DEATH (pale_as) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-01-28 16:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | death, elpis |
Who: Alexander, Elpis, and Death
What: Poking Alexander until he cries rainbows
When: Thursday night
Where: Death's penthouse
Alexander, for all his charms and angelic smiles, was not particularly bright. This was not entirely his fault, given that he was barely a month old and just happened to inhabit the body of a well-formed young adult with an excellent grasp of foreign languages, remarkable equestrian skills, and an unparalleled mastery of the art of self-pity. This simpleness had demonstrated itself once before, when Alexander had spent several weeks with his 'father', otherwise known as Satan, Prince of Evil. However, even the most exceptionally thick individual would still be credited with sense enough to avoid occupying the same space of a being who had expressed a desire to murder him.
Not so with Alexander.
But he was safe, at least for the moment. Death's penthouse that overlooked the East was filled with clutter; dust from no where, paper with no use, a small rodent scurried across the floor. The faucet in Death's kitchen was dripping, but Alexander thought that the plink plink plink was oddly soothing, and that maybe that was what had lulled Death into his impenetrable slumber. And he was sleeping, Alexander was sure of it as he watched from his perch beside the large bed with rotted wood all about it, paint peeling off the walls. Death lay prone on his back, arms spread, skin paper white and eyes closed, his thin lips slightly parted; cold to the touch. His chin was tilted slightly up, as if he had been looking at the cracked, off-white ceiling before dozing off.
Death would have almost looked peaceful, if not for the veins. Death's skin was so pale it was easy to see the light blue veins underneath his skin, but they were not where they were supposed to be. It seemed, from appearances, that they had slid under his skin from the effect of gravity, and where his arms did not touch the bed, they had fallen further, and they dangled like wayward roots onto the sheets. A disconcerting sight, to be sure, and Alexander hadn't dared to touch them, only Death's forehead, only his palms, and the boy was convinced that his originator was still there, somehow. He was beginning to feel the hole, as well, when he looked to Death's chest. He felt that he himself somehow was missing - from himself. It was an affair of confusion all around.
But Miss Sato was coming and he had pulled the shades shut on the large floor-length windows that faced the East, and so Alexander was convinced that things would be alright.