#slainfury

SOME MEME

     it’s a question that demands an answer, she sees it mirrored in his eyes. ( eyes which they cursed and scorned at first. called him incomplete. hers —– as if he was anything less than beautiful. ) but what words were right to say?

     ( q. what is love?           a. it’s his hands reaching for mine in the depths of winter. hoping that maybe, maybe she would be something warm to hold on to. it’s holding on to the cold when it will never warm you because the cold has your mother’s face and life has not kicked the wonder from you yet. ( it’s a woman standing in front of a sword to protect a boy losing his wonder. ) it’s seeing the boy grow into a man with an angry heart and now she’s the one reaching out. hoping he hasn’t inherited all her cold. )

     “ yes. ” the word could be masked in archaic tongue. in a riddle meant to infuriate him with the lack of plain answer. but that sticks in her throat. there’s no poetry to her now. “ yes. i did and do love you. you are —– dear to me, young prince. you —– “

usurper, the mighty call him. fallen, stained, accursed. a wretched creature, a thing, brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit, to suffer whatever punishment divinity deems fit and rule over beings just as twisted. the lowest life in all existence. if that is what they say of him, what now, he must wonder, do they say of this boy? has he been marked a thief? an unsuccessful one, to be sure, but a thief nonetheless. a fool? greedy, naïve, blind? what fate awaits him now? what cruel injustice will his hubris bring him? no doubt the would-be claimant believes the mutilated flesh upon his lost limb to be punishment enough, the price for his stupidity exacted and the unpleasant business done. for him to say so would merely prove the lesson had not been learned. shall i show you what true suffering is, boy? do you wish come to as great an understanding of pain as i have, to become intimate with all the ways in which a man can be broken? one less arm would be the sweetest kindness in comparison, and you would long for death at the hand of another while mine holds you on the brink, so that you may become familiar with a measure of the denial i faced.

slow and deliberate, his steps ring out in the grey chamber, gaze narrowed toward the bed where the child licks his wounds. the new, polished metal at his side catches the light. no doubt it would have been majestic if not for the pitiful position of the one bearing it. if only his own losses, everything that was taken from him, could have been restored so easily. he longs to strike the boy, deservedly berate him for having such outrageous delusions of grandeur. what could ever make him think he is fit to be a king? though regis and the others before him had earned death, they were at least all lucian. no outsider could lay claim to the throne. perhaps the boy sought a purpose, having realised he serves no greater calling other than to protect his sister. and you have done a fine job of that, haven’t you, my boy?

“ah, it appears my timing is as impeccable as ever.” a darkened chuckle follows the greeting as he approaches the stirring form of the boy. the devil’s boots come to rest in front of the face framed by golden locks, perhaps as close as darkness has ever come to touching the pure light of the fleuret line. save the past day, of course. though he’d cleansed himself (ha! as if he could ever regain his long-lost purity) , he can still see the specks of blood on his gloves; truly nothing compared to the expanding stain of crimson ‘pon fresh and flowing white. it is not a sight that haunts him, nor does he fear it – why should he, when none can call his power or actions to account? but rather he relishes it, and has been recalling it nearly every passing minute of the recent hours. though it has not been long, he is eager to witness it anew. a welcome happenstance that the brother wears raiment similar to the sister, despite throwing his lot in with those who despised her. or perhaps bias from anger, the devil’s only companion as it festered through the ages, is making him think aldercapt and his barking fools share that sentiment as vehemently as he.

             she could kill him ( damning all hope of prophecy and destiny --- she would rip all life from him ) for the body on the floor. for the body bloodied and broken, no longer any boy to the way violence has twisted his form. her anger is old --- as the kingdom that scorned the gods / as the man who was meant to bring salvation to a world turned to the shadows. she could kill him but one thing astral has learned is that a life for a life will not bring the first one back.

             he was a scraped knee boy. running through the fields, child before the world became a reality heavy enough to crush him. she remembered the way he trembled when he held his sister in his arms the first time. remembered the silk of his hair as he rested night after night in her lap.

             now messenger kneels beside him. lifts his head into her lap ( were he anyone else she would have recoiled from the sickness which seeped from his flesh --- from all the old corruption taking root in him ) and prays ( who do you pray to, goddess? there is no one to listen to your pleas in the skies beyond your own ) for a quick passage across the expanse after death. cold fingers brush against his forehead, through his hair.