11-14-2015, 08:05 PM
KINGSLAY
Existence has never been hard for him.
Kingslay is not weighted down by the complexities of living. They don’t occur to him. He is not knowingly plagued by the ghost of a bloodied past; no sharp chips carved out from the lines of his shoulders. He does not remember the vivisection, or how he was spilled out along the sands of a river run red, how he bathed in the blood and innards of a mother without a pulse. He doesn’t remember the beginning. He doesn’t remember the first thing that he ended, or the first time he saw life drain from something else’s eyes. He will not remember the next for long either.
There is no burden to his existence.
There is no existential crisis that muddies the catacombs of his mind.
He breathes, therefor he is.
He is crafted of a sinister instinct that holds rule above all else. The purr of his gut tells him that moving forward is ideal, and so he does. He moves until the space between their bodies (for he has noticed her there – he always does) is eaten away, until she can breathe the smoke of his skin into her lungs and feel it choke her. He won’t think about it, but if there was more to his being he might feel the ends of his lips curl up in a smirk of realization that he might be killing her far sooner than he ever means too with every breath that she takes now.
And death comes so easy.
They want it so badly. They hunt him out. They sift through the shadows looking for the muddied, dark things that their mothers warned them about when they were children. They seek him like their lungs seek air, like their bodies seek water, like the moon seeks the tide. And just like the rest of them, she will not notice until he is too close that something is wrong. Like the rest of them she will not notice until he is too close that the air around him smells like death, that mingling in the taste of ash and smoke on her tongue is something more – something heave and sweet, something that will curl her naïve belly into knots.
He says nothing because he never does.
He says nothing because he never needs too.
Kingslay is not weighted down by the complexities of living. They don’t occur to him. He is not knowingly plagued by the ghost of a bloodied past; no sharp chips carved out from the lines of his shoulders. He does not remember the vivisection, or how he was spilled out along the sands of a river run red, how he bathed in the blood and innards of a mother without a pulse. He doesn’t remember the beginning. He doesn’t remember the first thing that he ended, or the first time he saw life drain from something else’s eyes. He will not remember the next for long either.
There is no burden to his existence.
There is no existential crisis that muddies the catacombs of his mind.
He breathes, therefor he is.
He is crafted of a sinister instinct that holds rule above all else. The purr of his gut tells him that moving forward is ideal, and so he does. He moves until the space between their bodies (for he has noticed her there – he always does) is eaten away, until she can breathe the smoke of his skin into her lungs and feel it choke her. He won’t think about it, but if there was more to his being he might feel the ends of his lips curl up in a smirk of realization that he might be killing her far sooner than he ever means too with every breath that she takes now.
And death comes so easy.
They want it so badly. They hunt him out. They sift through the shadows looking for the muddied, dark things that their mothers warned them about when they were children. They seek him like their lungs seek air, like their bodies seek water, like the moon seeks the tide. And just like the rest of them, she will not notice until he is too close that something is wrong. Like the rest of them she will not notice until he is too close that the air around him smells like death, that mingling in the taste of ash and smoke on her tongue is something more – something heave and sweet, something that will curl her naïve belly into knots.
He says nothing because he never does.
He says nothing because he never needs too.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.