Survival (1)

Balance is not a burden one carries but a blade upon which one dances. Each step demands sacrifice, and every misstep sends the world spiraling into chaos. Though the weight may rest upon my shoulders, it is my mind that bears the brunt, cracking under the strain.

I am but an empty vessel—a shell of divinity tasked with maintaining the equilibrium of existence. Yet, all I have ever desired is a quiet life. A life with my family, my own flesh and blood. With my brother. But I am a fool for believing in such a dream. This dark void I find myself trapped within—this bleak abyss—is my prison. A place I cannot escape.

I have searched for my brother across days that stretch longer than my mortal life, every moment of that quest burned into my mind. And yet, he betrayed me. He lied to me. He spat upon the bond we shared, crushed it underfoot. The wounds he inflicted did not come from blade or steel but from his treachery. Now, I lie here, drowning in the weight of the world, surrounded not by the living but by the dead. Their bodies—our bodies—piled upon one another in a grotesque mountain of red.

Night has long since fallen, yet I remain motionless, unable to move. My breath comes in shallow gasps, each one a battle as the crushing weight of destiny presses harder. What have I done to deserve this? That question haunts me, gnawing at my soul, as tears stream down my face and my gaze locks onto the blood-red moon above. Its color mirrors the crimson staining everything around me—my blood and theirs.

I shiver, my body trembling between sweat and cold. Days bleed into nights, and nights into days, yet I remain paralyzed, my limbs numb, my body unresponsive. Ren—my brother—calls me Golden Reaper. No, not my brother anymore. Just Ren. He says I will kill him. He says it with certainty. My thoughts drift to the faint crimson light spilling through a tiny crack in the hull of this cursed vessel.

I lie near the edge of the heap of corpses, my limbs long since turned to dead weight. The chill of death seeps into my bones. My stomach growls, empty for days now. Warmth comes only in fleeting bursts as my body surrenders to its most basic needs, staining my trousers with the warmth of my own piss. The stench of decay is suffocating, the air thick with the scent of rotting flesh and my own filth.

Maggots dance across my skin, their tiny bodies writhing against my frozen form. I hunger, my stomach an endless pit of gnawing pain. At night, the ship rocks gently, lulling the heap of corpses into a grotesque rhythm. I can only turn my head slightly to the right, my neck stiff and likely broken. Every movement sends a sharp pain shooting down my spine.

The red moon hangs in the night sky, its light both a curse and a comfort. When morning comes, the blue sun rises, painting the sky in cold, unfeeling hues. But I prefer the night. The red of the moon feels closer to me, more familiar. Beneath its light, I weep.

The days drag on, though how many have passed, I cannot say. A week? Two? Time blurs in the darkness. My eyes remain bloodshot, the whites long gone, replaced by crimson. My skin is pallid, my body cold. If I could see myself, I doubt I would recognize the wretched creature I have become.

My throat burns with dryness, my tongue swollen and cracked. The maggots crawling over me become more than pests; they are sustenance. I bite at the air, snapping up the writhing larvae that crawl too close to my mouth. Their texture is strange—both crisp and slimy—but I chew and swallow them, nonetheless. The act disgusts me, but I cannot afford the luxury of pride.

I hear voices above—two men, their words muffled but clear enough to discern their indifference. Trivial talk, meaningless prattle.

My heart stirs faintly, but my body remains lifeless.

The red moonlight continues to pour through the crack, bathing me in its faint glow. I shudder, the trembling of my body unstoppable now. My neck protests as I force it to turn toward the source of the light, away from the suffocating darkness. The movement is agonizing, sharp pain radiating down my spine.

Before me lies blackness, a void filled with nothing but rotting flesh and the relentless crawl of maggots. Their pale bodies emerge from the decay, writhing in the festering remains. My nose presses against the filth, the stench overwhelming. My stomach lurches, but I have nothing to vomit. Hunger gnaws at me, relentless and unyielding.

Desperation drives me to the unthinkable. My mouth moves of its own accord, seeking nourishment in the horror before me. The maggots, the flesh—they become my only chance to survive. I bite down, tasting iron and rot. The raw meat is vile, its texture slimy and cold, but I force it down. My throat tightens, threatening to gag, but I swallow, refusing to let survival slip away.

