no matter what they say, I am still the king

Life is a fickle beast – a thing to be mourned and feared. (but frolicked with; oh always frolicked with). Life, like most things (like He), gives and takes. It will take your comfort, your down soft memories and innocence of pearls (take it all, skin it alive, pray for the best). But it will give; give you your dusk flecked body, your sun tinged skin, your melding of stone and ire. You will grow, life will flow (giveandtakeandtake) – and you will learn.
There is much to be hung on expectations – a hat rack settled so surely in the corner, always there (rarely used). What will you be? What will you do? What will you etch so permanently in those stubborn rock walls? You can stray as far as you might, fighting the tide of the kingdom, but there is always that tether (that title- heiress, heiress, heiress). Will it be inside you – a warrior waiting to spring forth from your mother’s rib – or will it fester like a wound (failure feels hot on your skin)?
“You cannot escape the mind, my little rose-thing.” He comes forth (as foreboding as your future), His dark skin clashing so violently with yours (giveandtake). Your venture (escape?) has led to you to your future (your fall?).
“Such a far way to come to still have them embittered inside you.” He could take too, you know. He could take each and every one so delicately from your mind – the give and take, the ebb and flow.
Life- it takes, oh yes it takes so damn much. But life also gives you Him.

(now, the storm is coming in)

no matter what they say, I am still the king

Things can be changed - can be melded and folded like a supple, searing metal. Nothing is ever quite set in stone- at least, not when there is some kind of might flowing through your veins, such as He has. There is little that can be undone, there is not much that can’t be swayed. What would you have budded into, had events unfolded differently?

You are poised and succinct in your age, as if you were plucked from the womb and placed into the world with purpose. No, there was no time for you to frolic like a child. No time for playthings and jousting jests with others akin. While they grow from gangly-legged does, to more sturdy juveniles, you grow in another way. You are an oyster opening your mouth, begging for the grit of life of others to create your pearl. You seek out something stranger than what you have known - you are a twisting mix of yearning for life’s lessons, and content to be on your own. How strange, how strange.

There are few who feel at ease near Him, and for good reason. He is a mercurial beast -  mellifluous one moment, and marring your mind the next. It is no surprise that you are no different. He moves as if there is no question that what he wants, is His (you are not excluded from this category). It is good to be wary, to sidestep his possession, to query how He knows so much without speaking. You are not wrong to be unsure of quite who He is, or where He may have come from. The question is - how much do you worry? You are not young and bold, shirking off the idea that nothing bad in this world exists. But have you proverbially aged enough to know just how dangerous He before you could be?

Such a self-reflecting thing you are. Steadily digesting the actions of your days; stealing away to rest with them peacefully (to learn, to grow, to flourish). Wise beyond your years, perhaps. He no longer does this - He has nothing to reflect on, to divulge of his days. They all weave into one another in the same way. Day in - day out - He ages, years yawning before Him, but can He truly learn much else? The world is bound to Him through magic, he is all-seeing, all-knowing; it would be a delight for something new and unknown to bound into his world.
Perhaps you, little rose-dusted thing, would be something new?

Your mind reels - still too young to learn how to not sift easily from one thought to the next.
“Try as one may; you cannot keep all resentment from memories.” Not an answer you were looking for from Him, maybe. But an answer nonetheless. Your mind clouds slightly, and he hears the echo of a cough (your sister, He sees, no doubt her body swimming with the plague). “Bitter may be a mischosen word. There’s certainly enough inside your head.” He moves fluidly past you as he speaks, a silent invitation for a walk through the hot summer land. “Trouble at home?” Was your sister gulping down blood yet? Was her skin roiling in the rot? Had she given it to you, yet? Or was that a trouble still around the corner?

(now, the storm is coming in)