Did He Who Made The Lamb Make Thee?
The King Of Thieves, reduced to this. A pile of worthless muck chained and shackled down within shadowy darkness. And the darkness moves, it twists and writhes, it turns in on itself and moves back out and then contorts itself into unshaped shape, deceiving itself, trying to find a physical form.
Broken shards of souls and un-entities cry out and crawl among one another like Lovecraftian horrors, and the Thief King tries to move among them with would-be limbs of the last lingering shreds of his existence in this non-physical form, to try and find a way out even though, they all know – It knows, there is no way out, and he ends up caught in the movement of un-shape that writhes and twists and contorts. And there is no rhythm.
And all the while there is a child screaming. A blood-curdling scream of blue murder that could most certainly reach the farthest corners of the universe, could split atoms, and also goes deeper inwards than any magnifying device of science or spirit could fathom.
Amidst all the chaos and cataclysmic atmosphere, the unbearable pain, the screams for repent, the un-shape and the un-rhythm, the Thief King becomes still, and then reaches to what would be his stomach if he were anything that resembled something close to a human shape and holds his would-be hands there, as if to cradle himself. Because for all the unknown and un-shape and un-rhythm, he realises, that the child is screaming from within him.