a king walks among us
He wanders the capital, as he does so many nights (he was told it is the Thing to Do - soldiers protect, and must they not see what needs protecting?) and he thinks. There is much to think about, as much as he would deny it; the events of his flee from home play in his mind as a forever-stuck song and while he does not wish to think words about it he does think feelings about it and it hurts. It hurts so much. (Like the sun on his eyes, but worse, worse, so much worse).
But he keeps walking. (For soldiers must walk to see what needs protecting. Soldiers must protect, and so he walks, walks, walks to see if there is anything he can do that is appropriate to his job, for these are the instructions he is given, these are the words to live by, forever, forever until he is given new words, which may happen again as violently as the last time, yes, but he hopes they do not for the stagnant way of life Denocte has brought upon him is without violence and without loss. If it is not loss, it must be victory.)
He does not care for the chill on his back; it reminds him of the draft in the cellar door, always a discomfort, truly, but then he thinks that those were the moments when he cuddled back into the nursemaid’s flank and she snuffled his hair and whispered sweet things and then he does not mind the chill so much anymore. He only knew it was autumn or winter for the draft, and when he went outside for the killing, and the rest of the time the cellar was a cool refuge from the sun. Small wonder he found himself in the land of night, but this he does not think of.
El Rey would pay no mind to the antlered stranger had he not spoken. His words rung cruel and familiar and made his innards wince and burn alike. El Rey was never taught to use profanities, particularly by his nursemaid, for they were harsh, unnecessary things spat by those whom victory taunted and evaded like a trapped fly. And they were often words used against him in the ring. El Rey did not take well to such uses of language.
Thinking these things, he turned his great black death god’s head to look at the stallion. Smaller, yes. To be trampled underfoot, if needed. That was the purpose of the black king’s distance from the ground. It only hurt him when he closed it.
”No,” he says, flatly, ”Not usually. Do you intend to?”
@Lysander
”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“
I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
