#idol plot point

Gordon didn’t know what he was going to do. Allow a successor to kill him for the good of his hive or try to redeem himself?.. Both were dreadful and enticing in their own ways, both felt wrong… But he did know there wouldn’t be cowardice, or weakness of any kind, through whichever ordeal took place… He would try. He would try to reach them one last time… The  king doesn’t think he has it in him to kill his subjects…

The monarch doesn’t even see the alphas before him anymore. That pain is back, that soreness burning up in his gut, as his anger grows… Pistachio had done nothing, and given everything. He’d fucking loved that lobster, he’d loved one thing, and tried so hard to love Sulfur. But not hard enough… No, no he had to suffer the consequences of not wanting what he did, chained and mutilated, drowning in a freezing river to finish him off because the survivors couldn’t do it themselves… Halo’d pulled him out. He was… Halo was fine, Gordon just had issues with sentinels for reasons no one in the hive could fathom. And he didn’t like his role of monitoring him. After the events no one could understand why he didn’t want to go out and celebrate with his people, why he didn’t want a hug, why he wasn’t smiling for getting rid of Sulfur after recovery, why he didn’t trust Halo in his home, obviously he’s just a heartless bitch…

With every spiraling thought, the inferno inside, the rage and the pain, grows…

He’d given everything to this hive, and they had taken everything, and even spat on him for it… Halo is silent beside him, still as a statue… He hasn’t collectively spent too much time with Gordon despite his born purpose, but he knew enough to know that something was wrong…

The king’s snout wrinkles, tail flicks. As he tunes back in to listen to the woes of the rivalry… Ohh  how trivial. How careless and entitled, how shallow and fickle. Every. Single. Problem. Related to his autonomy. To his life outside of them and things no one had fucking bothered to ask, to work with him on, to understand… And here they were. To kill him. They were asking him to just lie down to be slaughtered… He’d been so compliant for so much of his rule, surely he understood… The monarch’s blood pounds in his ears, veins straining against skin, vision splinters… He sees the vitals so clearly, major arteries and vulnerabilities flickering in sharp focus amidst red lined, rage blurred vision, as a dark, volcanic sensation bubbles through his veins. It’s painful. It burns. He can’t remember being so furious in his life… Everything denied, reprimanded, repressed, and ignored throughout his life throughout his time as monarch and before seizes him with an agonizing sensation of power. If he weren’t swept up beyond reason, he would be deathly afraid. It almost feels like possession, something stronger, something bigger, something unnatural is filling his skin and trying to claw it’s way out as the silver king rises slowly from his throne…

He would not lie down. If they wanted his blood. They would take it from him…Halo, for his part, is very afraid. Something feels wrong. Very wrong. In a way that makes his hackles stand on end, and paws creep backwards… The alphas have started to notice as well, and they have a similar reaction. His scent has something wrong but they can’t place it.

They can only place that something wrong is happening, something very bad. Gordon’s eyes are blue…

He couldn’t even rationalize the blinding anger that possessed him, how it got too much, boiled over how he couldn’t think of anything but how much he hated his alphas, how they deserved to be killed, ripped apart, and endure what they had planned for him, how they deserved to suffer by his claws, how he deserved revenge…

It sounded depraved. Mad. When he recalled it the morning after… sure he’d had thoughts and feelings of anger, resentment, but this was worlds different… He remembers their screams, the smell of their fear and the ferocity they fought with for their lives. Those who fled, those who rallied. It was disorganized, panicked. How he’d hunted the runners after. Through gaping wounds and fractures, how he’d chased them to maul in the streets. One by one… There was no catharsis, no satisfaction or peace. Every time he killed, he just wanted more. It fed the burning within, the agonizing burning pulling his muscles tight and straining his veins. Like a fire, it was never enough, it could never be sated. Until the pain became too great, and he ended up screaming on the cobbled streets, writhing and sobbing, painted red like the stone around him…

Pestilence told him when he’d woken up that he was burning to the touch, dangerously so, like picking up smoldering coals… they dumped cold water on him and it just steamed, simmered, for three buckets until he’d cooled enough to be picked up, thrown over Halo’s back, and hauled back up to his own room to be treated. Nothing worked. They’d just had to wait it out… Hours of slipping in and out of consciousness through pain and fatigue. He’d pulled muscles just from over exerting himself.

He didn’t know why. What happened. Neither of them did… But eventually he’d passed out. And now he just had to remember, regret, and fear… what was wrong with him?…