Zenith of the Moon

The smell of blood intoxicated him. The wild death throes of his victim only sweetened the taste. He ignored the spray that now coated his clothes and dripped down his face. Half hooded emerald eyes that blinked to rid the long lashes of any remaining blood closed contentedly. He didn't even notice the barest of clicks of the shifting of a sword. Nor did he turn when the panting of labored breath met his ears. Slowly, those green orbs slid open, aquiring a goldish tinge. Lips stained red opened in a brutal smile.
"I suppose you're here to kill me?" An impossible sweet and innocent voice slid from those tainted lips. Even bloodstained he maintained a look of childish naivety. A blade pushed at the boy's neck, shakingly, it drew blood.
"I bleed too," the boy said softly. The sword droppped to the ground, knees falling as well. Breeches were soon soaked with blood. The green eyed boy turned to the man who lost the will to kill, a look of confusion coming across his youthgul face.
"You should have killed me," the boy stated, fingers flexing idly, "Why didn't you?" The man was normal, peasent stock. Probably just another way for him to make money.
"I... I have a son.... he's about your age," the man stuttered out, guilt washing over his face. The boy was unmoved and drew the paired scimitars at his sides with ease.
"Before you called me a monster and wished to kill me, what does your son change about this?" The blades twisted in his hands, waiting.
"I can't.... I can't but help wondering..." the man was afraid now. Very afrraid, he could almost taste the fear.
"What? Hurry up, before I decide to cut your tongue out!" The boy smiled, and the blood that had dried around on his cheeks cracked and flaked.
"Will someone miss you when you die?" The man asked. The question hit him hard. The blades stopped their rotation, his mouth dropped a little, and green eyes froze. A shadow of doubt crept into his head. Then he remembered. Those who are weak do not deserve to die. Survival of the fittest! Echoed in his mind.
"You're in the way," the boy hissed, trying to throw those words from his mind. The scimitars spun again, and this time the man lost his head. But even as he stood there, bathed in blood and midnight he wondered the same. Will someone miss him when he dies?
"I don't need anyone... I am a child of the moon."