no matter what they say, I am still the king
Skaide - a name so sharp, so sudden. Nothing like Shiya a sound that flows from the tongue like a rivulet of whispers. Skaide is something sharper -a drag across your lips, a startling stab to your tongue. Hardened like a knife, but curved so softly. Something you do not expect coming. Perhaps, He too, is similar to a sharp edge, similar to your erratic name - He is something you did not see coming, no matter how little of a fool you are.
It is not uncommon for a child to care so little for its mother and father. In fact, in most cases, the words mother and father are merely an idea. Their bodies are just something to feed off of, to grow from. Spiders and scorpions often feast on the bodies of their mother (quite like you, Skaide). They bear and rip and bite until there is nothing left. Until mother is a scarred carcass to be left to rot. What a wonder - perhaps snakes too, now eat their dam.
You are not a fool - no. For if you were, perhaps mother could have eaten you - a far more popular happenstance. Mother’s sick and tired of their offspring - mother’s culling the weak and disheartened - mother’s who are maybe just tired of being a womb.
There are many ways to be free in this world - and perhaps matricide is one of them. Perhaps the blood flowing, the waning mewl of her voice, and the ever flowing iron in your mouth was a call to escape the prison of her body. Do you feel free now? You care for nothing and know no one - you are a brief moment in time, that no one will yet remember. Freedom is a dangerous thing if you do not move with it.
You are stoic in your reserve - as if you do not care one way or another. As if you are content to stay here in the riverlands, a nothing with not a thing to your name nor a person to remember you by. Here, you are at peace; here, you are free. Your curiosity lacks everything - as if everything you care to know has already laid simply before you. You wants facts - something straight and tangible. Something for your serpentine mind to latch on to, constrict, digest, and move on.
“There is disease in Pangea. And not much else.” He had no reason to lie, to flourish what the land was. It was empty and wasting, like Shiya’s now-rotting body. Shiya, Shiya. How long ago it had been that he danced with your mother. Eons, decades, ages. Back when -- when what? Where had he ruled then? Where had he lived? Where had they spoken - slippery words darting back and forth between one another. And here, the universe had given him another encounter, another snake-like girl to tangle in the grass. How funny life could be.
“ You need not listen because I knew her.” ‘Knew’ was a stretch at best. He and the mother had encountered, conversed, even almost copulated - but did anyone quite know Shiya? “Death lives there. And Death seems to be something you enjoy well enough.” Your mouth was no longer brazen with the brassy taste of blood - but it is something that can never be fully washed out.
(now, the storm is coming in)
@[Skaide]