I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
”Such a feisty queen you are,” the low drawl of its voice is a sudden surprise as it inches forward from silence. The shadows are at its back, crooning to the nightcrawler as it breaks the bonds and eats away the distance separating them. Its shackles hang loose, jingling, but it still holds itself back. It had spent so long in remission, in solitude, that it lacks its former savagery. The girl is safe for now, but it isn’t just its subdued appetite that preserves her; that crown is a shield because it’s the inclination of the Chamber’s acceptance of her. The kingdom always knows what she wants – needs – and she is never deprived of it. Apparently, Malis is what the Chamber wants. What Infection wants (blood, chaos, murder) is moot.
It can feel her body heat spreading across its tattered flesh. For a fleeting moment she reminds it of when it had truly been alive, unscathed but for the battle scars it boasted, but that was long ago. It had been whole then, but still a monster. It was a king of chaos as blood always stained its hands red. The memories rush back in waves, and there is one face that is most memorable above them all. ”You remind me of someone,” it growls while its eyes narrow in thought, ”A former queen of the Chamber.” Starlace, it thinks but never says. How fiery they both are – were – but Malis likely doesn’t care (her snarls and distaste were made obvious in their first meeting) but it also doesn’t take into consideration her thoughts. It cares for itself and the Chamber, nothing more.
It looks like a breath is drawn in, but it’s merely the wind funneling down its opened throat and rib cage. Its skin sways, its talons unconsciously kneading the soil underfoot. She doesn’t want it here, no one does, but it hasn’t budged under their piercing stares. The Chamber knows what she wants; she will eject anyone of uselessness, scorn those that are shameful, and yet it still stands here. Decades ago it performed its service to the kingdom, and she remembers. That’s when shackles were clamped onto its soul and its appetite was finally caged.
But the irons have rusted and the bars of the cage have finally broken.
”I’m rather useful,” the voice is raspy, inviting, but it doesn’t elaborate.
infection