no matter what they say, I am still the king

Anger is a hungry thing - it will devour everything from the inside out, until there is nothing left. What else can you feel? What else is left inside you beside this hard diamond of a feeling? There are things that have kept you alive but will bring you to your grave. Not everything you believe in will keep life in your lungs. Not hate, not loathe, not love, not hope.
“I pity you.” His voice is void of all emotion. His jaw has hardened under the touch of your kiss. He has once again succumbed to the dark ache of shadows that define him. It is not like the anger you live in - it is unlike the hate that has shrouded the land - it is simply a shell of a feeling that has been created throughout the decades of his life.
He does not say why this pity sluices through his veins. You will learn soon enough. What you deny, will come through tenfold. The love you have said no to (for there are only your children), will come up to creep up on you in the night. You are truthful in your words, even he cannot deny this (and why would he want to, anymore?). You are not ruthless, you are not cruel - you have simply come to terms what the world has given you.
But it does not change the way his emotion curdles in his stomach. It does not change the way his demeanor sheaths over - from vulnerable to eerily placid. Your kiss leaves an acid burn on his throat, and it will be a reminder of the years that have passed between you two. But you parting taste will not be enough to quell what will happen.

There is only one way to be alone, my little snake.
---
It is cool and quiet in the ebbing daylight of the jungle. Decades have passed since he last found himself, and how ironic to find himself back in the kingdom he had founded. He could not call it home, not in the least bit - but he was back again to forge a different kind of future.

The boy is easy to find. The smell of Sabbath’s skin is something so simply he can conjure - the sharp tang of distaste wrapped in the lulling lust of desire. And the ophidian child reeks of her. Her voice echoes in the recesses of his mind, and seems to entwine between the thick trunks of the trees towering above him. What have you ever given me to warrant your request? How foolish, to declare a question so bold. What has he given her? In truth, nothing.

But what he will take? That is something far more precious.

---

He waits until the night has devoured the land - for there is no better time to become a living nightmare. His dark body sluices through the night with soundless ease. Her punishment was almost laughably easy, it almost felt unfair. The thought washes away just as quickly - unfair? He had given her the choice, and she had decisively sliced her own wrists. She would bleed for the lost love of her child until she had nothing left inside her.

The oddly blue child slumbers silent and sweet, as if the ocean had stained him. And her, beside him - a face he had not seen in months now. They had parted that day without another word, and he had waited patiently. She had grown ripe and burst open like a peach - but had given him a much better gift: a child, a son.

He watches, time leeching through the night. It wasn’t as though he was debating on the decision - he was well aware of the destructive decision he had already made his mind upon. Rather, it was quite nice to drink in the picturesque moment that he deserved to ruin. A small smile edges onto his features as he reaches out towards the two - sweet dreams, little things.

His power crushes lavender and chamomile and a soft and quiet calm into Sabbath - something to keep soft and still and serene. Sleep - sleep - sleep. (For a watchful mother would never rest too easy).

And to the little boy who would become his - he sends him a dream. He sends him a wondrous thing, full of color and light and exploration. He feeds the feelings of curiosity, excitement, wonder. The thought of “What is that?!” and “I must go further!”. He entwines the music of the trees, and the accompanying song of the birds, and the smells of flora and fauna. And he lures.
“Come, my child. There is an entire world that waits.”

And the magician turns into the maze of trees, back into the night.

(now, the storm is coming in)

no matter what they say, I am still the king

It does not take long and the moon has only waned slightly before he feels the tug of the dreamscape upon his mind. The vicious glint of blue devours his sight. The child comes- and he knew that the boy would.

The landscape begins to change, the roots curling away from the boys’ feet as if they were might and magic. The vines part for him, the flowers bend towards his bright - the world is his oyster. And he is in the depths of Eight’s ocean- the question is not of sink or swim, but of float or flourish.

