves, and love is often the blade; but it’s worry that keeps the knife sharp; and worry that gets most of us, in the end. The knife had already penetrated the Father's heart long ago, leaving an empty crater he decidedly filled with empty purposes and ill intentions.

Nike was nothing like Sofia. She didn't drive him to the edge of insanity. She didn't howl or blubber whenever he hissed his complaints. She didn't doubt his abilities, nor did she question his hefty decisions. Together, they were a murder of crows, a sharp-eyed woman with frost-bitten hearts; an empty vessel with black tattoos dripping like feathers down silver-hatched skin. With her, he felt nothing. Floating on the dead sea of his world, there was no sense of pain, no regret or shame, no feelings of guilt or grief, no depression and no desire. His sleeping universe entered and enveloped every atom of existence; drowning everything that dared oppose him. How could she not see how they'd ruined him, by choosing him? How did she not blame them? So when Nike opened her eyes to regard him, concern melting beneath long lashes, the Father's eyes narrowed. She had done nothing.

Nike's look was less misery, and more unadulterated conviction. The Father was only another disease to be purged from the planet because he threatened everything that inhabited it. A spiteful anger begged for release, though he only exhaled a huffed breath from his nose to compose himself. He often wondered if Machai—her gallant, chivalrous guardian—understood that in killing him, Nike's life would end a few moments after. They were forever tied into an eternal dance, connected in ways no one could understand. How could they? Humans truly didn't have another half, though they might've proclaimed it with love as evidence. Soul mates were not true halves. Mates were not true halves. Married couples were laughable, inconsistent things. Yin and yang; Nike and the Father, without one, the other would surely perish. His infection would thrive as long as Nike did, and he had no intentions of kneeling to her will. Unless they severed the snakes' head, the Father would continue onwards with vicious condemnation; his justice sublime.

The Father strained to hear Nike's whispered words, closing the distance between them. Curiosity was a strange phenomena, it caused him to edge closer. His head hovered across her shoulder, and he offered his ear to hear what she might say. Soft as heated feathers, her challenging words thundered quietly. You know, that I will never stop fighting you. The Father recoiled from his position, and laughed. It wasn't a laugh full of mirth; it was a pained, chortled noise that divulged arrogance. His probing fingers released her chin, dragged softly across her bare neck and rested against her hollow collarbone. Conversations like this were reserved for those who were friends. His words were painted with poison while Nike's flowered around him; offering kindness, peace and redemption. In silence, the Father vowed the next time they met like this, she'd be weeping against the asphalt.

Nike smiled. Not her sweet, little smile that exploded sunshine throughout the lengthy corridors. A sad, benevolent smile that cried: I pity you, I pity you. The Father's posture straightened, a stray muscle jumping in his usually lax jaw. He felt the icy fingers of life cupping his deformity; comfortable and cool, gnarled roots threatening to ensnare him. Pity pity pity. He frowned, unease settling within his stomach. Finally, the Father snatched her offending wrist away from his hideousness, secure fingers tightening. He did not release her. “Do not touch me,” He began coolly, glowering beneath his feminine features. Norea was a fool for opposing him that day, and he'd paid dearly for it. A life for a mere injury; fitting. Nike's next words caused him to tighten his grip on her wrist, his visual facade remaining disturbingly the same. “Again, you will be alone,” He added bitterly, continuing his harsh tirade, “I will bury them next to their mothers and fathers; and you, with all of your sadness, will visit them.”

His fingers loosened, then finally dropped her hand away. The Father swept away from her, realizing that this would be the last time they'd see each other until the end, and slowly turned to face her. “I see there won't be any cooperation, then,” the dispassionate man rasped, rubbing his fingers absently where Nike's hand had rested. “I will not wait until they are ready. The Cruzzola's will slaughter your dear Descendants, and I will send you their heads on pikes.” The Father nodded demurely, as if acknowledging an inappropriate jest between good friends. They'd been living against each other for decades, each decade bringing different means of death. Anything involving pikes would be a fitting end, for when it all began.

When Delaney expressed her desire to meet the Descendants, the Father took a few steps towards the Cruzzola group, then faced Nike. “Would you deny a sweet child her wishes?” He crooned softly, his once honey-sweet words coming out raw and forced. He circled around Vincent and placed his hand on one strong shoulder, surveying the ever-present expression. As they'd first entered, the Father noticed a certain disturbance coming from the silent killer. Not from any visible facial adjustment; but he felt it. Everyone was touched by Nike as soon as they'd met her, she instilled an irresistible awe. She sang her songs quietly, whereas everyone could hear it strumming loudly in their minds. No doubt, Nike had some kind of effect on the boy.