A symphony of voices lapped against the aged cotton of Bellin’s hood. He could hear them; their pain, their confusion, the cries of a people lost to the truth. Weathered masks and twisted features couldn’t hide it. Yet they continued as if nothing were wrong. As if life were but an engine running on their sorrow to a destination never known nor questioned. He could feel it himself, that sense of ignorance, ebbing at the hollows of his heart. An endless torment of seeking but never finding.
He faced the slums with a question begging to be asked.. The graffiti-stricken walls and grimy streets held no answers, but amidst the brick and broken spirits he could see it, within those childish eyes and that wicked grin. The prey. The Purpose.
Bellin continued to watch as the man waded through a sea of street urchins. His cheeks, plumb with glee, seemed to clash against the gloomy background, in such a way that all focus was brought to him and society made the lesser. Every stride an act of defiance, every movement light though burdened with the weight of the world. That man would be his answer if ever it was to be found.
With a delightfully twisted misery Bellin pursued him, breaking from the main street and wandering down a muck stained alley formed between two apartment complexes. Finally, a climax to his hours of ceaseless stalking. No more maintaining distance or having to hear praise of Leonard Rencal’s new line of clothing from faceless passerbys. The slight pressure of a knife’s hilt at his waist was comforting as he called out, “Altaine...”
It struck the man’s ears with the force of a hammer. That deep soulless tone, so familiar and so unwelcome. Altaine turned and faced his hunter with the same laxed posture he’d of used to converse with a friend or a bum.
He let out a laugh. He always laughed. “So Bellin, how are you doing? The weather sure is nice. Is your mother well?” he paused for a moment, pretending to care about a response, taking the few seconds to fully soak in Bellin’s presence. The eyes that looked back at him were lifeless orbs planted into a face with features that seemed as though they’d been etched by a child. Crude and pale, his entire body lay buried beneath a baggy hoody and pants.
“Well then, I...” Altaine was cut off by a deep inhale taken by the cadaverous figure before him. Bellin drank in the air as if he hadn’t taken a breath in days. So sweet, the taste of it. He couldn’t help himself.
He could feel the shackles loosening deep within the pit of his stomach, releasing the ancient bond. It all made sense for the second time in his life, and it was with that newfound logic that his eyes burst with vitality and his skin flooded with color.
He sighed in relief, his face a struggle between smile and scowl. “I need this...I deserve it,...and you...” He leered at Altaine severly, “This is your fault.”
Altaine chuckled. “I’m sure it is. I always seem to be at the root of the problem. Beggars, choosers, you’re all the same, seeking a cause but never willing to realize. But for curiosity’s sake, what is it that I’ve done this time?” He paused, actually interested in a response.
Grinning, that vile grin. Bellin’s heart tore under the pressure of those pearly white flags. “Surrender. Is that the only option?” he grew nauseous at the thought, “No!”
The blade whipped through the air so swiftly Altaine hadn’t even the time to brace himself before a ten inch dagger, laced with runes, was buried to the handle in his chest. The stab left no blood, no trace of entry what so ever, but the searing pain made it more real than any evidence could have justified. He screamed a torturous, agonizing scream and watched as the world faded before him.
Thump. The final beat of Altaine’s heart rattled against the knife in Bellin’s hand. Limp and lifeless, he viewed the body at arm’s length as a reflection of himself just seconds ago. It was odd how he hadn’t noticed the flaws before. The tense coffee colored skin, the scruffy mess of dark hair upon his head, and the age-old scar just below his right eye. A wave of pity ebbed at the shores of Bellin’s mind as he realized that Altaine had been little different from anyone else.
He dislodged the blade and let his former-target collapse onto the ground. It was gone, all of it, stripped from the air and sealed within the vessel. No longer restrained, the bindings became active again and Bellin but a puppet once more.
He stood there for a while, hovering over the body as if in waiting. There was still more to be done, more preparations to be taken care of but his focus was fading, he’d have to act fast.
He took hold of the corpse’s neck and shook it violently. In one great gasp the furnace in Altaine’s chest was reignited with the flames of life. Shocked and shivering, he peered at Bellin weakly.
“...What the hell?” His breathing was deeper and more forced than it had been before, each inhale a battle fought by his weary lungs. “What the hell...did you do to me!?” Altaine snarled.
“Come, we must finish this quickly.” Bellin stated, his tone distant and cold once again.
“No, I’m not doing anything! You’re goin.....”Altaine was cut off by a growing pressure in his chest. It was as if he were being hollowed out from the inside. He clenched at his skin awaiting a second fade to black, but just as suddenly as it had come it vanished taking with it something precious.
With a final, feeble effort, Altaine bore into the optical abyss of the scythless reaper before him. “You bastard...”
Bellin did not answer but turned and faced the end of the alley corridor.
“Come,”
Altaine nodded obediently.
