11-03-2016, 08:11 PM
KINGSLAY
He was a king (his crown made up of the bones of his unwilling subjects - his throne, their funeral pyres.).
He was a god (cruel without conscience, and subject to the whim of his changing moods.).
He was a reaper. The reaper.
But they usurped him.
They kissed him once, those witches made of shadow, and made of him a wicked, malevolent god when they’d forged him out of greed and wrath and fire and sickness - and he’d shown them gratitude by painting the blood of those he’d slaughtered into poetry. The colour red, and the sound of cracking bone, and the flavour of marrow were gifts he had lain before their ugly, gnarled feet.
And they’ve usurped him - stripped him bare of flame and soot, and left him mortal again. He is different now, unmarked, save for those few lingering scars fingering the trenches they carved against his flesh; reminders of the raw, unyielding power he possessed, if only for a time. He is still not handsome - his face is too angular, his eyes too flat and black - but he is cleansed, if you can call it so much.
Punishment, perhaps, for knowing things he ought not to know (the slope of Her hips instead of the anatomy of her body, and the colours that Her eyes are made of rather than the way light looks falling out of them). Punishment, perhaps, for letting things live if they spoke his name in a way he wasn’t used to hearing it.
It isn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was to boil the blood of a nameless stranger until it bubbled from her emptied eye sockets, but his victim only cried, staggering blindly, and her blood did not move to yield to his command. What he wanted was to watch that boiling blood weep like tears down her muddied cheek, and out of her nostrils as though he were the plague consuming her. What he wanted was to look aslant his shoulders and see smouldering ash and licking flames behind him, and to douse what was left of her body with them until the forest ran thick with acrid smoke and the smell of burning flesh like she’d been made of gasoline. He had killed her anyways, piece by piece, but it wasn’t what he wanted (or how he wanted).
And now, instead of flame and fire and hell in his wake, he leaves only a road of severed extremities, of snow stained red, and the wreckage of bones, splintered and sharp.
Because they’ve usurped him.
Because of Her.
Because he had tried to forget Her, but she is a cancer, and even the memory of her name ate away at the atoms inside of him until all that was left was a whisper of all of the syllables that she once was to him (They heard. They heard.).
Because they knew that he was bending to Her will, that he was capable of it at least.
Because.
He was a god (cruel without conscience, and subject to the whim of his changing moods.).
He was a reaper. The reaper.
But they usurped him.
They kissed him once, those witches made of shadow, and made of him a wicked, malevolent god when they’d forged him out of greed and wrath and fire and sickness - and he’d shown them gratitude by painting the blood of those he’d slaughtered into poetry. The colour red, and the sound of cracking bone, and the flavour of marrow were gifts he had lain before their ugly, gnarled feet.
And they’ve usurped him - stripped him bare of flame and soot, and left him mortal again. He is different now, unmarked, save for those few lingering scars fingering the trenches they carved against his flesh; reminders of the raw, unyielding power he possessed, if only for a time. He is still not handsome - his face is too angular, his eyes too flat and black - but he is cleansed, if you can call it so much.
Punishment, perhaps, for knowing things he ought not to know (the slope of Her hips instead of the anatomy of her body, and the colours that Her eyes are made of rather than the way light looks falling out of them). Punishment, perhaps, for letting things live if they spoke his name in a way he wasn’t used to hearing it.
It isn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was to boil the blood of a nameless stranger until it bubbled from her emptied eye sockets, but his victim only cried, staggering blindly, and her blood did not move to yield to his command. What he wanted was to watch that boiling blood weep like tears down her muddied cheek, and out of her nostrils as though he were the plague consuming her. What he wanted was to look aslant his shoulders and see smouldering ash and licking flames behind him, and to douse what was left of her body with them until the forest ran thick with acrid smoke and the smell of burning flesh like she’d been made of gasoline. He had killed her anyways, piece by piece, but it wasn’t what he wanted (or how he wanted).
And now, instead of flame and fire and hell in his wake, he leaves only a road of severed extremities, of snow stained red, and the wreckage of bones, splintered and sharp.
Because they’ve usurped him.
Because of Her.
Because he had tried to forget Her, but she is a cancer, and even the memory of her name ate away at the atoms inside of him until all that was left was a whisper of all of the syllables that she once was to him (They heard. They heard.).
Because they knew that he was bending to Her will, that he was capable of it at least.
Because.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.
he is a winning conversationalist
