08-26-2015, 07:58 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Responsibility can be a crushing thing – I’m sure we all know that. There are those that are simply cut out for it – matronly females who cajole over their flock of subjects with doting hands. Ruthless killjoys who rule with an iron fist. Carefree, happy go lucky souls who gallivant about like there’s not a care in the world. And then, there are those that just don’t give enough fucks – the people who can’t be bothered. Who have no true desire in life for anything – fame, power, riches, progeny – and they can’t be bothered with the weight of a world on their shoulders. And Eight would be one of those.
The Valley was dying when he came around – stagnant and muffled with the sound of the dead. And yes, he had built it back up again – until his true calling had rang out. Eight is no king – his rule comes from the power inside his veins, it comes from the charm and bite from his mouth – but he doesn’t desire a crown of thorns on his head. He would much rather mill about – come and go as he pleases. He doesn’t need the eyes of a hundred staring down at him.
And so when Demian comes, Eight is almost relieved. He had seen in his mind the plot that swirled through a thick fog in the young mans mind – it was his time, the time to clutch power between his hands and step up to make a thing of the Valley. Eight had seen him coming perhaps long even before he knew himself. And so Eight was ready.
The crowd has gathered – as it was wont to do when new things arose. Faces new and old crept in – faces that had long been hidden, and faces that had stuck through. Eight came quietly, appearing in the back of the crowd, beside young Thorunn – with no fanfare or fight, just a quiet brush of the wind and his body solidified behind hers, hidden behind the mass that had gathered.
His eyes trail to Demian and his thoughts reach out into his mind, beckoning the young man to make eye contact – and when he does, Eight gives a small nod – a concession and a welcome to the Valley.
The Valley was dying when he came around – stagnant and muffled with the sound of the dead. And yes, he had built it back up again – until his true calling had rang out. Eight is no king – his rule comes from the power inside his veins, it comes from the charm and bite from his mouth – but he doesn’t desire a crown of thorns on his head. He would much rather mill about – come and go as he pleases. He doesn’t need the eyes of a hundred staring down at him.
And so when Demian comes, Eight is almost relieved. He had seen in his mind the plot that swirled through a thick fog in the young mans mind – it was his time, the time to clutch power between his hands and step up to make a thing of the Valley. Eight had seen him coming perhaps long even before he knew himself. And so Eight was ready.
The crowd has gathered – as it was wont to do when new things arose. Faces new and old crept in – faces that had long been hidden, and faces that had stuck through. Eight came quietly, appearing in the back of the crowd, beside young Thorunn – with no fanfare or fight, just a quiet brush of the wind and his body solidified behind hers, hidden behind the mass that had gathered.
His eyes trail to Demian and his thoughts reach out into his mind, beckoning the young man to make eye contact – and when he does, Eight gives a small nod – a concession and a welcome to the Valley.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in