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12-03-2012, 06:33 PM
The feral winds brought him here, following amongst the bulrushes of the enamored, the whimsical, the vacuous and forgotten. Yet, he didn’t pledge himself to her, didn’t croon at her efforts, didn’t murmur at her vigilance, and didn’t marvel at her strength. He was not reduced by her cunning, not ensnared by her wiles, not tangled by the threads of her whispers. The land was not her, this Psyche, this replacement of sovereignty from a disappeared, glacial presence, but a collection of souls that martyred, bled, and screamed for supremacy, for domination, for the overwhelming maelstrom of strength that drove them onward. His loyalty came from the dredges of words fostered by his father, from the credence of authority, ascendancy, and superiority, an assembled tutelage that still echoed in the chambers of his blood, in the hollow vessel of his cold sentiments. Stepping upon this land, a world of ice and rebellion, was not to honor Psyche and her sneering lips, but to bestow his allegiance to mastery, to possess conviction upon distinction, primacy. The darkened threshold of his silent, sinuous movements were likely to be largely ignored, an expected track of his veiled corridors and narrowed hallways, the forced isolation of his presence. He listened to their exultations, remained nonchalant, his features a fixed dial of warrior indifference, recherché and reticence. He uttered not a single word, not a solo syllable, not a breathless gasp of awe or a tremulous deliverance of bliss – merely standing upon another world in which to embark upon his puissant, licentious deeds. He was the maestro, the devil, of his own capacity, of his own pernicious, iniquitous bedlam, and she, nor anyone else, could claim him as theirs.
