Some Kind Of Art Thing

Twisted bonds

It was more symbolic than anything. 

A sign of unity for the flock. The connection that ran so deep, even death could not part their ways. The people saw it as a sign, a blessing that needed to be acted upon. They demanded the union, to show them their faith was not misplaced. No matter the punishments, the demands, sacrifices, the flock would not relent. It was… inevitable. And it was best to rip the bandage free before it began to fester and infect what little faith that remained.

It was funny in a way. How ironic it seems to see the bands forged for their union made of the same shackles that held them prisoner. The chains that bound them as vessel and deity now woven and twisted into a noose made for two. An omen of the past, present, and future. 

There wasn’t a spark of anything that could be considered love. Not a moment of peace or trust between them since the beginning. If anything,  they were a single match throw from burning each other to the ground, taking everything and everyone else along with them.  No, there was no room for love with what they were, what they had been through. But despite it, there was a bond. Silent, unbreakable, eternal, Begrudging.

There was a mutual understanding. A shared knowledge that if one sunk, the other would be dragged down with them. No matter how they tried to stay ashore, the boat would rock and both would drown for falling overboard. It was tested again and again. If one were to perish, the other would follow. A knife to the heart, a rip of the gut, a drop of poison… a bullet to the brain. Though they would never admit it, they knew. This was hell, and this connection was their punishment.

It was fall, a fitting time for a wedding regarding death. Surrounded by the vibrancy of red and orange trees, and the unmistakable sent of leaf decay. The cold nip of winter bit at her skin, dragging across like knives as each step closer to the archway. Her dress itself was something out if a dream. A deathly black at the top trailing down into a rich bloody red at its train. Rubies and onyx littered the bodice, each one a grim reminder of the lives lost to make such an extravagant gown. Her crown wrapped around her head as though acting like a tiara, and giving her a veil to hide behind while her life is bartered away to this… filth.

She hated every moment. 

Being dressed and dolled, the gitz and glam. It was inconceivably impractical. The heavy fabric, the lowered guards, the general atmosphere of the flock celebrating what she equated to her second imprisonment. To trudge through all that only to be met with his conniving, scheming face. It had to be some kind of torture. But it was for the cult. And if this would shut them up, then so be it.