The blue boy is anything but - the apparition he brings into the dream is nothing like his mother. He is not full of loom or despise or distrust. He is a gleam of teeth (a grin - not a gnash); he is a quick question (not a quip); he is a curiosity (not a cruelty). It should be mystifying how a child who has spent so long beside the serpent queens’ side could be so flirtatious with the world - but Eight is no stranger to how vast the world can fling your offspring. Too many of his children had ended up too vulnerable, too timid, too shy, too worthless. The magician sees glimmers of his Sunday queen in the boy, but they are not painful (and they may only be remolded).

The small nose touches the apparition of his feathers and he twitches them slightly with the touch of the boy - the moonlight catching to create an illusion of rainbows, like an oil spill across his feathers. The magician waits until the boy has finished his comparison (water and flight - two things that will never make nice). Eight reaches out, fingers of magic tapping lightly until he has found what he has wanted. (Crowns, Crowns, Crowns).

He turns and a small laugh. “They’re wings, boy. You’ve got them too.” He nods his head towards the splattered sides of the boy. The trickling wings as his side are now a translucent blue like the waters that glitter in the rivers of the jungle - but they are solid and real and there and true. And the next moment, they are not (again, they are a liquid viscosity and trickling and transient).
“I am Eight. He steps forward, his body beginning a curl around the child, his nose reaching out to the tiny wings. “And you, are Crowns.” A tap to the feathers (water) a tap again (feathers) another tap (water). His eyes falsify a wide surprise with each touch. “Fascinating! No?” He leaves his touch with Crowns’ water wings slick beside him. “ I did not mean to wake you. The night was dark, and I am not familiar with this land. You seemed wise enough to tell me about it.”

(now, the storm is coming in)

no matter what they say, I am still the king

To have safety is both a wondrous and callous thing. It is a bed to fall into, a home to come back to, a heart to seek haven in. He can feel it emanating off the ocean-touched child; the untouchable embrace that mother will always be there, that there will always be a space in the world for him that is free of damage and destruction. To feel secure is such a comforting thing- the knowledge there is a place of refuge, a caress for bruises, a soft tongue for soothing. But it is a fallacy- as delicate and able to be shattered as the dream they reside in.

The gleam in Crowns’ eyes is perceptible and bright, a dash of hope in the darkness of the world the little snake resides in. How delightful to be pleased by the smallest of things- water into wings, and back again. The sight brings a small tug to Eight’s soul; the man who has done naught but pain and torture to the souls birthed from his loins. Is this the smallest taste of searing love and desire that Sabbath felt for the fruits of her labor?

Such innocence and delight- something so untouched by the hundreds of years of darkness that Eight has lived in. It is too easy to forget the months that have passed, the moment of desire blooming and the request for death, and the consequenting anger that had created another dark pit in his soul. The flashing lick of bewilderment in his eyes at how complex the world could be- and how fascinatingly easy it is to mold it. But there are some things that cannot be touched - and spite is a delectable selection of it.

For all else, Eight had never decided to kill the child once it was alive. The revenge was in the taking - the pain was in the cold space that would be beside Sabbath on the long nights to follow. He could, he supposed, let the child live a while longer. The admiration and the thought of awesomeness in the world could be interesting to have beside him for a while yet.

The ocean child perks instantly at any question or prodding - and Eight smiles inwardly at the ease of it all (how so simple it all was, with the power he had at his bequest). “You are, you are!” His voice peels over with the falsity of excitement one would gear towards a child (something so unfamiliar, but quite too easy to mock). “I do love spooky things.” Eight looks out towards the woods before them, his magic pulling slightly to create a constellation of bright eyes peering back at them. He looks back to Crowns, his brows pulling up and in - in mock fright and excitement. “Do you see them now?!”

The ocean-licked boy peers back and forth, and the lightest dapple of scales peeks from his cheeks. Again, the magician has to smile. Of course she could not leave the boy completely untouched - there will always be a little bit of her inside of him.

“You could be a spooky thing too, you know?” He reaches his mouth towards the child, blowing his warm breath upon his blue-tinged chee - and where his breath lands, scales begin to appear (another oil spill in the light of the night).

The innocence of knowing you are right before a quite spooky thing, but being so quite blind to it.

