|
Too many spun circles and not enough knots in snares – the speculation, the immorality, the soullessness, the lies were so imminent, so scathing, so tangible that all he wanted to do was snicker, chuckle, and laugh in the dark maze they’d found themselves in. He saw the tangles, the mess, the leisurely way in which they both strolled through a quandaries and crevasses, trying to trap, trying to deceive, trying to outmatch and outwit. But the conspiracies, the plots, the ruses were bigger than them – shadows of what their parents had done, speckles and rusted spots of action and nefariousness. Still, he wanted to sink his knife into something, an outright fabrication, a ridiculous pretense, a feature of foolishness and ineptitude to spear Volterra within, or use to fish him out, a game of zealous cat and mouse and it wasn’t certain which was the feline and which was the rat. There were so many twisted beings within their world, and they were all difficult to understand, to fathom, at some level – why they did the things they did, what flaws befell their plots, what goals lay withered at their feet – and Volterra was the same way. Did he want to bend the world as his mother had tried? Did he want to shape new empires and cities? Did he want desecration and disaster? Or to simply be, exist without his dam’s shadow or animosity, cross creeks and river beds and claim things for himself without her name behind him?
She did everything.
Yes, what a thing to be proud of – torturing innocent children and their mothers. What a wonderful tale to tell youths at night. What a spell to weave over the hearts of many.
A notion stirred against his heart and he ignored it as it began to burn, flame, kindle a well-worn facet of hatred.
Oh, but there was the machination, dripping and tearing and lashing out from their coils. Knew the King would rise to it - as if she’d had any recollection, any nuance of what his father was. The boy knew his father, knew the way he lived for the Basin, for the icy chambers, for the wintry gallows, for the haunting, poignant peaks, knew the ways he calculated, schemed, and distorted to get what he wanted. Confutatis had been one more thorn amongst many; and hadn’t they triumphed and trumped them all in some way, in some fashion? He didn’t rise to the bait, to the challenge mustered within the menacing, insipid tale. Erebos remained unchanged, staring with the same demeanor, with the same intriguing vigilance, as if he’d only heard bits and pieces, as if he only knew the frothing edges of all that mustered hate and glory, ears pricked, grin ready. “But she lost, didn’t she?” He threw the barb, hoped it sunk in like more and more nettles and harpoons, craved a glint in the façade, a disruption in the pretenses and speciousness building between them. “I haven’t heard of her since.”
| |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[P] Blaze rage red is the color of youth
