A Piece Of Paper Lays Underneath Leshy's Pillow, Unnoticed.

a piece of paper lays underneath leshy's pillow, unnoticed.

one day, as he reaches underneath, he finds it.

his hands cross it, but detect no physical signs of writing.

merely a blank sheet of painter's paper.

...

isn't he supposed to do something with this?

he reaches into the mud.

he has not seen mud in many years. the crown could not give him sight, even if he was a god. he could only sense its presense and know it was there.

now, without the crown, he could see nothing.

mud, he remembered, was brown. what was brown again?

it had been so long, he could not remember.

his muddy fingers scrape the paper, forming some sort of shape that he does not know.

what is he doing?

time time time later he still holds the paper. his hand is devoid of mud.

he does not know what is on it, whatever it may be.

i miss painting, he might think, if he could remember something so long ago.

on the paper is a perfectly drawn, muddy crown.

in the center is a triangular eye, stained green with grasses.

leshy leaves the paper outside to blow away in the hot nighttime breeze.

pet names? ha, no

me and my best friend have owner names

pet names are like "oh, youre my pet" (baby, honey, sweetie)

no! i call her "your excellency" and i am "your honor"

"The day this kitten has a mortal spouse is the day the old faith falls!"

n-narilamb!?

Narinder returns to his bed. It is nighttime, and all are asleep, but he sleeps the latest of all, save for the Lamb. He cannot sleep when others are awake in case of the assassination attempts that he now fears.

He lays himself down, but finds that his pillow has a lump. Upon further inspection, it is a piece of wood and a knife. What?

Was someone trying to kill him, placing the knife under his pillow to cut him in his sleep?

He holds the wood and the knife. He is supposed to do something with this, isn't he? His hands shift, and he holds the knife with his thumb on the base of the blade, his hands moving on its own.

He knows not what he is doing. He knows not what he is creating, but it feels so good to do. He remembers shapes, built in wood, crafted in hours.

His hands shake. The nerves in his wrists and forearms are permanently damaged from the centuries he spent in godly handcuffs. Nonetheless he continues. It has been so long since he created, rather than destroyed, and it is addictive.

Some unknowable amount of time later, in his hands he holds a rough shape of his youngest brother. He holds it to his chest. But it is not enough.

He could sculpt life-size, detailed statues of his siblings in the past. It is not enough to have a small, rough shape. He needs more.

His hands shake as though the earth were moving beneath him. He carves out small details at first, then smaller and smaller, from the tiny horns to the crosses embedded in his skull. His hands shake harder.

In a tremble of his barely controlled hands, he snaps off the neck of the bishop.

He cannot create.

He buries his head in his useless, dead hands, and cries.

(based on this post)

i love them so much

screaming

sometimes its because i see something lovely

sometimes its because i say something unfortunate

sometimes its because i hear something wonderful

sometimes its because i think something awful

most times its because i do something unspeakable

but of course, i cannot scream here.

there are words and words and words to say.

much better to waste words on kindly nonsense than wordless worldless words.

so in dreams i scream

i scream for my eyes my throat my ears my mind my hands

bloodstained with thoughts i brought into existence

hands bloodied by their my our own doing

all these things i've done

perhaps i will be the blood that stains another's hands

what a comforting thought