Long live the king, long live the king…

Their echoed chants haunt him into the night, long after they have gone, it plagues him still when he finally finds the earthy floor to rest- exhausted and battle worn. When the chaos had finally cleared he had painstakingly sought them out, each one’s face found before he went to the next. Who was left? Whose name received a dipped head and a forlorn shake, a “no, they didn’t make it”? The chorus of the ravens drove him to them, already his duties begun, already he would begin to know that it was not easy being King. That crowns and thrones were cumbersome to bear.

And when the night grew long and the smoke and magic dissipated then and only then did he go to the tree. A place he was sure the fae would hear him, might listen to his requests. In the night, long after it was all said and done he asked one favor, that was all they got. A gift to take with him to the throne, one gift to help him or hinder him on his path, and Killdare had already known what that would be.

It doesn’t matter the faint laughter he thought he heard after, it doesn’t matter how quick and sudden exhaustion plagued him now.

Sleep, he must sleep.

When it came, there as he tossed in the ash, it was fitful and it was not long. His dreams were not dreams, only nightmares of his past, his weary muscles knotted and bunched. His back and sides ached and itched before he woke again, heaving as he struggled to lift his own weight from the earth. Fire, he was on fire. He was, they were, somehow , for some reason, someone wanted to finish the job, to end them while they were weakened. To end him before he had had a chance to raise the Kingdom or drive it into the ground one.

His eyes snap open, his lungs protesting as he struggles to even breathe. Everything is hot, everything it too hot. Inside he burns, an immeasurable amount of pain and soon he would die, surely. This was it. Black smoke emitted from his parted lips, gasps of air leaving him in sooty clouds of smoke as he trembled against the unseen demons. He was nothing, a mere mortal when set against those that littered the world with magic and might, even his eyes failed him now.

Everything he sees is red and churning, liquified and pulsating, even his legs take on the horror of his mind. Red and yellow and oranges racing up his body, are his body, he is that and it is he. When at last it feels like his skin as been peeled off, then seared away by a hot iron he knows he should die. Should die, should be dead now but he doesn’t. Instead he’s found his feet, still bellowing ash and smoke from within, when he turns his head his wings are gone, instead he is fire and brimstone. His body is hard obsidian rock, with patterns of red between, moving, living fire brewing inside. If he could see himself he would hide, knowing the devil had taken him but these feet do not cower or balk.

These feet are fire, they are molten from deep within the core of the earth, and he knows he has been awarded his prize. He knows he has paid his price, that he has all but perished, that he had been licked clean by the flames and is whole.

“Long live the King”