Chapter 24: Chapter 24: Dress
Apathy, the indifference of the world, whether it be the raucous, discordant cries of abstracted calamity or the eternal deficiency of acquiesced recognition, the domain cared not for the trichotomous adolescents, their fervent skirmish possessing the same preponderance as a mere fly, a vexatious annexation to the already dissonant tune of the perpetually cacophonic choir. A sanguine soliloquy drolled listlessly, an incessant monologue solely heeded by the now crimson dust, a portrait painted by such hematic shade, progeny to a malcontent father, Christiaan, his right hand an incessant cataract, spawning infinite ensanguined deluge.
Eyes of lurid blue swarmed that of heterochromatic pink and brown, an abhorrent, accursed glare birthed by such wrathful convergence, though bearing not source from Eros, but Christiaan, his antecedently handsome features gnarled, a perverted echo of contemptuous repugnance, Christiaan's teeth, a pearly white in shade appeared clenched, perpetually braced against one another in an interlocked display of misguided wretchedness, feverous malevolent breaths imprisoned amidst such enamel bastille never to be liberated.
It was as though Eros was the youth's malefactor, the source of such torturous laceration, as though Christiaan himself could do little wrong, his existence a self-indoctrinated martyr, still, such animosity appeared temporal, forced out of the boy's mind by vehement spasmodic palpitations and the eternal swamp of blood that further pooled underfoot, embracing not only Christiaan but Eros's boots of mottled burgundy. Eyes bearing cadaverous, melodramatic bodies shifted, the singular focus of their existence no longer the enchanting boy before them but someone greater, a figure sequestered to the gathered males, one that everlastingly captivated the halcyon horizon.
Instinctually, Eros turned, foreboding intrigue grasping the forefront of his every waking thought, his heart once a disharmonious aggregate of noise now a paradoxical quiescence lullaby, a forewarning of dysphoric melancholy. Areata, her sacrilegious visage untouched, virgin to the anarchic realm, upon her flesh of achromatic wax bedded not even dust, exempt she lay, a mere spectator, a notion Eros struggled to comprehend yet one he further not scrutinised, an inquest gaze of anguished yearning befell the beauty, descendent of Christiaan's twain macabre pupils, his left hand vainly postured before his right, bereft of the blades he heretofore held, the youth sought advice, providence, acknowledgement to his perpetual plea, one granted solely by his matriarchal sovereign.
Tears sporadically caked the youth's antecedently enchanting face. He begged, yet, to such harrowing prayer, Areata privileged him little more than a vexatious plaguing glare, her eyes a nugatory of unbounded apathy.
She didn't care.
Why would she?
Christiaan bore no innate need for praise. His maimed flesh cultivated little more than nauseating antipathy amidst the beauty's dispassionate mind. She would neither be his saviour nor guiding light, merely a tyrannical god of which he lay forced to obey. Still, upon Christiaan's features existed not heartless disdain but expectant mirthlessness. The youth's figure failed to quiver. His heart beat not to a tune of tempestuous betrayal but acknowledged heedlessness. A hand of pure sterilised white erupted from Areata's side, yet her fingers did not appear arciform, twisted into a sign of wanting, but a dismissive palm, a mere brush. Christiaan knew what to do. His back turned, spasmodic, his right-hand limp, a vain addition upon his anaemic flesh, he simply moved, apathetic to Eros's geminate gaze that lay limpid upon his unassisted visage, deaf steps echoed not amidst the domain, nor did a shadow spread from the boy's departing figure, he simply moved, hounded solely by a carrion discharge, that which replaced his umbral twin.
This was a relationship without love.
An apprehensive fate Eros had abdicated, a depraved life left departed, for he had ascended, sat upon an ostentatious throne reticent to his peers, never to encroach. His eyes of heterochromatic hue aimlessly stalked the sanguinary boy, lonesome, unaccompanied by either his singular sanctioned peer or impassive owner. Eros watched, as Christiaan's feet, that which tread upon a swamp of carrion, turned indolent, laggard, his venture impermanently blocked by the monumental leviathan bastion, the gatekeeper between twin worlds, that of calamitous ruination, and ecclesiastical serenity. With but a singular arm Christiaan did not push but instead swang, his every motion eerie, a forceful punch empowered by his centrifugal force manipulation.
*Bang* A far-flung secluded clamour materialised upon the precipice of Eros's obscured ears, the shrill cry of metal battling with the enslavement of Gravity upon its weary appendages merely one of the multitudinous melodies to bellow ceaselessly amidst the discordant realm, however, Eros paid little heed to such loathsome, detestable woe, but instead focused upon a mural of crimson, for Christiaan's virgin, unprofaned and undamaged left metacarpus appeared splintered, his fingers mangled, grotesque, akin to the branches of a fracturing tree they split, malformed in appearance, skewed to impossible angles, some subsiding in upon the boy's bloodied palm, flesh peeled placed upon the hallowed land, while bone continued, myriad nails of keratin betrayed the realm in which they presided gouging flesh in a gut-wrenching sight, yet one Eros felt nought but apathy towards.
Varicoloured light impregnated the halcyon domain, shrouding the departing youth amidst a belie shawl of polychromatic shade. Eros should have ended his observation here, yet, for some reason, an adumbrate impassiveness to shift his view filled his mind, an instinctual urge to gaze, an apprehensive prognostic mania to remain. And it was with such notion that Eros saw it, a visage tandem to the ensanguined youth, a hand, reticent, the very definition of ethereal, one that beckoned forth caprice licentiousness, dainty fingers appeared arciform, a tantalising temptation that preternaturally failed to encroach upon the interest of Eros's mind. Christiaan's steps appeared sloven, as though haggard, moved solely by such wistful allurement, his visage fading, instinctually Eros moved, his figure exploding into a bout of spasmodic animation.
He desired to know, to observe the feminine character that appeared secular to such polychromatic light, hasty steps bounced frantically amidst the cacophonous realm, Eros's figure uninterested in the mortal concept of fatigue, he neared the chasmic bastion, whose wounds had yet to be cauterised, his heterochromatic gaze anchored firmly upon the abysmic cleavage.
A desolate realm. Devoid of life, absent of zoetic vivacity, a void-like domain where even sound lay slaughtered, footsteps echoed nought, mere light, messianic and venerated fragmented that which would otherwise be a nightmarish corridor, Christiaan appeared not, his figure maimed and mangled, extinct, a shadow of carrion withdrawn…however, in its place, appeared an ambrosial miasma, an effluvium fog that ceaselessly bred the holy land, coloured a variegated hue it brewed, never to leave the expanse upon which it menaced.
'What?' Eros inwardly stammered, a pungent aromatic odour assailing his sinus, progeny to the macabre murk that sovereignly ruled, 'what is this?' Eros continued, his eyes momentarily shifting from the bleak passage to the phantasmic cloud, yet, it was amid such motion that Eros spied it, abstracted from the world, secluded behind a turn, a solemn drape, a billowing fabric.
A dress, an item divorced from the standard uniform of Enuma Esper academy, its colour indecipherable amidst the variegated light.
Impulsively Eros's body started, a lurching desire spreading forth amidst his mind, yet, before his visage gained animation, he would appear placated, for a chilling calloused coldness disseminated upon his maroon shoulder, a hyperborean chill trailed imminently by a paradoxically venomous yet mellifluous voice.
"Fight me,"
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Fyniccus
Fyniccus Sorry if this chapter's not up to par. My mind feels really clouded atm. Anyway, this novel is contracted though I don't think I'll go premium until I finish this general story arc, if you want to support me feel free to send gifts, though.
Creation is hard, cheer me up!
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