For the King of All Darkness; a story he has told me about his past, put into poetry form at his request.
He holds his blades high, in the shining light of the moon, as
evening descends to true night time. One he loves dearly has been
stolen from him, and his steps on snow are silent. There is a
time and place to take matters (and knives) into his own hands,
and his child being taken from him is one of them. This is
not a time to stay still and do nothing; he is facing down possible
death, and he knows this–but he has died before, and that single
shattering event left him mute and covered with scars. He will never
forsake the child he loves, and his life for his son’s may be his undoing.
On this night his blades will fly, and he will walk from the burning
rubble with his son cradled in his arms. He has walked from ruin before,
just not in King’s whites that are stained in fire and blood. Grief is
useless at this moment; what matters is that his son is breathing, that his
son is alive. The moon shines down upon them, and a fire is burning behind
them, to destroy what remains of this trauma. Vengeance has been sought,
in retribution for far more than the King’s son being kidnapped. There is a
change in him now, a hardness to his eyes as he strides through the snow;
even he can become rage incarnate when one from his Heart is broken.