Summary: Where was the young boy with hope in eyes? The answer is simple, it lies before you, but you don’t recognize him. Can anyone blame you for stabbing him?
(Aindres basically exists to be a hot horrible king to torture. Like, stab him, make him bleed, just go nuts with your sadistic desires. He’ll squeal like a pig. He’ll wag his tongue for more. But yeah. This piece is sadistic, stab wounds and all that. And uuuuuuh, he's getting off on it. Enjoy!)
Were you arrogant in thinking you held all the hope in the world? That you were a gentle and guiding helping hand to a boy at the bottom of the caste ladder, who’s hair and eyes shined brighter than the siblings that slaughtered each other?
You were naïve to reach out. You were idiot to bless him with an immortality that you can no longer take back.
Magnolias. You met him, or rather you saw him, napping under a solitary magnolia tree that you had claimed as your own. You had to scare off many bugs and stray animals that wanted to make this their home. You made this tree taller than all the others, you cast away the plants and seedlings that wanted to fuse with its roots, and you made sure the flowers blooming were of a blush so light any human would want to caress them.
And a boy had made this his napping spot.
He woke up and spotted you among the reaching branches of the trees, nothing more than a traveler looking for a purpose to bind your identity to. You didn’t know language, and so your stare had drove him off, after tripping and knocking out a tooth that was already loose.
Then he came back with cookies that had jam pressed into the center. He would leave, then he would come. He would stray away, then he would run right back.
Eventually, you would follow him. Away from the eyes of others, in a form that none can see. You were the gentle wind around him, the light that shined through his hair. You were a listener to his dreams, and you were a lover of fantasies.
You wanted to be the Deity of Kings. After all, you helped place that crown on Aindres’s head.
…
This was a memory you had carved out from the image of the man before you. It no longer suited for his face.
Stab wounds do.
Raw, ripped and bleeding stab wounds that open and close like his moaning mouth. You didn’t care for the blood seeping into your hands, didn’t care for the shirt hiked up just below his neck. He didn’t deserve to be clean. He didn’t deserve the image to look composed before his servants.
You wanted to pierce his tongue with a needle. You wanted him to stop letting it hang over his lip so you gripped his jaw and shut it tight. It did nothing to silence his moans, only made his entire body vibrate with what can’t escape.
His hair was sticking to his neck, soft curls that looked as though they were never stained with dust or dirt or grime. You grabbed it and ripped off some strands. His hips bucked up into the air and all you could do was wretch out the knife stuck in his heart and stab him in his leg.
It did nothing. He didn’t stop and instead, arched his back as though this was nothing but bliss.
You never should’ve blessed him with immortality. No matter how lonely you were going to be.
For as long as this palace still stands, so does your visage.
