17 April 2024

I was quite proud of this one. The mother and love stanzas need work still, I think, but overall I like how it turned out. Especially since every character listed, except (maybe) Elliott, is or becomes a dragon by the end of the series. For context, stanzas 1 and 2 are book 1; 3, 4, and 5 are book 2; and the last is book 3, which has a lot more focus on Arylwen and less on Charles, so that makes sense.

I actually started this by trying to see how few words I could use to “tell” the Majesty story. I wasn’t happy with that, and wound up here instead.

There stands a boy

Trembling in fear at the feet of the Pirate’s throne

Yet does not yield

And the Pirate hails him, King

There stands a boy

Looking into the face of an old, tired Mountain

And offers hope

And the Mountain hails him, King

There kneels a youth

His surrogate Mother fading fast

He, helpless, weeps

And the Mother hails him, King

There kneels a youth

A ring offered to the Love of his life

Promise ensured

And his Love hails him, King

There stands a man

Confronting she who has conquered the world

At last, triumph

And the Conqueror hails him, King

There stands a man

Betrayed by one who was once his dearest Friend

Together in death

Only then does the Friend hail him, King

21 September 2022

As I mentioned in the previous post, thinking about what made the god-kings tyrants messed with my headspace. The Phoenix, which this short was about, was one of the most fascinating and sympathetic to me, but still very twisted in her own way.

I think one of the problems I had was I was both unwilling to let her and the others be anything other than tyrants, but I wasn’t fully willing to commit to how terrible they could be, either. And a lot of that was I didn’t want to have to imagine what they might do and the reasons behind it. There are certain lines I won’t cross because of my personal beliefs; however, there’s still plenty I could do within those limits.

I do plan on coming back to this story; I want find something to help balance the scales in my head, though, so I don’t get so focused on the negative I lose the point of the story or have it start impacting the rest of my life. I think it’s important to acknowledge evil exists, bad things happen, and even good people do things they regret, but it’s also important not to dwell so much on those things we can’t see the beauty in life.

Also, random fun fact for the day, in the “language of flowers”, dahlias represent commitment. Or so the Internet says.

This was part of my series inspired by a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here). It’s also on Spotify.

Finally, WARNING! As you may have gathered from context, this post has scenes with implications of torture and abuse. Please DO NOT CONTINUE if you cannot, or do not want to, read such things. Thank you.

They were lovers, once, the Phoenix and the Conqueror, back when they were still human. Mortal. Back before everything around her burned, back when he was still capable of feeling. When they’d dared to dream of robbing death.

And then they did it. And everything went wrong.

No one, perhaps not even the man himself, know whether the Conqueror’s feelings for her were ever sincere, or if he’d just been playing her from the beginning for her skills. Whichever the case, only a few scant years passed after their transformation, he rejected her and ordered her to leave.

At first, she couldn’t believe it. She plead. She begged. She wheedled, and wailed, and bargained, until in rage he cut off her head and shoved her body into the moat before it could smoke up his castle when it burned.

Once she revived and crawled out, wet and pathetic, the Phoenix finally believed him, and she wept. Her tears turned to steam trailing from the corners of her eyes. Then, her sorrow turned to fury, and hell rained down on the lands. And thus the first of the God Wars began.

By the time the wars had ended, the Phoenix had claimed a kingdom of her own. Hers was a court of decadence; exotic foods, fine wines, and anything else one could desire. Every so often, some young man would catch her eye, and she would have him brought to her chambers. She couldn’t touch him, but she would order him to entertain her, leaving the question of what would happen if he couldn’t unanswered.

Some of her “partners” resented their forced servitude, and several managed to kill her once. One even made it outside the city before she revived and turned him to ash. Still, she tried to be kind to them, when she wasn’t in one of her fits; these men offered the closest thing to companionship she could get.

The women of her city were less lucky, however. And the more beautiful, the greater the danger. While most times the Phoenix maintained enough rationality to avoid harming her subjects, sometimes she would fly into a rage and attack. “Is it you?” she would scream, “Are the one who seduced him from me!?”

At other times, instead of rage, panic would cause the Phoenix to shake. She would slowly walk up to the woman while muttering, over and over, “No… no, can’t let him see you. You’ll take him away, like all the others. Mustn’t let him see you…”

Either way, she would grab the girl’s face, ignore her screams, and hold it long enough to leave a scar.

One day, however, a young man bowed before her and actually asked to be her servant. Shocked, she asked why. He said, “Because I want to see for myself who you truly are.”

The Phoenix eyed him appraisingly. “And what is your name?”

“Terrence, your Majesty.”

