the true form of a king of hell, perhaps, is a man made of burgundy smoke, thick and opaque, that sits on an obsidian throne and burns slowly and drifts across the smooth flat surface of the pedestal he's built for himself atop a glorious bureaucracy; his torso swirls around in itself and his fingers dip off the edge of the arm chair sometimes -- and his little angel pet, with slow innocent eyes that line the bones of his silver wings like the jewels that embellish his king's crown. (p1)
the angel with four heads and four great wings that carry him far greater than a pathetic little ex-demon could ever chain him to. maybe (though this is a foolish concept) this glorious being of celestial light and purpose, this ethereal perfection, this fallen winged glory of God has /chosen/ to let himself stay here, perched on the black throne of (his) king like a mourning dove. (or is the angel the fool?) {uh you said you like talking about trueform so i threw up in your askbox shhh}
offthethrone. I honestly just covered my mouth and squeaked. I-- just-- dsbgfjm. I'm going to need a moment.
----swefgryju. Thank you very much for this. I love talking about trueform. Gosh. You're wonderful. I don't know what to say. This is just-- you're just-- golly, dear, this was such a lovely thing to come back to. Thank you again.