My face burns red with shame, my tears mixing with the filth on my cheeks. The moon watches over me, unyielding in its crimson gaze. Everywhere, there is blood. Blood that stains, blood that lingers, blood that refuses to let me go.

The maggots crawl over my face now, wriggling into my nostrils and across my lips. I let them in, crushing them between my teeth. The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth, mingling with the grotesque crunch of their bodies. My eyes, bloodshot and weary, flicker toward the red moon once more.

The maggots squelch between my teeth, their texture like sour milk mixed with soggy cornflakes. My stomach churns as I swallow, the foul taste lingering like an insult. I gag but force it down, tears streaming uncontrollably down my blood-crusted face. My body convulses, rejecting the meager meal, and I vomit onto myself, the stench of decay now compounded by my own bile. The grotesque slurry splashes onto the corpse next to me—a fellow vessel of red blood, his empty, maggot-riddled sockets staring vacantly into mine. I spit again, clearing my throat, but my vision wavers. The red moon has vanished.

I lie there, trembling in the oppressive dark, the weight of death crushing me as if the entire world rests on my shoulders. My thoughts turn bitterly to Ren. Always to Ren.

Why?

Why must I suffer like this? What crime have I committed to deserve this? Or is it for the sins of another me—a version of myself that I never was and never will be? I bite down hard, my teeth scraping together as frustration wells inside me. The maggots crawling over my flesh do not stop; they burrow into the soft, rotting layers of me, their feast unending. Are they inside me? Have they claimed the hollow spaces of my body—the unseen places I can no longer feel? I shudder, imagining them nestled in the hidden crevices of my anatomy, even in the deepest, most shameful recesses.

"I want to live."

The words escape my cracked, bloodied lips, no louder than a breath. My voice trembles, the faintest echo of resolve buried beneath layers of despair.

Ren's name lingers in my mind. My tears dry, but my body shakes uncontrollably. What would I do if I saw him again? Would I even want to? Not this Ren. Not the one who betrayed me.

The red moon's absence fills the night with a suffocating void. I bury my face back into the putrid corpse above me, tearing at the cold, rubbery flesh with my teeth. It resists at first, but desperation drives me, and I rip away a chunk, chewing mechanically. The texture is wretched—stiff and slimy with the tang of old blood—but I force it down, swallowing with difficulty. The maggots burst against my tongue, adding a gritty, briny bitterness to the sickening bite.

This is what I have become.

Not a man. Not even a beast. Just a hollow thing gnawing at death for the sake of survival.

I bite again, greedily this time, like an infant suckling at its mother. But there is no warmth here, only the icy embrace of death. I do not gag this time, my throat too parched to manage even that small rebellion. My head throbs with the effort, my eyes burn, and for a moment, I wonder if they will betray me, if they will close forever.

No.

The words repeat like a mantra in my mind.

Not yet.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the blackness behind my lids mirroring the abyss I have stared into for countless days. Seconds? Minutes? Time has lost all meaning. My tongue drags over my teeth, gathering remnants of my pitiful meal. My lips tremble as I bite down again, teeth grinding together with a faint click that echo louder in my mind than it ever could in reality.

And then I hear it.

Voices.

"Yo, Wilson, we're almost ready to deliver the cargo. Just a few more minutes, and we'll dock."

Another voice, rough and assured, responds. "A week of sailing, but damn, it's worth it. Twenty Elis. The Rosenmahl family's paying top dollar for this shipment. No wonder they're one of the most powerful families in Elisia."

Rosenmahl?

My dry, cracked lips twitch, and for the first time in days, I feel something close to hope. The weight above me shifts slightly as the boat tilts, and I catch a sliver of dim, warm light filtering through the pile of bodies. The movement pulls at my stiffened neck, pain radiating down my spine.

I grit my teeth and force myself to focus.

One of the voices speaks again, this time colder, more commanding.

"And what about that guy you mentioned? The one who used to work with your father?"

The sound of the voice sends a chill through me, sharp and undeniable.

Eriksson.

The Green One.

My mind reels, but my lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile. His voice is as I remember it—steady, calculating, utterly devoid of warmth.

I am saved.