Rubbing his temples, a certain drowsiness slowly faded from the young man's eyes.
His body was drenched in a thick layer of cold sweat, his breathing labored and uneven. Ankled shadows flickered across the rough stone walls, rising high into the cathedral-like gloom above, while sharp drafts carried with them the distant echo of dripping water and the faint scent of damp earth. He sat upright before a small bonfire, its fragile warmth hardly enough to penetrate the cold that filled the cavern. He regained his composure gradually, leaning on a hard, chitinous substance covered with a few white lines forming a square pattern, a blue liquid flowing down where the white lines met.
The drowsiness and confusion of sleep slowly disappeared as he wiped away the built-up droplets of sweat from his forehead. They were replaced by a somber, hollow, and, most of all, a lost emptiness of an expression.
A large scar marred his face. It had only just healed, the rawness of the wound still visible. The newly formed skin failed to fully cover the exposed flesh beneath. The scar stretched across the corners of his lips, creating the unsettling illusion of an extended smile. Its edges were crudely sewn shut, held together by coarse, uneven stitches—reminders of a hasty and desperate attempt to mend a grievous injury—an attempt to regain a sense of normalcy.
The boy sitting before a bonfire, not much older than 18 or 19, wore the air of an individual far too tired and experienced for his age, covered in dark rage, barely held within.
Or the rage might have been the only thing that was holding him together, the only thing keeping him going.
He shook his head. An emotion of annoyance and self-deprecation rose from within as remnants of his past flashed before his eyes, fragmented and broken, yet still there, resisting his subconscious attempt at suppression.
He could not… he did not forget, however… he would not allow himself to forget.
How could he ever forgive himself for averting his gaze once more?
"Was I always this weak-willed, not even able to crame a few unwanted thoughts away? Unable to face the cruel reality?"
Perplexed by his own words and held in the grip of delirium and sleep deprivation, Noctis stared into the distance.
His two dark pupils, empty and unreflective, appeared as lightless abysses, each circled by heavy shadows that clung beneath his eyes. Any hint of desire in his gaze was gone, the spark within him smothered so completely that not even a single ember remained.
A self-deprecating laugh escaped his scared lips as he mused.
"Ha ha—Such pointless thoughts... and emotions. What had made me ever think such foolish things? A better life? No, that is a fool's errand. There is no such thing fated for my future."
He stretched out his right hand to take a skewer, which he had placed nearest to him, resting beside it, two more of its kind. On the skewers were long, blue tendons, resembling muscle fibers, now a bit burned and charred, having been placed too close to the fire.
Not looking at the blue meat for long, his appetite had been weak from the beginning, and the flesh had been quite unappetizing to look at.
A strand of white, long, dirty hair fell between his mouth, which had been so terribly scarred, and the food.
His hair was raven black, with a pronounced silver-white streak over the right eye, unkempt and growing out, creating a savage, rough image.
Not showing surprise or hesitation, already used to his grown-out hair, he tucked it behind his ear as he took a bite of the still-sizzling meat, slightly burning his mouth as he chewed, not reacting to the pain, merely grinding the sustenance numbly.
In the light luster of the waning flame, the mountain of white threads that had served as kindling slowly burned up, curled together, and lost their once-white color.
His expression, crunched up, disgust for the barely edible food showing clearly.
In such a situation, still so picky?
Laughing once more, this time more forced and louder, his eyebags grew by the second, clearly not having slept well in a while.
His laugh echoed through the dark, empty cave. He himself was unsure about what he was laughing at, maybe a realization, maybe to alleviate the burden of the whole situation, or maybe simply because he had given up.
"Ha ha ha, I have grown too used to luxury, I believe. Dont you agree?"
The barely illuminated cave did not respond, and there seemed to be no one in the large space that could. He was alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
Not getting a response, his emotionless smile did not fade, having expected no other outcome.
"Suit yourself then."
How could one be disappointed if one did not expect anything?
As his eyes drifted to the side, taking another bite of the disgusting flesh, the black head and parts of a chitinous creature emerged in his field of view, weakly illuminated by the waning flames.
Well, the nearest part of its body was revealed, the creature encompassing large parts of the cave and stretching far beyond the flames' reach into the dark void beyond.
At its head, two ginormous, sharp pincers were placed, between them a small mouth that grew outward; a tens-of-meters-long body, built of multiple segments, each with two legs attached, coiling around most of the camp and stretching far beyond it.
As a whole, the creature was a giant centipede, its head serving as a rest for the young man's back.
