KINGSLAY
Fire cleanses.
Fire burns until there is nothing left worth remembering. It burned the hair from his skin, and the skin from his bones. It burned every ounce of humanity left inside the rotting cage of his skeleton, but it did not burn her away. She did not turn to rubble and ash. She did not turn to smoldering kindling. Her memory did not fade. She stands in the flames, un-singed and unscathed; eternal, with her large, dark eyes, that saw him for who he could have been if he wasn’t what he is.
Fire could not cleanse him of her.
Massacre could not, either.
He is lucky that he is made of the fires of hell, or the string of bodies he leaves in his wake might give him away (the smell of death is only smoke and ash this way). He is lucky that fire cleanses, even if it doesn’t work on Etro. Even if the image of her hips fading into a sunset silhouette on a desert horizon is something he cannot kill (the memory is red and hot, like blood, but will not drain). He is lucky to be a god. He is lucky to house a creature in his ribs that is a cacophonous glutton, because it leaves little room for brooding.
All there is room for is the bubbling of blood.
It sounds thick, like tar.
All he has room for is the sounds of splintered bones, and hollowed bellies. He remembers the way that eyes can bulge when the right amount of pressure is applied to the skull, and it makes his lips quiver and curl at their ends. He remembers the light. He remembers it bright in the upper left of their irises, and how it makes the creature in his gut rattle against his ribs to watch that light drain out.
It is here that he finds them. He can taste them on his tongue, and the beast shakes against his xylophone ribs. He thinks about their bones laid bare, about their innards exposed and the yellow of their fat laid out in the sun. He can have them so easily. He can taste their bones between his teeth, suck the flesh clean from them, if he wants.
Who can stop a god? Etro, maybe, but she’s not here anymore.
He says nothing.
He never does.
Fire burns until there is nothing left worth remembering. It burned the hair from his skin, and the skin from his bones. It burned every ounce of humanity left inside the rotting cage of his skeleton, but it did not burn her away. She did not turn to rubble and ash. She did not turn to smoldering kindling. Her memory did not fade. She stands in the flames, un-singed and unscathed; eternal, with her large, dark eyes, that saw him for who he could have been if he wasn’t what he is.
Fire could not cleanse him of her.
Massacre could not, either.
He is lucky that he is made of the fires of hell, or the string of bodies he leaves in his wake might give him away (the smell of death is only smoke and ash this way). He is lucky that fire cleanses, even if it doesn’t work on Etro. Even if the image of her hips fading into a sunset silhouette on a desert horizon is something he cannot kill (the memory is red and hot, like blood, but will not drain). He is lucky to be a god. He is lucky to house a creature in his ribs that is a cacophonous glutton, because it leaves little room for brooding.
All there is room for is the bubbling of blood.
It sounds thick, like tar.
All he has room for is the sounds of splintered bones, and hollowed bellies. He remembers the way that eyes can bulge when the right amount of pressure is applied to the skull, and it makes his lips quiver and curl at their ends. He remembers the light. He remembers it bright in the upper left of their irises, and how it makes the creature in his gut rattle against his ribs to watch that light drain out.
It is here that he finds them. He can taste them on his tongue, and the beast shakes against his xylophone ribs. He thinks about their bones laid bare, about their innards exposed and the yellow of their fat laid out in the sun. He can have them so easily. He can taste their bones between his teeth, suck the flesh clean from them, if he wants.
Who can stop a god? Etro, maybe, but she’s not here anymore.
He says nothing.
He never does.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.