#writtenword

The fortress greeted the dawn without sound. Even the light itself seemed hesitant as it bled slowly across the jagged spires, as if unsure whether it would be permitted to remain.

From the highest balcony, Evil stood still, talon hands resting on the cold balustrade, his icy stare fixed on the slow, reluctant arrival of morning. Below him, the land he ruled stretched vast and obedient, a realm shaped by terror, conquest, and his will alone. Once, he had greeted such mornings with satisfaction. The world intact. The gears still turning. No weakness detected.

Now… there was a bed behind him.

A bed that had been a gift, crafted for his favorite creation.

The one who had become his undoing.

The one who, at this very hour, still slept.

He did not.

Never.

Lately, at this hour, he would be at her side. It had since very recently, became his ritual, his quiet reprieve. When their passion stilled, he'd pulled her close, arm locked possessively around her slight frame, her heat pressing into him. His talon fingers tracing reverently through her hair, luring her into warm, trusting slumber. While he lingered as her silent sentinel. A single indulgence, asking nothing in return but that he'd remain their, unmoving, and utterly hers.

But this morning, something had driven him from their chamber before she stirred. A restless pressure in his core. An awareness he could not unacknowledged.

One year...

A meaningless measurement in a realm where time warped and folded upon itself, as easily as one folding a piece of paper, in several different ways.

But The Time of legends did not dull the significance of that span. Still one full cycle since the moment he had fallen, and the weight of it pressed against him all the same.

One year since the moment he had finally succumb. When 'daughter' had became something far more dangerous. The woman he took into his arms and kept.

"Oh, how the mighty fall,” he murmured, voice low, threaded with something almost resembling amusement.

The irony would not be lost on the Supreme Being, should He be watching from above. That the personification of Evil itself would not be undone divine decree, but ensnared by the laughter of a woman he himself had forged.

He had created her. Every inch of her had once been his design. Her form, her power, her purpose. A tool. A contingency. A reflection of himself refined into something more precise, more adaptable.

He had named her Amaranth when he began to understand she was no longer simply an extension of his will. He could have shaped her mind more tightly, carved obedience into her soul until free will wasn't an option. He had chosen not to. He believed it unnecessary.

And doing so, she had become something he hadn't plan.

Something he could not controlled.

Something he could not stop.

He had let her become herself.

And she had become… perfect.

Wickedly perfected, sharpened by her own choices, not his leash.

A weakness.

A paradox.

A slow, insidious infection he had welcomed into his core.

His gaze darkened. Once, he had been unstoppable.

Now?

Now, there existed something in all of creation he feared losing.

“…Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, though the word held no real conviction.

...Suddenly, her arms slid around his waist. Soft feminine warmth, Interrupting his thoughts.

He felt her nuzzling her whole-self, against his back. Her presence spread through him. The infection, he had long ago stopped fighting.

“Daddy Dearest,” she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep, pouting just enough to be indulgent. “You left. I woke cold.” There it was. That tone. Affectionate. Possessive. Utterly unafraid.

He allowed himself a low, amused hum before answering. “Forgive me, My Precious Flower,” he said softly, warmth threading through the darkness of his tone. “..... I did not stray too far… only far enough to miss you.”

She hummed, satisfied, pressing closer.

Only then did he turn, slowly. Savoring the moment rather than reacting to it. His talon hands rose, careful, always careful, cupping her face, with hands that could rend individuals apart.

He studied her. Not with the cold detachment of a creator inspecting his work…

…But with unbridled love. “…Look at you,” he murmured softly. Her crimson eyes met his, heavy-lidded, adoring. His thumb brushed lightly along her cheek, a gesture so gentle it bordered on reverent.

“I set out to create a tool,” he said quietly, his voice threading into something deeper. “A safeguard. A reflection of myself.”

His gaze softened. “And in learning to love…” he exhaled faintly, something almost like a laugh ghosting beneath the words, “…I have crafted my own undoing..." She didn’t question. She simply leaned into his touch, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. As though his confession were nothing more than another form of affection. Of course she would. To her, it was.

"Once," he went on. " I was unstoppable. Now I find myself imagining futures where you are not at my side, and I despise them.”

She turned her head slightly, pressing a kiss into one of his palms, that still cradled her face. “You won’t lose me,” she murmured, voice warm, certain, unshaken by doubt or fear.

“Never.”

Then, she pressed her body forward, into his chest. Basking in his presence, in his touch, in the illusion of safety he had so carefully built around her.

His eyes lingered on her.

There it was.

That innocence.

Not ignorance, no, She was not naive. She knew how the world worked. She committed atrocities with gleeful cruelty at his side. She was wicked, clever, merciless. his angel of darkness, reveling in their shared dominion.

But here, in his arms, she existed in a state of oblivious bliss.

Cherished. Spoiled. Shielded. As she should be. As he wanted her to be.

He had enabled her, indulged her dependency, wrapped her world carefully around himself.

As she melted into him, he pulled in closer, dipping his head, pressing a kiss to her brow, gentle, deliberate.