Despite feeling unsettled by the request, the Phoenix gave her permission.

And so he served her. He quickly learned her likes and dislikes, and when to prod for more information about a request or to leave her alone for a while. He painted her pictures and wove her stories, all while trying to glean what lay behind her mask of flames. In time, he came to see the hurt, lonely girl she’d hidden away.

“Who was he?” he asked one day.

The Phoenix froze. “Who?”

“The one the rest of us are meant to replace.”

For a long moment the Phoenix offered no reply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t push the issue, but he didn’t fail to notice the glass in her hand begin to melt and mold to her fingers.

Several days passed, and again he asked, “Who was he?”

This time, she didn’t bother to lie. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Still, he noticed the steam streaming from the corners of her eyes, and for the first time, he recognized them as tears.

Two weeks passed before he was willing to try again. This time, they were strolling through a garden, the Phoenix carefully avoiding everything, but admiring its beauty all the same.

“Who was he?” he dared to ask.

For almost a minute, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. “He was a man, once. We decided to challenge fate itself together, along with our friends.” She scoffed, then let her finger rest on a dahlia. The flower immediately burned to ash. “Unfortunately, we succeeded. And I… I guess I didn’t matter anymore.”

Once more, whisps of steam rose from her face up towards the sky.

20 September 2022

The next two entries are based on a song called Godhunter by Aviators (link here. It’s also on Spotify.). Something about the song always fascinated me and sparked my creative juices ever since I’ve heard it.

So, I started writing it. I’ve got a whole collection of potential god-kings for this Godhunter to slay, and all the ways it’s ridiculously hard. It was actually a lot of fun to plan out; the problem is, as part of designing the god-kings, I also needed to envision what made them worthy of being called “tyrant”. There are a couple exceptions, but they’re not good people, at least in the version I would write. And living in the same headspace as that messed with my head. So, for now, until I can find some thread of hope to make that world a place worth being/saving, I’m taking a break. I’ve had a few thoughts, but nothing definitive enough to come back to it yet.

Still, I did have fun writing and planning it, especially the entry below, which serves as a “begin at the end” kind of prologue.

She looked up at the black fortress before her, scythe resting on her shoulders. It had been grand, once; a symbol of strength, or fear, depending on who you were. She’d been, once, exactly a century ago. Banners had fluttered in the breeze, and people had bustled about. Merchants, peasants, but mostly soldiers, doomed to die in a pointless war.

Now, though, it was empty. No more banners. No more crowds. No more soldiers. Just black walls, wreathed in shadows and silence.

Unperturbed by the gloom, she pushed through the front gate, each footstep echoing into the night. She could have softened the, moved silently, but for this target, there was no need. He already knew she was coming. He was the last, and he knew it. Let her footsteps announce her arrival; his fear would serve her better than any advantage surprise could offer.

She paused in the courtyard, trying to guess where her prey might be lurking, before she focused on the central tower. Nodding to herself, she strode inside and marched up the stairs.

At the top, she found a sad excuse for a throne room. Faded drapery hung limp along the walls and ceiling, thread-bare and moth-eaten. Half-rusted suits of armor paraded down the walls on either side, most of them missing at least one piece or another. And in the center, a man with greasy black hair and sunken eyes sat on a tarnished throne. A sad excuse for a beard marred his face.

He met her eyes and croaked, “Have you come to kill me?”

“Yes.” She made a show of looking around the room again and added, “Although, it looks like you’re already halfway there.”

He coughed out a laugh, a raspy, painful sound like the screech of unoiled metal. “Go on, then. Finish it.”

She flipped the scythe off her shoulder, and slowly brought the blade behind his neck. There she paused and stared at him. “So was it worth it?”

He sneered and spat, “Go to hell.”

She shrugged, and pulled her scythe forward. And the last of the god-kings fell.

How does one kill a god? Some will see the future and avoid it; others won’t die no matter how severe their wounds; and others will simply turn to ash, only to reborn moments later, unharmed.

She began by watching. Watching daily hunts of men and women for a war god’s amusement. Watching the jilted goddess fawn over her latest object of affection. Watching the god-priest compel his followers into a mad frenzy of unholy wrath.

It was fortunate, then, that she called the reaper herself mother; for as death always lurks just out of sight, unnoticed by all but the most wary, so too could she lurk unseen. And it was for her mother she would kill them; for how else would they have gained immortality had they not ripped it from her mother’s corpse?

The seeress would be hardest. Unfortunately, that meant she also had to be first; if she targeted one of the others, the seeress would foresee it and warn them. The question was, how could she prevent the seeress from foretelling her own doom?