I lol'd (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zarahjoyce) wrote2017-09-30 08:35 pm
zarahjoyce) wrote2017-09-30 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
oblique. (sandrino/jacintha)
notes: spoilers abound!
The rules you follow are simple, really:
kill or be killed.
The choices you have are finite, really.
And you always feel a bit stronger, a bit more alive, after each of your slaughter.
-
You think:
There is darkness in the very depth of your bones.
There is evil in the very flow of your blood.
You sow destruction; you reap pain.
There is beauty in chaos only to you, who wield it.
-
This world is a terrible place to be in, and you've known this for so long.
Despair had been your constant companion when you were so young.
Helplessness had been once your friend.
Terror, your only armor.
So now that you've grown, you have but one goal:
let everyone else feel that which was once solely your own.
-
Everything, everyone, has their own place.
The weak - beneath the strong.
The strong - above, and beyond.
As King, it is your obligation to correct what's wrong.
Put everything, everyone, where they should belong.
-
To those who choose to oppose you, you have but one offer:
die.
And so most did, as that is your will.
-
To reach your perfect goal, you will need some form of assistance.
You accept this as truth, despite who you are.
After all, your perfect world is almost within your reach.
And there's nothing you won't do to attain your desire.
-
The first time you glance at her, it seems like time had stood still:
For she wears the face of that woman - among many that you've killed.
Her blood once coated your hands. Her body, beneath you feet.
And yet now she stands before you - proud, brazen, beautiful.
Alive.
Are you playing games with me? you ask her, as your finger burn with the desire to kill.
She eyes you not with recognition, but detachment, apathy.
And you tell yourself, despite her answers: she probably is.
-
(they don't come back, once they're dead.
that's the beauty of death, you think.
those you've killed will never bother you again.
they cannot hurt you ever again.
they're dead. dead dead deaddeaddead
they don't come back, once they're dead.)
-
If there is one thing you hate, it's to be taken as a fool.
She tells you, politely, that she has no interest in your offer.
Still playing games, this woman - while boldly wearing the face of another.
(supposed to be dead, dead, long long dead.)
But no; she will not win. She will not win.
She will go back to the country with you. She will serve you, until you attain your desire.
And you will unmask her, show her that playing you is futile - and deadly.
-
She doesn't die, when you try to take her life.
And you tell her to take care, because her next breath might be her last.
But she surprises you, this frail woman, who tells you point-blank:
kill the person who did this to me.
And when you taunt her by saying it was you who attempted to get her killed:
you be careful, then.
It's that moment that you know:
She has bloodfire in her veins.
(an admirable trait, that.)
-
Her heartbeat sings to you, and you find comfort in its rhythm.
She might have been powerful, once before.
But as always, being unequivocally human will spell her doom.
(you can break her bones. you can drink her blood.
you can kill her, when - if - you so desire.)
-
You distrust her with every fiber of your being.
Her words bear layers of meaning that you find - unsettling.
You ought to get rid of her, at the soonest possible time.
Yet when she comes to you, you feel compelled to do as she says.
And so you decide to humor her; give her what she asks.
All the while looking for the opportune time to strike.
(she wears a mask; why not do the same?
two can play in this game.)
-
There is preciseness in her actions, confidence in her voice.
She is no monster, but her spirit is formidable.
It should be, as she bears your presence armed with nothing but a smile.
You watch her constantly, and you are suspicious, wary.
And memories of your encounters keep you awake - as they should.
-
(your dreams are vivid, more so nowadays.
she is skin and soft and silk and stars.
you bend her to your will, and she does as you ask.
which is how you know her touch is nothing more than smoke and ash.)
-
The timing of her arrival had always dubitable.
And you are no fool to think that her appearance and that of your enemy's is merely coincidence.
You've lived for so long to know--
--such a thing does not exist.
-
You should just kill her.
If she is playing a game, then you would have won.
If she is not--
-
It would be so easy, to split open her skin and drink her dry.
