Happy birthday, Stepha. This is one of the bagillion things that I've began writing in your honor, so expect many more. In all honesty, I have no idea where this came from. I hope you're reminded of mythology and stars and fireflies.
Falling in love with an object is the saddest thing in the world.
We could always look at it from a different angle. We could always think of the Spirit. The Spirit who used to live in that object. The body he used to haunt. The same one that he would use and abuse. His not-his lips that would suck and bite and kiss. And his not-his hands that would mostly murder and mar and mutilate, but sometimes love. The possessed mouth, and how it would grin.
But once you rip someone's heart out, they're just a corpse. Without the Spirit, the ring was just a necklace.
Sure, necrophiliacs get off on fucking dead bodies, but no one really loves a corpse.
Not in the way that Malik loves the ring.
And a ring is all it is—just an empty golden shell of its former owner. A name like The Millennium Ring hardly seems suitable anymore. Try necklace. Locket. Trinket. Evidence.
Evidence of his existence. His memory. The heart that wasn't his, but beat inside of his chest anyway.
He once told Malik that if he had his own heart, he would love him.
And at the time, Malik didn't care. He never thought he'd sink so low. Never thought it could happen. Never thought he'd hit rock bottom and fall in love with the thief.
But he did, and here he is And where is the Spirit? Finally dead after three thousand years. Nothing left of his existence except the shiny golden evidence that stares at Malik from behind a glass case.
And Malik knows he has to have it. Steal it. Own it. Just like he would've wanted, the beautiful thief that he is. Was.
But, Malik isn't. Try as he might, he will never be a prince, jack, queen, or anything to the Spirit's king. He can't steal.
By the time that the guards catch up to him, his purple eyes are dull and dead. Long bronze fingers hold his trinket, shell, evidence, corpse, ring in an iron grip. His blonde hair fans out from underneath him onto the alley pavement like the ugliest halo you have ever seen. The hole in his head is a worrisome, whimsical, wide O and it won't stop crying blood.
Malik could've prayed to any God he wanted, but no one would bother with brining the Millennium Ring back to life.