Chapter XXI
Now this is not the end.
It is not even the beginning of the end.
But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.
King Phobos had known the very second that he'd rested himself on the throne - needlessly, for he never need rest again - that he would want nothing more in his life; an irony now, as he would have forever to get it. He needed nothing and nothing might be a finality in itself as the applause began fading and re-emerged, if only because they didn't know what would be next. If only because they didn't wish to know; they would much rather be trapped in this moment, and at least in this room it would seem that he had stopped time itself, but he was lying to himself for the last time.
If the Gods were fools enough to birth him; if his sorry mother had been enough to allow him to thrive, and times had passed as Phobos grew without disturbance, then the Gods themselves were unworthy of the power they bestowed themselves. If the Gods of Light and Dark, had so imperviously bound him to the throne, then perhaps it was a suicide note of the Universe. There was no end smart enough; no means that would not allow him. Except one. Two.
But Caleb was himself, and by himself King Phobos would ignore him - to brush him away with the dust of Meridian's sour attempt at humanity, because it was meaningless to beat a fraction of himself. Caleb was only strong because Phobos was stronger, as more of himself. And what was the murmurer worth anyway? What was a soul worth, if no matter it's fighting it belonged. Caleb already belonged to him; straying as a child from his parent. Caleb was no brother but a pet.. But Will was an end in herself.
Roses, they would all come to belong to Phobos, but Will had been a rose before his cause and she had willed herself the power he could not touch without the bones held in skin and pink velvet that graced her filthy ashes; she didn't even deserve to be naked, not dressed she deserved non-existence, oh, but Will. The Queen of the Roses. His manhood had sang to her call; his mere mind to her beckons of pleading. He realized what she was, because roses were dead, though he showed them as living and Will could not be killed by his roses.
Will had lived, and strived, and cried tears like a Goddess in mourning; trapped by fates, she was to die or to be without him. He could not mutilate her with magic alone, and there was no telling of the success of physicality: he had been too engrossed with her wishes to touch her.
But he was King.
He was all.
His word was the law, and Hers on her own worlds; perhaps she had her own Universe in hiding, but she was taken by the Gods.
He would fuck the Gods encasing her, and he would take what he wanted on this world.
He was all anyway, but time would stop in others. He would show her the foundation. "LET ME IN! ELYON! PLEASE! YOU FILTHY RAT GET YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM HER! DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT! LET ME IN!"
Everyone would die eventually anyway. Except for him and her and infinity.
He would create his own infinity.