☤ And I was born to serve
@trinxkik
Shhh.
Quiet the shrieking of your own soul and listen.
Now, do you hear it?
– how the soultaker croons its soliloquy so mirthfully in preparation for its future sacrifice –
(lOoKLOOKlookloOK), the sword pollutes its bloodlust into the vulnerable shell of her ear.
‘Yes, mother?’ Rose coos, even as her eyes fixate themselves knowingly upon the daunting figure below, his slow, unhurried movements juxtaposed by the simultaneous obedient gathering and fearful isolation by his men.
There walks the future sacrifice for the soultaker; the mysterious man of the hour.
The wolf of Kyushu.
(blOODhisBLOOD-I-wE WANT it)
‘Ah. Well, the clan has never been able to deny you, mother.’ Rose replies, a steady hand already caressing the impatient thrumming hilt of her sword.
Like all tools, Rose is no different in that she possesses an expiration date; where if surpassed, she will cease to be useful. Her father knew full well of the corrosive double-edged sword within her possession, and thus intends to bury Rose with it.
After all, impossible missions like this one were merely an alias for ‘suicide’.
Crouching silently from a distance, Rose unsheathes her sword in one wide movement, and the beautiful steel sings with greed. Noiselessly, she backflips off from her distant perch, and her soultaker lunges for the unprotected back of the most dangerous man in Japan, almost of its own all-consuming accord.
Oh, how exquisite the poetry of blood and slaughter becomes as it intertwines with the lyrical whistle of her blade as she prepares to swing it into soft flesh; how piercing the hell fire glint of its steel becomes as it longs for the company of new souls within its scorching confines –
Perhaps Rose had listened to the unholy abyss for much too long; and now, as her fate shrieks its demands in the soft, vulnerable flesh of her ears, she finds that the concept of ‘eternity’ within the sword no longer seemed as daunting as it once was. The rough hilt sears its murderous brand into the soft palms of her hands; and with it, Rose no longer finds trepidation within her eagerness to please it.
The blade thrummed with fervent sharpness, rapture in every dip of its desirous cry, and Rose feverishly promises them company:
Oh, soon his voice will join you, mother –
And yet, instead of an answering, impatient shriek, there is only silence and a bewildering haze of aimlessness.
Devoid of the sword’s folly, Rose could only drop at her target’s feet, her knees kissing the ground of its own accord. A dull ring echoed in the tight confines of her ears, and stunned by the loss of the voices that have become the one and only constant within the unsteady margins of her sanity -
Instead of striking true, Rose’s weak grip drops the soultaker to the ground, the metal sinking into the hard ground as if it were an ordinary sword. Her body folds upon itself like melting snow, and Rose distantly wonders why she cannot hear anything but the cluttering of the sword against the ground.
Oh, silence was the comforting caress of a loved one that Rose had forgotten; and slowly, droplets of blissful tears begun marking its tracks down her cheeks.
Even in the face of her uncertain fate; Rose revels in the foreign and yet reassuring silence; one last gift, wrapped in the robes of the grim reaper; from the gods that had once forsaken her.
