My second Dark Tower oneshot.
Mordred's p.o.v. outside Dandelo's cabin during that big storm. Set during the seventh book.
I own nothing.
The hides that he had wrapped himself in had been poorly cleaned. The shreds of deer flesh that hung from them still had begun to stink even despite the cold. Yet still he clung to them, clutched them to his thin and shivering frame, for they were his only source of warmth, his only protection from the cold.
Below him, the windows of the hut gleamed with a cheerful yellow light. That light was barely visible through the whirling snow, but the boy's eyes were fixed on it nonetheless.
His eyes. They were the blue of faded jeans, the blue of a merciless desert sky. They were the eyes of his father, the gunslinger, and they burned in his sallow face as though lit by some ghostly fire, shining far brighter than they should have. The wind gusted again, blowing a flurry of snow into his face. He continued to stare ahead at the light, unblinking.
His lips moved, forming words inaudible over the howling storm. "Baby bunting, baby dear, baby bring your basket here. Chussit chissit chassit, bring enough to fill your basket!" Words familiar to his father- the White one. And it must have been from that father's mind that he had lifted these words, for his mother had never lived long enough to croon such lullabies to his sleeping form.
For a brief second, something sparked in those blue eyes as he remembered the taste of Mia's blood, his first meal. Hot and full of life, a taste that he craved every moment after that. He had spent most of his short life hungering for that warmth.
How long had it been since he was warm?
As if to mock him, the wind sent a swirl of cold air up under the hides. He shivered miserably, gazing with no small amount of longing at the merry lights of Dandelo's cabin. Longing mingled with hatred.
He did not hate the creature which lived in that hut, though it would have been right for him to. No, he hates his father, his White Daddy, the man who sits in that warmth with the blackbird bitch and the billy bumbler.
I hate, and so I live.
The wind continued to blow, the snow continued to fall, and the boy continued to steep in his hatred, clinging to life despite the fact that he was cold and miserable and to life because he hated his father, the gunslinger.
Mordred Deschain, son of Roland and the Crimson King and Mia, refused to die before he could kill his White father.
He would suck his father dry, he told himself. Savor every last droplet of lifegiving warmth. He would glory in the pain, the agonized screams. The gunslinger's passage would be long and exquisitely painful. He would save the eyes for last, those beautiful blue eyes that he had inherited. Eyes like the sky that was no hidden by storm clouds heavy with snow and cold. And how delicious they would be, slip-sliding down his throat.
I'm waiting for you, father.
The boy pulled the hides tighter around his bony body and waited, dreaming of his father's blood.
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