(now, the storm is coming in)

no matter what they say, I am still the king

We always want to know that which we do not. There is a yearning inside us to be familiar with the things that are so strange. The desire to seek darkness is no different, little ocean serpent. When you are so keenly coddled and cared for and held into the light, how could you not desire for something a little bit more … intriguing. When you are carried so gently from the darkness of the night, how could you not keep looking over your shoulders for the things that may follow?

There is a dastardly line to dance between want and warning. There is a taste to the shadows that will linger far too long on your tongue if you let it, and it will turn all of you dark and black and as thick the night. It is much too easy to dive headfirst into the delights that wait to tear you asunder with their teeth and their terror. But you, little thing, you wait patiently. You do not stare at the tick of the clock, or tiptoe impatiently at the line of the dark night. You watch, wary but ready to war.

But what do you do when you become a part of the night? When you are one of the spooky things? What happens when you are transformed from the babe in her arms, to a creature waiting at the edges of the shadows? Your eyes could be apart of the gospel at the edge of the woods. Your body could be thrumming among them, thirsting for an inch more of the night to crawl into. Your body slinks into a sheen of infinitesimal plates- your mother’s son, without a doubt. Eight thought he would be more repulsed, carried again with the disdain of yet another serpent in his life. But he cannot find the abhorrence inside him just yet- your pleasantry with the transformation yet another surprise he was not expecting.

It is so simple to forget you are a child (a delicacy he does not often encounter, given the hundreds of years of his life). Inside you he can picture something ferocious- teeth and wings and fang and venom. Something so malleable in innocence, yet willing to please. And please he must. “Oh!” He exclaims and lifts his front legs a few inches off the earth in mock fright. “Immaculately fearsome! I would not approach you in the dark of the night, for certain. ”

There is the silence of your thoughts- your discovery of all that it is to be something scarier than what you thought. But the magician knows what you are feeling, and he tugs his magic to sink himself further into your bones. You see as a serpent (and oh you could be a feral and ferocious thing!) - there is red and white and a halo of heat. “Yes. That warm glow means something living. Red means alive.”

He takes off then, his dark body would blend in the night to most, but with your serpent eyes, you can see much more. He runs lithely through the small clearing around you, darting behind trees and moving his body between fast and slow, limber and lanky, by flight and by foot- here is what it is like to see, here is what knowing is like. The red enflames when his body works harder, dissipates behind trees, fades when he slows: here is what power is.

He comes to a stop before you after a few cavorts around the clearing, shaking his wings and looking towards you with the kindest smile he can cajole. “You can do this, and more. “ He says, a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. And the smallest of his dark feathers fall to the musty forest floor.

(now, the storm is coming in)

no matter what they say, I am still the king

The strange and darkness never seems to be too far when Eight is there. It follows like a plague to some, and like a wonderland to others. To the child, it seems to be the latter. The world has opened for the serpentine boy, and Eight hopes it shall never close. For as long as the child keeps reading the fable that the magician spins, he will be lost to his mother.

How strange, to be so satisfied with his peculiarities- as if the boy was not expecting them all along. Long ago, when Eight was first born, the magic and mystery of Beqanna was far-flung. To turn and see their child born with both wings and a horn was a surprise to most mothers. And now? Now a child untouched by the might of Beqanna was rare and scarcely seen. Did Sabbath know of all that her little blue boy could do? Had she suspected? Had she hoped to turn and see a smattering of scales? Had she dreamed that one day he would have fangs such as suited for sinking into flesh?

Eight looks at the azure soul before him, giddy with delight at all that has been uncovered. Would laughter still peel from his mouth in five years? A decade? Would he always carry this glee from simply turning serpentine, or would it falter and fade just as his mother had?

Eight cannot help but have his mouth twinge in almost a smile as the boy gently plucks the black feather from the ground, like a relic found in the dust of the earth. What does it feel like to revel in something so simple- to desire so deeply something as simple as a smattering of molecules to make up a feather. “You may keep that, Crowns, if you so desire. You may use it to find me always - here, or there.”

(now, the storm is coming in)