a king walks among us
The way she nestles against him, softer than silk, like petals, browning and crushed beneath the gentle nose that would take in their scent. He would form one being with her, if he could, but they are close to it. Not enough, never enough.
”Have you slept at all, my earthling?” Her earthling, her dirt-bound man, grave-bound man, never the gravedigger but the one who readies the living for the coffin, the pyre, et cetera. ”What is it you’re thinking? Let me think it, too.” How could such a request be denied? He could deny her nothing, nothing but the truth - the one truth, comprised of many truths - but he could offer her false words, broken words, those that failed to describe the thing that filled his heart with feathers and petals and honey.
”Again, I am trying to put you into words,” he said. ”But I cannot. You are beyond such things, you know.” El Rey tore his gaze from her to look upon the poetry, but its meaning slipped away as driftwood on a current. Driftwood has never been beautiful, nor are his words. They are carved from stone with bloodied fingers, cut from flesh with a rusted dagger - austere, unforgiving, and violent.
”Some things that I have seen, done…cannot be put to paper, at least not by my hand. Perhaps…perhaps a god could do it.” He stared off into the swamp, their home, full of creeping things and sleeping things and love, so much love.
@
”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“
I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