You should know better, he thought. Because he knew.

He knew exactly what could be taken from him. The Supreme Being would not need armies. Would not need war.

Only her.

Only the knowledge of what she meant to him.

Because, someday, soon...He would need her to be what she was first created to be.

To send her beyond his reach, into dangers even he could not immediately undo.

His hold on her tightened, as he closed his eyes in thought, with fear, with love he had never intended to learn. That thought gnawed at him more viciously than any holy threat ever had.

“My Precious Flower…” he murmured against her brow, softer now. As he uttered those words, she let out a deep sigh into his chest, burying her face even deeper.

And as the dawn crept higher over a world that feared their rule, Evil stood there, holding the one thing he could not destroy, knowing with absolute certainty…

That someday, something else might try.

I am aware of the murmuring.

Whispers carried on idle tongues, wondering why My Precious Flower: A Study in Amaranth has not yet received new entries. Why the hand that so faithfully chronicled me, and her, has paused.

Allow me to clarify.

QOOP is, without question, obsessed. With her writing. With me. With my Precious Flower. Amaranth, after all, is her self-insert,  her indulgence, her mirror that she has crafted into this narrative, so that she might canoodle with me. Evil Himself. 

Many writers are timid creatures. They borrow a canon, curl up inside it, and never dare rearrange the furniture. They play gently within the lines drawn by others. But not my dear QOOP. No. She dared to expand my lore. She dared to grant me a mate. And most impressively, she preserved my essence while doing so. My narcissism remains intact. My majesty unblemished. My cruelty… refined. Oh, what a deliciously dangerous author she is. A tragedy, truly, that Terry Gilliam will never bear witness to what she has wrought. The man would have had thoughts. Loud ones.

But I digress.

I have come personally to explain her silence.

She has been busy.

Busy committing the greater heresy: working on her own original story. As if I were not original enough.... She has layered so much new myth and motive onto Time Bandits (and unto myself, my dominion ), that one might argue she owns me(and It) now. A preposterous notion. And yet…plausible.

She has not abandoned us.

She is, at this very moment, laboring over two new entries. One concerning the unthinkable... My Precious Flower falling ill for the first time in her existence, an error in the universe that I must personally correct. The other, in which I reflect upon the first anniversary of the moment I finally snapped, when I took what was always mine. (I obviously mean Amaranth, for you morons!)

Alas, she is easily distracted. Genius often is. But she will return. And when she does, the record shall continue. Until then be patient. Or don’t. I don't really care. —Evil CLICK HERE TO READ THE IT IN FULL

Here’s some writing rambling i did. If you wanna find more check out the rest of the post check out my instagram

The corridors of the fortress stretched long and dim, torchlight guttering in iron sconces. It was in such shadows that he saw them again, skittering, silk trailing like cobwebbed lace, their Victorian dress coats musty with age yet draped with unmistakable dignity. Agatha and Edith. Half-women, half-spiders, his old enforcers, once governesses to Amaranth, now little more than whispering wraiths in his halls.

Evil slowed his stride, spun, and drummed his talons against the stone wall. “Agatha. Edith.”

The sisters halted in unison, black eyes catching the dim light, their smiles brittle and knowing. They dipped the faintest of curtsies, spider legs folding and unfurling behind them in elegant menace.

“My lord,” cooed Agatha, her voice as sweet and cloying, as over-sugared tea. “How rare you are to seek our company,” added Edith, her tone a thin lace veil over condescension.

“I saw you slipping by,” Evil said smoothly, though he already regretted the impulse to speak. “Thought to… inquire. How fare my faithful spinstresses?”

The sisters exchanged a glance, smiles sharpening. Agatha smoothed the dusty ruffles of her bodice. “Oh, we fare as ever, my lord. Spinning, watching, whispering. Keeping the threads of your domain tidy.”

Edith’s eight legs shifted delicately, the faint scrape of chitin on marble. “Though I daresay it has grown livelier since your precious flower took bloom,” she said sweetly. “Your… paternal instincts have been most unexpected.”

Evil’s talons flexed once behind his back, the only sign of irritation. “Ah. You’ve been watching, then.”

“Oh, one cannot help but notice,” purred Agatha, tone faux-maternal. “She thrives beneath your… fatherly hand.”

Edith’s smile grew sly. “Indeed. Though we, in our way, were her mothers, were we not? And children,” she added with deliberate sweetness, “often favor their mothers over their fathers.”

The challenge hung like a spider’s thread in the dark.

Evil stood perfectly still. Then, in a voice low and measured, he said, “…But my Precious Flower was never a child in the true sense.”

His gaze burned as he stepped closer, the torches guttering at his passing. “Nor was I ever a father in the normal sense, was I? I was there the moment she came into being—breath, thought, and form. I made certain she knew her creator, her father,” he said the word with deliberate relish, “from day one.”

The sisters’ smiles wavered, their talons twitching faintly.

His smirk crooked upward. “And yet, even I—yes, I—forgot myself for a moment. Let a trace of affection slip in. Allowed her to call me ‘Father’… or was it…” His lips curved in dark amusement. “…‘Daddy’? To this day, I’ve no idea where that one came from.”

