I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
The last thing he remembers is becoming a monster.
He had fallen on that sword, had all but begged them to blame him, and they had, turning on him. He could have fought back – a monster would have fought, would have torn their flesh, ripped wings from sockets – but he did not. He went to this fantastical death willingly enough, as he had many times before, in many worlds, all these worlds where he had drowned and burned and fought great beasts.
He isn’t aware of the time passing. He isn’t aware of the world shifting, and going quiet.
He wakes, alone.
This is not a surprise. Alone is a default state, for Sleaze. He is a man much too frail and odd, and has never been a good fit for friendship. He’s loved, and wanted to love, but they had gone and he had let them, had not fought as he should, because deep down he felt they had wanted to leave, that it was better for them to leave. It was too unkind to ask them to stay, to watch his mind fall piece by piece, to watch him partake in the slow and laborious task of separating fantasy from reality.
He wakes, alone, and the first thing he realizes is that his wings are gone. He pictures them, and for a moment they flutter in his vision, and he feels the weight of them against his shoulders, but when he cranes his neck they are gone again. He is used to this, his meager powers have changed often as he dips and dives into other worlds, but he feels himself missing those wings in a way he had not missed the other changes.
He feels something else, too, something ancient and odd in his veins that had not been there before. He wonders if it’s an illness.
He stands, and moves. He does not know how much time has passed, but as he walks, he is aware of silence. He is used to passing by strangers, to the low murmur of others’ conversations, but there is nothing, and his footsteps are too-loud in this unnatural quiet.
It comes to him, then, so glaringly obvious that he laughs, a dry, harsh noise that sends a whirl of starlings from the nearby brush.
It’s another world. Another test. He has once again been called, once again imprisoned in a strange reality where he must play by their odd rules.
And so he will. He will obey their whims, will do whatever needs doing, so that he might be sent home again, wherever that may be.
Sleaze
