Hey there, readers. Long time no see. It's been quite a while since I've made an effort to write anything, so bear with me while I stumble back on my feet.
This is kind of a standalone ficlet done in the same universe is my story Beauty is Relative. I plan on picking the project up again, but first I need to reconnect with the characters. So with all that said, hopefully you enjoy this tiny offering.
-o-
There's an emptiness that dwells deep inside. It begins as a small, churning nothingness that churned in the pits of his stomach; a hollow hole that slowly expands, working its way through his chest and slithering up his esophagus to the back of his throat until he's choking on the void. He knows that it's temporary – he knows that the empty consumption would pass, and the melted flesh and muscle and bone that he feels dripping to the floor would vanish soon. But an eerie energy would be left behind that prickled his skin and sent a trembling pulse through his hands.
It would pass.
He didn't have to follow the urge. He knew that it was just that – a senseless urge that made no logical appeal. It was hardly something a nation should feel the need to do; nations are the icons of unwavering strength and tenacity, waging wars and taking lives for the sake of his people. But the hushed whimpers of a terrified child whispered to him from a rotting box buried deep within his mind were so convincing. They spoke of necessity and instincts, beaten into the psyche after centuries of training.
It didn't have to be this way. He could fight and grow (How much emotional growth is possible for a nation?), lifting the weight of child's fear from his memory and laying it to rest.
But his fingers would rise, time and again, to his parted lips as he crouched over the familiar porcelain. They would slip past his teeth and trace his tongue as they sloped down the throat, followed by a stream of viscous yellow that chased his retreating hand and spilled into the waiting water. And as his body shook and sweat beaded at his brow, he wallowed in the shameful truth.
It would have passed.