He always liked the old tales of brave princes that became great kings. He was scrawny now, but he'd one day be ruler of this small island and the sparkling sea beyond it.
His time as a prince was ancient history before caskets filled with white lilies and a ruby crown that didn't quite fit on his head. Even with a kingdom in hand, he was still unconvinced of his troubles, because a new king meant new ideas, and it was all for the best, wasn't it? A king could still read old scrolls under candlelight, practice swordplay in the courtyard and listen to the advisors that held his tiny hands in their own and told him to believe.
When the moon was new, the cloaked figures that filtered in and out of stone walls reminded him of their existence with calloused hands on his wrists and a blade to his throat. He would have breathed steel if he hadn't wriggled free and struck out with his left hand, and made them falter for a moment as he ran until his legs were screaming. There wasn't a scratch on his body, but one minute filled him with fear, and an hour became an empty void. Now he was fading, and all he could do was pathetically cry and wonder what he'd done to deserve this.
Princes couldn't cry, so he mopped up his tears on purple curtains and swallowed his sorrow. He knew all along really, that this world would break his young and trusting heart. Childhood stories were just stories in the end. Reality came from the blade of the axe and the billowy robes of the hooded figures that supervised the deaths.
Please don't plead for your life, it just might make him reconsider. He could not afford to reconsider. Don't look away, don't look away. Watch every moment from the kneel to the thud of the axe. He vomited at first, but returned to his throne even while his throat burned.
Why did all of them want him to die? What did he do wrong? Was it because he wasn't his father? Was it because of the ruby crown loosely encircling his head? Was it because he had gave an order that wasn't good enough for them? He was the king, and they were his subjects, and the king was always supreme in stories, and he just wanted to see a fraction of the anguish that gripped his heart reflected in their eyes, because he was king and he was right.
That's right.
It wasn't his fault.
Next time someone turned towards him, he'd be the one holding the blade this time, and he'd watch them shatter screaming with a quadrillion unnatural shouts of pained realizations. In every person bearing the royal insignia, he saw evil, a shadowy tendril that wormed its way through every heart and bled them free of every emotion all that they were. Under their robes weren't limbs of flesh and blood, but noxious poisons and shining blades ready to dig into his heart.
He would live, no matter the cost.
There's only one soft voice among growling and grating, and it often it cries. Between choked sobs, it whispers that this is all wrong, and to please stop, but then the cacophony of hate sung so loud and beautifully that one aria was all but drowned out. It was ridiculous, but he listened sometimes when it was just him on his jagged throne, watching the fresh bloodstains dry on the executioner's slab.
The peasants were unhappy. Even an untrained farmer with a spear could fell a warrior on a horse. Round up the rebels and cleave off their heads. If they're not allies, then they're enemies, and he has all the privilege in the world to reach into their traitorous bodies and tear out their guts.
He was going into war, to dance with swords and flame-tipped arrows, but he protected his left arm, and only that. That arm would save him, he knew, just as it had done before, and what remained didn't really matter. Shadow games were just normal games with higher stakes. Who cared for the priestess that flung herself into the sea, or her pathetic brother that dared shed his tears under the pretense of noble despair? Come, they're just one of many enemies to be destroyed.
The flames raged, licking up corpses and dry earth, and still he stood, sword in hand. The putrid air still stung his lungs, and even though his skin peeled open and bled, he was very much alive. Clutching a sword on the battlefield, waiting for foes long fallen to the dirt, he was alone. His sides were still singed, and one of his fingers was broken, but he couldn't explain why he was still in immense pain.
Oh, you mad king, congratulations! How is the top of the tower of bones?
Oh, you murderer, you pathetic murderer, what now? Are you a king if you rule an empty kingdom?
Ah. That's was lying to himself, all along, wasn't he? Liars were punishable by death, and nothing protected him when he plunged his sword into himself. Even when executing himself, why he couldn't even hit his own heart?
Still, he breathed, without a nose or mouth. The royal rubies were embedded into his skin now, and the wings of demons drawn into the walls of the castle adorned his back. He'd gone from grand prince of rubble to whatever this new miserable existence is, and he has new companions now, but nothing has changed. There was a before to this life, redolent of cold steel and fire, but all that filled his mind was smog and swirling red skies.
Reborn into a world clinging to its last rotted heartstrings.
They were going to die, their world of garnet pillars and acid rain was going to collapse into nothing thanks to a world of purity. His companions that cast him filthy looks when they thought he couldn't see, looked like him but were not like him. They may have been Barians, but he was not one of them, and every one of Durbe's devoted speeches he had to weather through left more claw marks on his arms.
"For the sake of the Barian World?" How sweet and sentimental, it's enough to make his brain rot.
Why should he offer himself as a sacrifice for a doomed world? Why should he fight with companions that stared at him when he dared laugh or be happy? Why was he going to be tethered to a plane doomed to die, when he so desperately wanted to live?
Power, he needed power to survive, and he didn't care who he trampled on to do so.
The Magician was swathed in gold and white with great blue wings, and was far too bright. How beautiful it looked, so noble and heroic with its golden rings, and he felt his stomach turn at the very sight of it. Even when it called to him, for its master, there was no way that's true. It was too pure to be his. It changed as he became stronger, and the honorable colors became crimson, the wings became wicked branches, and the golden rings became a skeletal hand. The masquerade danced in darkness, and he laughed at its magic. Encore, encore, tricks are much better genuine!
A man with the body of a child fell into their world one day, and the hatred bubbling in his heart is so, so delightful. The boy screamed in rage for vengeance, and who is he to deny this newcomer? He watched as this child tossed aside his name and face for power, and it pleased him to no end.
Failure is less pleasing than small victories, but that doesn't stop him at all. He could count up to four or five ways it could have been worse, so much worse, and that was without the explosive tirades from Mizael. He'd watched from his discarded body, every duel of Yuma's against his pawns, and couldn't believe in the sheer dumb luck the boy possessed.
Luck wasn't going to kill him just yet, though. Even if his body was broken into fragments, even if he had to kneel at the foot of something he wanted to rip to shreds, he wasn't going to die. Even if he was brutally beaten until he bled from the rubies in his skin, he wouldn't be punished for the grave sin of existence.
He melted into a fleshy body, one who dripped of pity and worthlessness, the perfect masquerade for a stupid human who did nothing but believe. The boy with the original number following his every move was too chipper, trusting every word he said with a smile and a shout of blind determination.
You fool.
You stupid fool.