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For Mandi on Glake.
In response to Malorie's Peak Prompt #7 - Excess.
***
There is an exhilarating joy in flying too high.
He knows this all too well; it has always been his essence, though Flame and Universe - he does not think of them as Mother and Father, not anymore - chide him for his overreaches.
He does not care. Not one whit.
He was not made to be concerned with such things.
(Someone, somewhere, rolls dice.)
Reality always wins in the end. The others simply tsk and say he should've known, they warned him, he's really rather dense, isn't he?
He seethes and seethes. He watches his people die.
(He never knew he cared about them. He's still not sure he does.)
He watches his sister and his brother trample on his land. Who is overreaching now, he wonders.
Universe and Flame are silent. Chaos, somewhere, cackles madly, but Chaos cackles at everything.
They will pay. They will pay for taking what is his. Like a spoiled child, he sits and sulks and plays a great game, and the only thing he has at stake here is pride.
(But his pride is all he has.)
This is what it means to be a god, he thinks, drowning in his own philosophizing. To reach and reach until you overreach, and then get slapped back to something lesser than even a mortal.
Reality will sigh again, and slap down those two. The dice will roll again, and he will be ready.
(But he will never realize, even as the dice are tossed right under his nose, that he has stolen a title that rightfully belongs to another, that no one can rule and be a trickster.)
In response to Malorie's Peak Prompt #7 - Excess.
***
There is an exhilarating joy in flying too high.
He knows this all too well; it has always been his essence, though Flame and Universe - he does not think of them as Mother and Father, not anymore - chide him for his overreaches.
He does not care. Not one whit.
He was not made to be concerned with such things.
(Someone, somewhere, rolls dice.)
Reality always wins in the end. The others simply tsk and say he should've known, they warned him, he's really rather dense, isn't he?
He seethes and seethes. He watches his people die.
(He never knew he cared about them. He's still not sure he does.)
He watches his sister and his brother trample on his land. Who is overreaching now, he wonders.
Universe and Flame are silent. Chaos, somewhere, cackles madly, but Chaos cackles at everything.
They will pay. They will pay for taking what is his. Like a spoiled child, he sits and sulks and plays a great game, and the only thing he has at stake here is pride.
(But his pride is all he has.)
This is what it means to be a god, he thinks, drowning in his own philosophizing. To reach and reach until you overreach, and then get slapped back to something lesser than even a mortal.
Reality will sigh again, and slap down those two. The dice will roll again, and he will be ready.
(But he will never realize, even as the dice are tossed right under his nose, that he has stolen a title that rightfully belongs to another, that no one can rule and be a trickster.)