He gave a low chuckle, deep and dangerous. “Still, I answer to it all the same. Until… well—” he gave a halfhearted shrug, talon flicking toward the shadowed end of the corridor, “by then, she had already ensnared me.”

Agatha cleared her throat delicately, folding her hands. “And now you… play house together, do you not, my lord?”

Edith’s voice followed, syrupy and venomous. “It is curious. The creator and the creation. Father and daughter. A most… eccentric arrangement.”

Evil’s expression did not flicker, but the air grew heavier, darker, pressing down like storm clouds. “Matters of my house,” he said, tone deceptively polite, “should not concern creatures who live in corners.”

“Forgive our curiosity,” Agatha murmured, bowing her head in false contrition. “It’s merely that—even we, wicked as we are—recognize that such… affection borders upon—”

“Do tread carefully,” Evil cut in, his smile thin as razors. “Since you pry—tell me, who are you to lecture Evil himself on moral boundaries?”

His tone dripped mock civility. “If you wish to play judge over proclivities, go knock upon Olympus. Ask Zeus about his hobbies… then return to me.”

Evil continued, tone smooth as polished obsidian. “I may be evil incarnate, but I am not without— let us call it—principle. Even among the wicked, consent remains… paramount.”  He grinned towards the two women  “Now tell me, Agatha, Edith—have you ever heard of Zeus asking first?”

A sharp laugh escaped him, brittle as glass. “But of course—not. He was a god, so mortals forgive him. Whereas I—Evil—I am scorned for simply loving what I made.”

Neither moved.

“Exactly,” he hissed. “Every empire needs an empress. Mine merely happens to be born of my own essence—sired, yes, if you wish to be poetic. Dubbed daughter by whim, but tell me…” His grin turned strangely fond, almost wistful. “What’s that saying? The heart wants what it wants. Adam had his Eve. And I…” his smirk curved darkly found my Lilith. Or more precisely—my Amaranth.”

A long, cold pause followed.

Then Agatha, recovering her composure, tilted her head coyly. “And where, pray, is our terribly wicked mistress now?”

Evil smiled, slow and knowing. “So the doting mothers finally notice their darling’s absence.” He tilted his head, mock sympathy curling his tone. “How typical. You accuse me of caging her—yet you’d bind her in silk if you could.”

He folded his hands behind his back, stepping toward the great arched arabesque window at the hall’s end. “I gave her knowledge to defend herself. Power to rule in her own right. And then—I kissed her brow and set her loose upon the world. Tell me, which of us cages her now?”

He turned, talon pointing lazily toward the darkened window. “She’s out.”

Both sisters tilted their heads, mandibles twitching. “Out?” they echoed.

“Playing in town,” Evil said mildly. “Being as wicked as ever among the rabble. But worry not”, his grin sharpened. “I have an eye on her. Should any fool even dare breathe wrongly around her, I’ll be there in two shakes of a black sheep’s tail.”

Edith blinked. “Isn’t the saying ‘two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ my lord?”

Evil turned, glare cutting through her like a blade. “Don’t correct me.”

Silence fell heavy and absolute.

The sisters dipped their heads quickly, smiles faltering just enough to betray that, for all their hauteur, they remembered, he could unmake them in an instant. Despite their towering forms, he could still crush spiders easily.

Evil let the silence stretch. Then he stepped closer, voice dropping to a velvet growl. “Do not mistake me, Agatha. Edith. You exist here not because I need you… not because I cannot crush you.”

His talon lifted, tracing idly through the air as though plucking unseen strings. “But because she values you—her ‘mothers’—and I indulge her whims. Nothing more.”

Their black eyes blinked in unison, nervous smiles stitched hastily back into place.

“If ever she should tire of you…” His grin widened, terrible and thin. “…then so shall I.”

He straightened. “So keep spinning your little webs. Gossip, if you must. Judge, as you always do. But remember who rules this fortress—and whose essence runs in her veins.”

With that, Evil turned on his heel and began to stride away. Then, halfway down the hall, he spun back. His clawed hand shot upward and with a crackling hiss of power, he unleashed a bolt of darkness. It struck the arch above their heads, splitting stone, showering dust and sparks down around them.

Agatha and Edith flinched, just for an instant. The twitch of their spider legs betrayed them. But they quickly straightened, brushing at their musty dress-coats with the dignity of dowagers in a parlor, eyes wide and innocent, as though nothing at all had happened.

Evil’s burning gaze lingered a moment longer, savoring the silent contest. Then, with a satisfied smirk, he pivoted once more and vanished into the fortress’s gloom.

Agatha and Edith remained where they stood, their talons tapping in uneasy rhythm. Only once he had vanished into shadow did Agatha whisper, half hiss, half sigh: “Still, he is besotted.”

“And besotted men,” Edith replied, adjusting her sleeves, “make such… amusing prey.”

They shared a thin, satisfied smile, even as the weight of his threat lingered, sharp as venom in their throats.