I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
They don’t know what horrors – or what greatness – it could bring to them and their kingdom. They look on with shock and disgust. Surely this monster should be buried six feet under, long forgotten by the new generations. Many of its siblings and family have met that fate and yet here Infection is, standing in the thrumming embrace of the Chamber once more. How long has it been? It quietly muses and reflects back on the days when it controlled not one, but two, kingdoms at once; it remembers how hated and feared it was; it remembers the metallic taste of blood on its lips.
Today’s generation wasn’t around then. They don’t know the mayhem that hurtled in its wake, the destruction it birthed. When they open their eyes and see it, they simply see a creature, not the story that it holds in its hollowed chassis. They shy away like the mare is now, it notices. She keeps a distance and bleats like a newborn child, warning her home of the monstrosity that is pushing down their door. A gravely laugh vibrates through its core, but it doesn’t spare her a glance. She’s weak, afraid, and it tastes that on the wind.
What Infection does look at, however, is the stallion that properly adopts his role and meets the obstacle head-on. He addresses the hellhound curiously and somewhat boldly. Infection regards him for that by lifting its grotesque head. A maggot squirms in the gaping hole of the jaw, but with a crunch it is crushed between its yellowed molars, dead.
They are wondering why the deatheater is here at their walls. It can read it on the stallion’s face. Laughter churns but never slips past its slips; there’s a brief silence, a pause, as it considers the kingdom unraveling behind the sentinel. The scent of pines, the jagged mountain peaks, the winding dirt paths; it can’t fathom how much it actually missed the Chamber. Through life, Infection was its servant, its vassal. When the kingdom needed life Infection brought forth death. How ironic, no? Many wanted to serve under the mad king rather than be in the way of its butchery. They were smart. Will this generation be the same? Do they see this nightcrawler as an omen? A gift? It wonders while kneading the soil.
”Hello,” it finally says with a voice like nails on a chalkboard. Neglect has rasped its vocal chords. With no warranting, it doesn’t bother to introduce itself. Its name remains unknown, for now, because it won’t be long until they demand it. Perhaps they will also demand a purpose, but it doesn’t quite have one.
The Chamber revived its tired bones.
The Chamber wants it again.
The world needs chaos again.
Beqanna needs a purge.
It wants the Chamber again.
It wants to be a weapon again.
Any of those reasons could possibly suffice, but it would raise suspicion, offense, or ignite anger and refusals. For once, it takes care in calculating its words. It isn’t out of fear or anxiety (what would it have to be afraid of? Mortals?) but for tact. ”Funny how the Chamber wakes those she wants most,” it knows it isn’t the first fallen king or queen to return to the kingdom because that is what the magic does; the Chamber will always have what she wants – needs – and so it is here, standing in front of the stallion.
infection