You would have defeated her, even before she takes her first move against you.
And yet--
-
(it's her eyes, you think. once they focus on you, you cannot - you cannot - look away.
she is soft silk and steel unfolding, under your stare.
she smirks and taunts and teases you.
and god help you, you don't know how to fight that way.)
-
You don't want to trust.
You don't want to believe.
She throws these words at you, and your response is simply:
stay.
(please.)
You find comfort in the thought that you have your reasons for wanting her around.
And when she heeds you, you tell yourself you were right, in your doubt.
-
You need to be more human, she says.
It's funny, you think, in a way that it's not.
-
You are shaken to your core, as memories of your suffering haunt you.
And her questions further stir feelings best left in your bones.
Unhinged, you dare her now to reveal her true face, her true intentions:
fight me. show your power. fight me.
You set an example: you bare your fangs, your strength.
(and her terror feels like acid tearing open your skin.)
You aim for her weakness: the death of her lover, her family.
You await for her anger to answer your call.
You wish for all this to be over. If you defeat her, then it will be - for her.
If she defeats you, then--
(kill or be killed.)
She lays there, beneath your feet, and it's a reflection of your past.
She looks up, defiant, and you think, you believe--
But she surprises you, this frail woman.
She closes her eyes, her throat bared.
Helpless and accepting, in the face of your true form.
And so you think, perhaps, she is not...
Could she be...?
-
You watch her as she sleeps.
(her skin was soft, under the pressure of your fingers.)
When she awakes, yours is the face she sees.
You see that she heeded your words; she remembers not your carelessness.
She remembers not that you almost brought about her death.
No longer is she afraid; she seems to find comfort in your presence.
And when you draw away from her, you hear her words:
thank you. good night.
-
i'm a monster, you tell her, and no truer words have passed through your lips.
and her response is short, adequate:
aren't we all?
-
She is beautiful, you think, as she waits for you to appear.
And just for a moment, you regret that you will not.
You find yourself thinking straight, whenever she's not near you.
And in those moments, you've come to a solemn, final decision.
-
I'm letting you go.
The rules you follow are simple, really:
kill or be killed.
The choices you have are finite, really.
And you always feel a bit stronger, a bit more alive, after each of your slaughter.
-
You think:
There is darkness in the very depth of your bones.
There is evil in the very flow of your blood.
You sow destruction; you reap pain.
There is beauty in chaos only to you, who wield it.
-
This world is a terrible place to be in, and you've known this for so long.
Despair had been your constant companion when you were so young.
Helplessness had been once your friend.
Terror, your only armor.
So now that you've grown, you have but one goal:
let everyone else feel that which was once solely your own.
-
Everything, everyone, has their own place.
The weak - beneath the strong.
The strong - above, and beyond.
As King, it is your obligation to correct what's wrong.
Put everything, everyone, where they should belong.
-
To those who choose to oppose you, you have but one offer:
die.
And so most did, as that is your will.
-
To reach your perfect goal, you will need some form of assistance.
You accept this as truth, despite who you are.
After all, your perfect world is almost within your reach.
And there's nothing you won't do to attain your desire.
-
The first time you glance at her, it seems like time had stood still:
For she wears the face of that woman - among many that you've killed.
Her blood once coated your hands. Her body, beneath you feet.
And yet now she stands before you - proud, brazen, beautiful.
Alive.
Are you playing games with me? you ask her, as your finger burn with the desire to kill.
She eyes you not with recognition, but detachment, apathy.
And you tell yourself, despite her answers: she probably is.
-
(they don't come back, once they're dead.
that's the beauty of death, you think.
those you've killed will never bother you again.
they cannot hurt you ever again.
they're dead. dead dead deaddeaddead
they don't come back, once they're dead.)
-
If there is one thing you hate, it's to be taken as a fool.
She tells you, politely, that she has no interest in your offer.
Still playing games, this woman - while boldly wearing the face of another.
(supposed to be dead, dead, long long dead.)
