The sun shone a bright, warm light on his cold, pale face. He dared not open his eyes, knowing what pain would befall him to expose them to the light from which they had been hidden for a time so long. He felt the soft grass rustle between his spidery fingers. He listened for the wind—this was his mistake. The sound of dripping water and the moans of people in pain snapped him away from his dream. He opened his eyes to the nothingness of darkness that awaited him. An ache pulsed through him as he sat straight in his stone throne. The excitement of his title, “prince,” had long since worn off, leaving only the rage of rebellion and a longing for warmth rushing through his icy veins.
A long table appeared before him, covered in foods so wonderful he could only have dreamt of them. A screech of nails called the workers to the meal. He stared longingly at the meal as the crazed humans rushed in, their bodies mere skeletons. They fought over chairs and dishes, shouting at each other in rage and envy, each wishing they could have what was on the plate of the one beside them. He watched in a sort of pitied awe as each of them tried failingly to feed themselves with the long-handled fork. Every rare occasion, one of them would figure out to feed the person across themselves and the warm light would fall upon them, causing the others to scream in fright and pain. He would merely close his eyes, hoping to feel just a flicker of the warmth. Most nights, however, the workers would each gradually give up and sit at the table until it would disappear. As the table disintegrated from sight and the newcomers clawed hopelessly at the dissolving food, chains would appear around their ankles and he would lead them to their cells, locking each cell with a silver skeleton key, promising them they would be released soon and let to be with Him—a lie that far less than few of them believed until the Silver Tongued Prince let it slip from his cold, black lips. Anything seemed possible when he said it.
He walked down the stone hallway, ignoring the skeleton hands that reached out to touch him, wanting merely physical affection.
Entering the doorway hidden by the shadow of his throne, he removed the black cape that rested on his shoulders, and arched his back, unfolding his black wings. They would hang in sorrow, broken and bleeding, as he stood, his head bowed in an aching tire, never looking up at the bleeding heart before him.
A long table appeared before him, covered in foods so wonderful he could only have dreamt of them. A screech of nails called the workers to the meal. He stared longingly at the meal as the crazed humans rushed in, their bodies mere skeletons. They fought over chairs and dishes, shouting at each other in rage and envy, each wishing they could have what was on the plate of the one beside them. He watched in a sort of pitied awe as each of them tried failingly to feed themselves with the long-handled fork. Every rare occasion, one of them would figure out to feed the person across themselves and the warm light would fall upon them, causing the others to scream in fright and pain. He would merely close his eyes, hoping to feel just a flicker of the warmth. Most nights, however, the workers would each gradually give up and sit at the table until it would disappear. As the table disintegrated from sight and the newcomers clawed hopelessly at the dissolving food, chains would appear around their ankles and he would lead them to their cells, locking each cell with a silver skeleton key, promising them they would be released soon and let to be with Him—a lie that far less than few of them believed until the Silver Tongued Prince let it slip from his cold, black lips. Anything seemed possible when he said it.
He walked down the stone hallway, ignoring the skeleton hands that reached out to touch him, wanting merely physical affection.
Entering the doorway hidden by the shadow of his throne, he removed the black cape that rested on his shoulders, and arched his back, unfolding his black wings. They would hang in sorrow, broken and bleeding, as he stood, his head bowed in an aching tire, never looking up at the bleeding heart before him.
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