08-10-2016, 09:14 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Perhaps there was something in his blood, hiding dormant like a disease, bubbling up each and every time he fathered a child. There was no end to the count of monsters that the magician had birthed – they were each grotesque in their own way, they each had the tinge of something not quite right on them. Was the magician truly that horrific that even his very blood carried a disease to taint his children like demons? It seemed that most of his offspring were spitting images of him – perhaps not in color or trait, but in the very deep ache of their heart. In the way they crawled through shadows like they were making love to them. In the way each of his children practiced so well a disappearing act for years on end, only to revive themselves when the time was ripe.
It seemed you, Underwood, were no different. You shy from the populated meadows of the Valley, seeking the dark woods and caves that your father knows so well. You revel and delight in the way others look at you flinchingly – like a beast that does not belong. And oh yes, Eight does not undermine or ignore the part of you that has become a monster- the part of filial love inside you that is just not quite right.
Perhaps it could be attributed to the magician leaving you oh-so-alone. Perhaps if you had a father figure, there would not be a burning love inside of you for mother. But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps it is the blood of the magician running through you, the disease that has manifested itself inside your bones (and heart). Perhaps this is what would have happened all along.
You listen to the pull inside you, the magic whispering throughout your skin and bone – could you just have been curious? Or did you feel your father calling? Whatever the case – you knew instantly. And how could you not? Although the colors are different, you are your father’s son (and no doubt, have inherited his unblinking, steady, eyes). Strange, isn’t it? How we can recognize where we came from, although we’ve never met?
” Underwood. Late is better than never, certainly with your siblings on the way.” With Topsail still in the tangles of time and transportation – this was the first time Eight had been alone with you, with the first of his children in many years. Fathering was never his strong suit. “Tell me, Underwood – what are you trying to do?”
It seemed you, Underwood, were no different. You shy from the populated meadows of the Valley, seeking the dark woods and caves that your father knows so well. You revel and delight in the way others look at you flinchingly – like a beast that does not belong. And oh yes, Eight does not undermine or ignore the part of you that has become a monster- the part of filial love inside you that is just not quite right.
Perhaps it could be attributed to the magician leaving you oh-so-alone. Perhaps if you had a father figure, there would not be a burning love inside of you for mother. But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps it is the blood of the magician running through you, the disease that has manifested itself inside your bones (and heart). Perhaps this is what would have happened all along.
You listen to the pull inside you, the magic whispering throughout your skin and bone – could you just have been curious? Or did you feel your father calling? Whatever the case – you knew instantly. And how could you not? Although the colors are different, you are your father’s son (and no doubt, have inherited his unblinking, steady, eyes). Strange, isn’t it? How we can recognize where we came from, although we’ve never met?
” Underwood. Late is better than never, certainly with your siblings on the way.” With Topsail still in the tangles of time and transportation – this was the first time Eight had been alone with you, with the first of his children in many years. Fathering was never his strong suit. “Tell me, Underwood – what are you trying to do?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in