07-08-2015, 02:13 PM
KINGSLAY
Above him there are ravens that are as black as ash.
They dive overhead tearing holes in the veil of smoke he has so gingerly crafted. He remembers them like the witches because of the way that they swoop and they swirl, and the memory makes the scars that would line his chest if it were not for the charcoal and soot come alive. The lines were carved through living flesh then by the long, gnarled nails of witches in the night, and the memory burns them hotter than the flames he surrounds himself in.
And the corners of his lips will twitch and quiver, not because the phantom scars are burning, but because the ravens are a welcome entourage.
They combat the flames while he burns them hotter, because he likes to watch the struggle, because the thrill of life and death is the only thing that he will ever be truly capable of loving, because…
Because he is what he is.
Because he is a monster.
Because he is a god.
He does not change. He does not grow. He is caught in a loop that leaves no room, or time, or space, for evolution. And she is a Queen now, with a ring of feathers strung round her forehead – and he is impressed even if it is only momentarily as he contemplates the methods of the feathers collection. He wonders if ravens scream. He wonders if they bleed and cry when you take away their wings. He wonders if she will let him find out, but decides in a moment that he will regardless of her clearance.
‘Kingslay,’ she says, like they always do. They would sing the name he gave them all, between their teeth and through their lips, until the end of time – or until he took it back.
“Etro,” he says, because he does not change, and he does not grow, and he has never been a creature of many words. And she will know precisely what he wants.
They dive overhead tearing holes in the veil of smoke he has so gingerly crafted. He remembers them like the witches because of the way that they swoop and they swirl, and the memory makes the scars that would line his chest if it were not for the charcoal and soot come alive. The lines were carved through living flesh then by the long, gnarled nails of witches in the night, and the memory burns them hotter than the flames he surrounds himself in.
And the corners of his lips will twitch and quiver, not because the phantom scars are burning, but because the ravens are a welcome entourage.
They combat the flames while he burns them hotter, because he likes to watch the struggle, because the thrill of life and death is the only thing that he will ever be truly capable of loving, because…
Because he is what he is.
Because he is a monster.
Because he is a god.
He does not change. He does not grow. He is caught in a loop that leaves no room, or time, or space, for evolution. And she is a Queen now, with a ring of feathers strung round her forehead – and he is impressed even if it is only momentarily as he contemplates the methods of the feathers collection. He wonders if ravens scream. He wonders if they bleed and cry when you take away their wings. He wonders if she will let him find out, but decides in a moment that he will regardless of her clearance.
‘Kingslay,’ she says, like they always do. They would sing the name he gave them all, between their teeth and through their lips, until the end of time – or until he took it back.
“Etro,” he says, because he does not change, and he does not grow, and he has never been a creature of many words. And she will know precisely what he wants.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.