Why dose this happen? What causes this pain and devastation to flow forth from my eyes and heart?
Nothing save the toxins that I refuse to partake of has any chance of lessening my misery. With the whip of the masters’ lashing towards the skin on my back and the bones that support my frame. The talons and barbs hidden in the leather legs stretching and flinging themselves wildly through the air; the ones watching slowly turn their heads in pain disgust and disbelief.
"This can’t be happening" they whisper, "why dose he not cry for mercy?" some plead to their god, "stop this." even the prince himself begs his father. But the man losing the pieces of flesh smiles as he watches the shadow of the master rearing back for another strike. For the pain of his injustices has been bled out of him. Watching in soft awe as his blood flows down his arms and drips off his forehead and nose like his sweat. With another lash unleashing a fine spray of his life into the air he remembers the wounds. Their light sting dulls out shortly. Looking forwards with a face scared and turned into a demons scowl he is beseeched with a silver and shimmering wall of water. Reflecting back his appearances into his mind he studies his stance. Seeing his legs buckling beneath the lashings and the pain. The strips of his skin and mussel hanging from the strap around his waist, still clinging to the thinning and stained parcel of cloth that he once was proud of and called upon for concealment; his arms once filled with might and proper strength now thinned and week. His wrists fastened tight to the pole of the ancient wood. With splinters still forcing their way into his skin; even thought to a naked eye the wood is smooth. Rubbed soft and silky form the thousands of men and women before him; all of them hung from this post with their legs and backs shredded to nothing but bone. The parcels of their meat were strummed about the net designed to catch their blood from spraying on the nobles. With the pools still leaving their mark on the stone. Now seemingly polished from their blood drying and the foot traffic of the condemned.
"The ground rejects his blood." comments a dark hearted on-looker, as his eyes and face are hidden from the sun light.
"The master tires" whispers the trainer to himself. Shaking his head in shame for being unable to train the perfect breaker, and now he must break his own creation.
"Just fall." pleads the master as his shoulder begins to burn with fire, and his arm ache for rest. With the drops of blood still falling from the ends of the cats tails he sprays himself on the back with his victims blood. As his own arm gets cut because of his fatigue.
To these men he listens, taking their words to heart and truly thinking he should follow them. If only to stop the pain, and let his body end whole. But he looks down at the blood that they spill for their own purposes. He sees the ground boil in rage for the treachery that the mighty profess as a needed act. And still he stands on his feet. Holding his lugs full of life as his heart beats for his soul. He dares not fall for the ground for he knows it will not hold him. The sea will push him back to the place he came from wrapped in a cloth of shame and regret. But here in the soft caress of the sky and its fingers scraping along the ground he feels a soft comfort. Staggering for a little while blow after blow is bestowed on his back, and still he stands. He looks to the waters wishing he was at war. Than he bows his head knowing his days of glory are over. To the boiling blood he stares whispering his last rights to himself letting the guards feel his might. Even now after his months of abandonment, and neglect all he has to do is look and fear sinks their hearts to a chasm so deep not even their god can bring them to arms. as a failed lash splinters his spine he stands fully erect, wishing to scream for the first time but his lugs are froze, his hands grip themselves into fists at his sides and his chest flares. As his eyes close on the word that lies in the dark sun before him; his breath escapes him but he dies standing. Baring true testament to his lineage. The last of his line ends in a show of power as even the whip master know he is dead but not a single man dares touch his soul. For he is all ready burred in his arid grave he rests. The enemy fears to hide him up in the ground but they know they must dispose of him soon. For his followers and the revolvers against their law will gain much momentum if he is left standing in defilement of the king.
 morti_cacciatore · Tue Jun 10, 2008 @ 10:55pm · 1 Comments |
