lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He is wavering, cowed so easily before the dark god. It brings a fleeting pleasure, as such subservience always does. The power is sweet as honey in his mouth as he watches his silver son stammer a reply before sinking to his knees. The dark god nods once, considering.
“Perse would do anything I asked of her,” he says. He remembers their time in the cave, as she bled, broke, and loved him through all of it, a blind and stupid devotion.
“Better,” he says, then, as the boy stays on his knees, “you may rise.”
The son rises, and they are close now, father and son, god and mortal. He considers him. He is bored of this conversation already, but there is a part of him that is curious about the boy, a part that wonders if he carries some of the same devotion his mother had, as if worship was genetic. He decides to test this theory, and a smile crawls across his lips.
“Gods demand sacrifice, too,” he says, “and yet, you have brought me nothing.”
A shame, a crying shame.
“There’s still time, I suppose. Go, find me a sacrifice. A body, or a piece of one. I prefer my sacrifices bloody.”
c a r n a g e
@[Pentecost]