no matter what they say, I am still the king
The strange and darkness never seems to be too far when Eight is there. It follows like a plague to some, and like a wonderland to others. To the child, it seems to be the latter. The world has opened for the serpentine boy, and Eight hopes it shall never close. For as long as the child keeps reading the fable that the magician spins, he will be lost to his mother.
How strange, to be so satisfied with his peculiarities- as if the boy was not expecting them all along. Long ago, when Eight was first born, the magic and mystery of Beqanna was far-flung. To turn and see their child born with both wings and a horn was a surprise to most mothers. And now? Now a child untouched by the might of Beqanna was rare and scarcely seen. Did Sabbath know of all that her little blue boy could do? Had she suspected? Had she hoped to turn and see a smattering of scales? Had she dreamed that one day he would have fangs such as suited for sinking into flesh?
Eight looks at the azure soul before him, giddy with delight at all that has been uncovered. Would laughter still peel from his mouth in five years? A decade? Would he always carry this glee from simply turning serpentine, or would it falter and fade just as his mother had?
Eight cannot help but have his mouth twinge in almost a smile as the boy gently plucks the black feather from the ground, like a relic found in the dust of the earth. What does it feel like to revel in something so simple- to desire so deeply something as simple as a smattering of molecules to make up a feather. “You may keep that, Crowns, if you so desire. You may use it to find me always - here, or there.”
(now, the storm is coming in)
@[crowns]