“Maybe you don’t want to hear what I have to say but you need to hear what I have to say:
My precious…Little. Cloud. Things were simpler when you were with me. How troublesome it is when you start thinking for yourself.”
On anon, tell my muse what they need to hear || Accepting
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ He knows full well that if he puts his hands over his ears that will not stop the sound. Besides the sound has already reached them so what was the point of trying to block it out? Master has come to call again when the only thing he did was step outside to clear his lungs. It's been a moment since he cycled them, and he needed to get the old Mist out to make room for the new. He needed to clear out the old before it could infect.
But that voice is ringing in his ears again and it is taking everything within him not to fall back to old habits and panic. The voices in his mind stir. The spirits within him rustling awake as he can feel a rumbling growl start to form in the back of his throat that he does not know if he should release or not because the difference between hearing the voice now and hearing it then was he could only assume that the eyes peering down at him were that deathly pale blue.
Now - oh now - he knows exactly what they look like and he can see the Cheshire's grin at the mere idea of the collar around his throat getting tugged by the chain. An invisible rope fastened around such a delicate appendage and no one else ever seemed to see it.
Not even Black Wind.
No one seemed to truly understand how damned he was because it doesn't matter how far he runs. There was a predator hunting for him no matter what he did. He was a feast either way and it hardly mattered which one laid claim to him. Both were torturous and seemed to find some sort of divine satisfaction in his pain.
One was just much more subdued about it most days.
But no matter what he did there were claws sunk deep into his flesh. One just preferred his back while the other - oh the other held much more favor for his neck.
It's funny in a strange way. How he can understand why it would be troublesome if he were to do something so bold - so unruly as to think for himself. He was a puppet. A pet. The perfect little prophecy. Birds do not think for themselves nor do swords. Birds only sing on command and sword need only cut what it placed before them.
Free will was never in the cards and he's always been lousy at poker.