The Impatient Connoisseur

Not far from the settlement, in a crack between two slabs of black rock where even the corruption seemed reluctant to touch, something was tearing itself apart.

Crunch—

Zelrathus slammed his own head against the stone.

The rock split down the middle. The Outer God didn’t so much as blink. He pulled back and slammed it again …again.

CRASH—!

…and again.

Shards of black stone sprayed across the ash, and the Crown of Splintered Glass rattled on his head, its hundred grinning faces jostling against each other.

“No… no… no…” he whispered. “I can’t destroy them yet… not yet… they’re not ready…”

His long silver fingers dug into his own cheeks and dragged downward, carving deep, glowing furrows into his skin. The wounds closed almost as soon as they opened.

He dug in again anyway, from his cheeks to his neck to his chest, scratching and scratching like a dog with fleas.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he whispered. “I want to taste it. I want to taste it. I want to taste it I want to taste it IwanttotasteitIWANTTO—”

He clamped both hands over his own mouth.

His whole body shook. His elbows bent the wrong way and back again. His knees knocked against the rock. He curled into a ball in the crack between the stones, a creature twice the height of a man folded up as small as a child, rocking back and forth, back and forth, his crown scraping against the stone with every rock.

Six years.

Six years of whispering into that boy’s head. Six years of turning up every emotion inside him until any other mortal would have torn his own family apart with his bare hands.

And the boy had refused. Every. Single. Time.

He had refused the lust, the rage, the resentment, the arrogance, the irritation, everything! And then, as if to mock him, he had found some sleepy little concept and started putting all of Zelrathus’s gifts to bed.

And all the while, the hunger had grown.

It had started with a single whiff. One taste of that despair, back in the silk cave, leaking out of the boy’s mind for a heartbeat before he snatched it back. Just a whiff… A crumb…

Notice the origin: this chapter was taken without permission from where the story was originally posted. Reading on that official page supports its author.

And now Zelrathus couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Like a hopeless addict, he thought about it while the boy slept, while he ate, and every time he looked at the grinning faces on his own crown, realizing that every single one of them, every soul he had ever damned, every feast he had ever savored over countless worlds and countless ages, tasted like ash compared to that one crumb.

“Ahhhhhh~~~!!!”

“I want it…” he whimpered through his fingers. “I want it so much… it hurts…”

On one side of him sat the cook. The patient, refined connoisseur who knew that a meal like this had to be prepared slowly. Seasoned. Simmered. Served at exactly the right moment for the most exquisite taste.

On the other side sat the starving man.

And right about now… the starving man was winning.

Earlier that day, a little mouse in the tribe had come sniffing at him. A diviner, feeling around in the dark for anyone thinking of his family. Normally, Zelrathus would have hidden from it like he usually did for the past hundred years.

This time, he hadn’t bothered.

He had simply let the little mouse look.

The mouse’s terror as his mind burst had been delicious. A small, sweet snack.

It only made the hunger worse.

“Ahhh…”

The rocking stopped.

Zelrathus slowly uncurled. Heavy tears were silently streaming down his silver face. His mouth was stretched in a grin so wide that his lips had split at the corners.

“Sorry…” he whispered.

He rose to his feet. His long legs wobbled like a newborn fawn’s. He took a step toward the settlement and nearly fell over.

“I’m so sorry…”

Another step.

“Such fine ingredients… such pure, beautiful ingredients… and I’m going to butcher them in my greed and haste…” His voice broke into a wail. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, SORRY!!!”

He staggered forward, sobbing.

And then, in the middle of his sobbing, he remembered something.

He had watched these humans for millions of years. He had watched them hunt, and fight, and bury their dead. And he had watched them slaughter their animals.

Every single time, before the knife fell, they had said a prayer. A short one. They would name the Eternal, thank Him for the gift, and make the cut quick and clean.

Zelrathus had found it strange at the time. He had once listened to an old man explain it to a child.

The beasts are a gift from the Eternal, child. Given to keep His believers alive. And if you slaughter them the correct way, quickly and with gratitude, then they are grateful too. Grateful to have been used well.

He hadn’t understood it back then, but now… he understood it perfectly. So intimately, in fact, that it made him sob even harder.

“It really is like that…!” he wailed, clutching his chest. “They would have been so grateful… if I had eaten them the correct way… if I had prepared them properly, slowly, with care… they would have thanked me…!”

His legs buckled. He caught himself on a rock and kept walking.

“But now that I’m about to butcher them… they’ll die disappointed… surely… surely…! I’m so sorry, dear humans…! I have sinned…!”

He threw his long arms up toward the black sky and the crimson ring hanging in it.

“And I’m about to sin ANEW!!!”

His mutters trailed after him as he stumbled on.

“Just like plucking unripe fruit from a tree… I have sinned~”

He giggled.

“But what if my fruits are turning overripe…? Will they rot? Will they decay and wither? Will they fall?” His eyes went wide with horror. “Ah… ah! AHHH!!! I don’t know! I don’t know, so I shall sin anew! I shall pluck you true!”

“Hehehe… wait for me… my fruits… I’m coming… I’m starving… I’m running—!!!”

His unsteady gait suddenly vanished.

And so did he.