He had ever known rage?
He had killed, had fought – he knows this. He had once been the puppet of a dark god (his father, too, but Carnage was always a god first, a father second – or not at all), made to do any number of terrible things. He cannot recall the specifics – they are blurred, as many things are, by centuries – but he recalls feeling ill, feeling scared, trying to burrow and hide inside himself. Piling his secrets in one small corner of his mind, hiding them and hiding them until the day they spilled out.
He lets out a juddering sigh as the memories crawl about. He doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t really want to even be. He wants that nothingness, eyes closing beneath the tree, sleep coming and never going.
Oh, he is not supposed to be here.
The storm comes on sudden, a gust of wind buffeting his face, the tension in the air of electrivity and thunder. He tenses, listening to the crack of branches and howl of wind, and then it’s gone, and from the forest comes a mare as if she was birthed from the storm itself.
(He’s almost right, just has it the wrong way ‘round.)
He should fear her, he supposes. She reeks of electricity and power and he, once a magician of some power, can conjure nothing at the moment. He is defenseless.
But what of it?
Yes, what of it?
Maybe she’ll hurt him – he’s been hurt plenty before. Maybe she’ll strike him dead, and what of that?
He grins, and it’s not quite healthy – lips curling, too much teeth, madness whispering at its curve.
“Don’t be,” he says, “I’ve been dead for so long, I’m sure I could use a shower.”
you ask me about love and I tell you about violence