Demigod
Demigod. They can barely utter the word, choking on awe, blinded by glory. You are golden to them. You are godly. You are the unattainable they crave for. You are everything they are not and for that they love you. They reach out to touch your wings, your gates to the palaces strewn among the clouds. Your wings are warm. They burn, they burn, and they pull their blood-stained hands back. They recoil in horror for it is not their blood. Don't they know? Legends are to be looked at, not touched.
Demigod. They frown at each other. What is it that you see? Mild disgust or casual indifference? What would you rather see? They know you, or at least they think they do. It's been so long and there have been so many exactly like you. Expendable, they breathe. You are beneath them, you are mortal, you should be honoured that they remembered your name. You should be honoured that they carved you into their weapon. You should be honoured that they honed down your humanity to a razor sharp edge. You should be honoured they warn, and they reach out to use you one more time but you came back a mix of blade and blood and ichor. Don't they know? No tool is unbreakable.
Demigod. Demigod. Demigod. What does that word mean, you wonder. Is it watered down divinity? Is it the pain and suffering of mortality heated to a nebulous degree and then packed within one tiny, human heart? Is it the deceitful promise of triumph, of peace, of greatness, or of something else you ache for, still entirely out of reach? You cry and cry and scream and rage. You want answers and you will set fire to red and gold alike to get them.
Monster. They flee in terror. Have mercy, they plead. You pause briefly. No one has spoken to you about mercy in countless aeons. It is a strange feeling. It passes, and you continue to wreak your righteous vengeance. They wanted you to be their pawn but you would rather tear apart the board. They used to love you and now they hate you but their reverence was always tinged with fear.
Monster. The next hero who comes along points their blade at your throat. You see yourself in them. You spare the hero. The hero murders you in return. That is how it ends for you. You die smiling, bitter-happy, for you are finally at peace, but the hero in front of you has a long and painful path. You pray the fates be kind to them. The prayer falls on deaf ears. Tragic, isn't it?
February 13, 2019