[Open] Take a Bite, If you Dare...

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

He is Pollock’s boy, through and through.
He never thought he’d be a daddy, but sometimes they just change your life, don’t they?

The blessed son certainly had, though the gift giver would never let him know the fullest extent of his gratitude and debt. That would be most disadvantageous. Besides, if Bruise is smart, he knows he owes his father everything – if he is really smart, he won’t care, in the end. 
Still, he is appreciative of the boy (man, really – grown, another broad-backed titan), and he’d see to it that he has all the pretty things he wants.

Not that he isn’t quite capable himself.
It really is like art, watching him maneuver and dance – feeling out fear like a prodigy. It could be said that, in his own way, the King of the waste is proud of the crowned Prince, a sentiment he would express in coded language, only. In fact, perhaps the most surprising thing he has found out about his frozen, black little heart, is that his brood are more safe than anyone else from the most animal of instincts he has.

Well, that, of course, is animal in itself. 

He snaps his tail in ire, rattling his teeth at those incessant colts. They will learn, one day soon, to keep their distance unless he invites them in. Perhaps, one day, they will learn not to come, even when he invites. That would be a shame. Bruise had embraced everything full-throated. “Go,” he commands in a low, hard voice that makes them listen, without fail. They turn and run off, Feast ever a step ahead of Famine.

(One day, he knows, his sons will grow and then, without fail, they will devour him – like Cronus condemned – and then each other, until the world is empty but one.
He knows;

The lifecycle of a monster.)

He moves on from where he had been standing – tolerating their yammering and play fighting with a cold, instructive eye – to crest the cliff he has taken up as a makeshift throne. 
Not the highest – just high enough for him to make out identities in the dirty valley below. From his watchtower, he observes the woman worming her way through his cliffside. Now he sees her, and then she ducks into a fissure and is gone for some time. He takes note, his lip curling – this one, he does not know.

For a while, he watches Bruise mouth and handle her, finding some pleasure in his persistence and her defiance, both. He lets it go, daddy content to let them play.

‘Release her please.’ He turns to the sound – the command – from a perch high up, like his own. No. It would do no good to let him lord over his boy. Playtime is over.

“You,” he grunts, loud enough for the sound to carry to the man – he knows this man; he does not belong – Bruise and his toy. “Does this look like the fucking Meadow to any of you?” there is clear annoyance in his voice, like a dog snapping at flies. “Bruise, are you done with your thing down there?” this he speaks in a more amiable tone, his lips tugging up slightly.

POLLOCK
the gift giver

(Ugh, I had to rush the ending, fam, sorry! Have an appointment!)