And we laugh like soft, mad children - Rapt

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

He had, long ago, come to think of himself like a god.
Like an old testament god, he bringeth destruction.

But then she had, he supposes, stood up on lovely legs and she had left her blood and her boney coffin and she had walked out of his firmament of soil and birch trees. She had shirked his blessings, his wrath and his miracles. She had spat at his altar and profaned his good works. That wild, broken, heathen thing. Not so like a god. It made him feel impotent.
So like a god of ill-temper and thin skin, he rained down devastation.

He’ll find her daughter. Blue-haired and gilded-skin – them, together, like a perfect work of art. He had made that, too. (How could she let her into his kingdom like that. So foolish. As if he couldn’t tell from her hair that she had come from those loins.)
Like a god, he has no compunction about exacting his payment from the girl. The indigo bitch will feel her absolution, one way or another. One day.

For he can be patient. He had waited soo very long to be the man he is today. 
Yes, he could wait.

But to him, he is not god, but Monster.
(That will do. He can abide by that. He’d like the taste and the bite it has. He’d like the long-lasting and slow-burning way it wormed under skin and brain and stayed there like a stigmata.) “Ahh,” he turns, brown-black eyes surveying the similarly golden body. Older, larger, he no longer needed to dip his head to meet his eyes like he had to the first time they met.
Grown and come back! Kneeling as if at prayer. He smiles (and it is crocodilian; it is large and a sick mimic of fondness), “my boy. Of course I have.” The gift giver moves forward, reaching out to touch him on the top of his head, like the gentle and loving hand of a shepherd. Rise.

He needs this faithful.

Once he had told him his mother had been careless. Loveless. He had hooked his fingernails into that sacred, intimate, familial space and pried at it. Released from the hole made, he had hoped, some resentment and alienation. If he had not succeeded in that, he had succeeded in making an apostle of the boy, now man. “You have grown, Rapt.” There is an air of judgement in his gentle, almost paternal, gravel, but have you grown mighty? “And I have not forgotten what I promised.” He would show him how to be.

He would show him how to kill the boy.

POLLOCK
the gift giver

so Rapt never got to tell him his name, but Pollock would have asked, I'm sure. so i just pretended he had, if that works? if not, ignore.