a king walks among us
He is not disturbed by the light of her, as he should be.
She is simply different, as all things above the ground are. So many things above the ground are also beautiful. Her smile stays as he defends himself, but he would kill her just as quick, oh, he would. Expressions mean little to him. He can hardly read them. He mostly only knows the mean ones, anyway.
”You were right to kill them.”
It is the reassurance he needs, near-praise, in a way, but confirmation, for now, anyway, that he need not spill her light between the cobblestones (even if it already is). He lowers his head a moment, in a nod, almost, or something introspective, a pose for thinking in, maybe. But he looks up to her again as she speaks and offers her throat before him. El Rey would not have needed it to end her. He does not want to, now. (Even as the world goes black again, he does not yearn for light; it burns against his sight.)
”I am El Rey, of the Sevetta and the House of Bulls.” His ears twist to catch the sound of the flies rising, buzzing, singing to the corpses on which they feast. He wonders where they came from, briefly, but he is more concerned with his own survival and the being before him (two things which, he is certain, are directly related). ”Who are you?”
@Eshek | Puppet On a String
”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“
I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