Its body was covered in countless lacerations and thread-thin flesh wounds, so numerous that the once gleaming exoskeleton of the creature was now cracked, with blue blood running across its pristine black armor like chitin. Its last breaths had been taken because of these wounds.
At a segment of its enormous body, not too far away, a greater and deeper wound had been formed. A big piece of flesh had been cut out at the spot, and a white cup, seemingly made out of a thread-like substance, similar to the one used as kindling.
Sitting below the gruesome wound, it caught the stream of thick, blue blood.
Having finished the "food", he walked over to the cup filled with the thick, viscous blood. Staring at it for a few moments, a barely audible sigh escaped his lips before he gulped down the liquid, disgust written all over his face.
"Gulp"
"Gulp"
"Gulp ahhhh"
As he felt the bittersweet taste linger on his tongue, the thick liquid ran down his throat. The white, strained man crouched down, returning the cup to its original position a moment later and let the dark blue liquid flow into it once more, slowly filling it, bit by bit.
"Thump"
Falling back, no longer able to muster the strength to resist gravity, the white-strained man collided with the chitinous centipede carcass, a muffled groan escaping his lips as a result.
At his right arm, where the most grueling of pains was coming from, he pulled back a cubsely made bandage, a deep cut, severed the bone partially, held together by multiple thin threads grafted into the flesh, their color more translucent than white, almost unnoticeable to the eye.
They seemed to be pulling the flesh and bone towards each other in an attempt to mend the wound that was far too large to be healed by such meager support. A truly frivolous attempt.
This would leave a deep scar, adding to his already rugged appearance. If he survived, that was.
Fastening the bandage made out of some kind of leathery pelt stitched together by thin white threads, similar to the rest of his ragged clothes.
"Grooowl"
A sound rumbled throughout his surroundings.
He felt a pang of hunger tearing at his insides. His stomach protested, the sound reverberating through the cave.
He had eaten more than a human would have needed to, and still he felt hunger.
This hunger came from a place he dared not name, gnawing at him with a cold, otherworldly persistence. It was as if something inside him had been awakened, a craving that could never be sated by mere food. He needed something more—something that fitted his nature, something few would ever comprehend.
The young man, tremblingly, stood up once more, kicking out the fire with one swift motion, his clothes flaring around by the sudden motion. His bare chest was well-defined, in stark contrast to his rough appearance. What stood out, however, was not the muscular exterior.
It was the circle carved into his flesh right above his heart, barely larger than a palm. But what one could see at a singular glance was the perilous skill with which it was carved, the symbols precise and well defined, clearly impossible for a youth like him to create.
Slowly walking to the wall of the cave, he grabbed a thick string strung along the cave's edge. Unnoticeable to the eye, threads extended from his fingers and connected to the rest of the thickly woven string connecting him to the greater tapestry, wrapping around his hand twice.
While regretting that he could not solve the problem called his appetite, he pulled himself upward along the white string, illuminated only by the smoldering ashes.
No, he did not pull it. It would be more precise to say that the moment he grabbed the string connecting it to his own threads, it began pulling him upward, making the perilous task far more manageable, even for someone as heavily injured as he was.
There, above an intricately designed web, was built, held in place by the cave's walls.
Now, sitting on a thick thread, not the smallest problem to hold his balance, despite the seemingly gravity-defying ability to balance on these finger-thin threads. Below him, lying the corpse of the giant centipede, the man slowly stood up, casually balancing along the threads, before stopping at the web's center.
There, he reached for a large cocoon that had been hanging from the ceiling for a while, held in place by multiple thick and thin white threads.
It was the size of a man, or to be precise, it was fitted perfectly for this man, as if tailor-made solely for him. Taking a large step forward, carefully shifting his weight from the web to the cocoon before letting himself be embraced by the silky, nurturing, and most of all comfortable inside of the cocoon.
Feeling exausted the man named Noctis started sewing the only entrance of the cocoon shut, the remnants of the cindeling's light no longer able to penetrate the cocoon's outer layer.
Exhaustion showed as Noctis' eyes grew heavier by the moment, a soul wish not having to remember tugging at the back of his mind, eyes no longer resisting closing and shutting tight.
That wish he could not afford himself.
Instead of the comforting darkness of slumber, he was met, however, with a golden thread waving before his mind's eye, slowly expanding, pulling at his very being, wrapping, constraining and enticing, his very instincts trying to convince him to give in to that exhilarating sensation, only dampened by the cold logic of his mind fighting against his desires, losing ground little by little, day by day.
A sleep without respite, filled with dreams of the past awaited.