But no; she will not win. She will not win.
She will go back to the country with you. She will serve you, until you attain your desire.
And you will unmask her, show her that playing you is futile - and deadly.
-
She doesn't die, when you try to take her life.
And you tell her to take care, because her next breath might be her last.
But she surprises you, this frail woman, who tells you point-blank:
kill the person who did this to me.
And when you taunt her by saying it was you who attempted to get her killed:
you be careful, then.
It's that moment that you know:
She has bloodfire in her veins.
(an admirable trait, that.)
-
Her heartbeat sings to you, and you find comfort in its rhythm.
She might have been powerful, once before.
But as always, being unequivocally human will spell her doom.
(you can break her bones. you can drink her blood.
you can kill her, when - if - you so desire.)
-
You distrust her with every fiber of your being.
Her words bear layers of meaning that you find - unsettling.
You ought to get rid of her, at the soonest possible time.
Yet when she comes to you, you feel compelled to do as she says.
And so you decide to humor her; give her what she asks.
All the while looking for the opportune time to strike.
(she wears a mask; why not do the same?
two can play in this game.)
-
There is preciseness in her actions, confidence in her voice.
She is no monster, but her spirit is formidable.
It should be, as she bears your presence armed with nothing but a smile.
You watch her constantly, and you are suspicious, wary.
And memories of your encounters keep you awake - as they should.
-
(your dreams are vivid, more so nowadays.
she is skin and soft and silk and stars.
you bend her to your will, and she does as you ask.
which is how you know her touch is nothing more than smoke and ash.)
-
The timing of her arrival had always dubitable.
And you are no fool to think that her appearance and that of your enemy's is merely coincidence.
You've lived for so long to know--
--such a thing does not exist.
-
You should just kill her.
If she is playing a game, then you would have won.
If she is not--
-
It would be so easy, to split open her skin and drink her dry.
You would have defeated her, even before she takes her first move against you.
And yet--
-
(it's her eyes, you think. once they focus on you, you cannot - you cannot - look away.
she is soft silk and steel unfolding, under your stare.
she smirks and taunts and teases you.
and god help you, you don't know how to fight that way.)
-
You don't want to trust.
You don't want to believe.
She throws these words at you, and your response is simply:
stay.
(please.)
You find comfort in the thought that you have your reasons for wanting her around.
And when she heeds you, you tell yourself you were right, in your doubt.
-
You need to be more human, she says.
It's funny, you think, in a way that it's not.
-
You are shaken to your core, as memories of your suffering haunt you.
And her questions further stir feelings best left in your bones.
Unhinged, you dare her now to reveal her true face, her true intentions:
fight me. show your power. fight me.
You set an example: you bare your fangs, your strength.
(and her terror feels like acid tearing open your skin.)
You aim for her weakness: the death of her lover, her family.
You await for her anger to answer your call.
You wish for all this to be over. If you defeat her, then it will be - for her.
If she defeats you, then--
(kill or be killed.)
She lays there, beneath your feet, and it's a reflection of your past.
She looks up, defiant, and you think, you believe--
But she surprises you, this frail woman.
She closes her eyes, her throat bared.
Helpless and accepting, in the face of your true form.
And so you think, perhaps, she is not...
Could she be...?
-
You watch her as she sleeps.
(her skin was soft, under the pressure of your fingers.)
When she awakes, yours is the face she sees.
You see that she heeded your words; she remembers not your carelessness.
She remembers not that you almost brought about her death.
No longer is she afraid; she seems to find comfort in your presence.
And when you draw away from her, you hear her words:
thank you. good night.
-
i'm a monster, you tell her, and no truer words have passed through your lips.
and her response is short, adequate:
aren't we all?
-
She is beautiful, you think, as she waits for you to appear.
And just for a moment, you regret that you will not.
You find yourself thinking straight, whenever she's not near you.
And in those moments, you've come to a solemn, final decision.
-
I'm letting you go.