a king walks among us
He is quite sad, in there. Somewhere, nestled amongst his ribs, just beneath his heart, is a little dove. A mourning dove, of course - you knew it - and every day and every night that mourning dove sings its sad and quiet song. Coo-coo, coo, coo, coo… And it sings it through midday, dawn and dusk. Always there is a sad song in the nest below his heart. What could he do about it? He does not know. He would be free of it, but he deserves it. That, he knows. No one is more worthy of a mourning dove than a tyrant’s executioner (perhaps, except, the tyrant, who is incapable of mourning, we like to assume). Even the brief respite of bliss that is his love is not enough.
The dove is always singing.
Dawn, now, is where he is and the time it coos, soft and nestled amongst its feathers. El Rey is thinking of poetry, slipping between the morning shadows, and reciting different phrases to himself. He hears not the approach of another as he mutters, ”…Incarnadine sky - no. Ruby, crimson, sanguine…No, no. Feathers breach the wall of mist and I…I…”
@Sparrow
”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“
I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
