make friends with cannibals (mediocracy) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-28 15:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, evander finch |
hold on to what you believe in the light when the darkness has robbed you of all your sight.
Who: Evander Finch
What: Picking up the pieces, his job.
Where: The Royal Courts (and his brain).
When: Since the attack.
Warnings: PG-13. Mentions/imagery of death, crimes, hanging.
Status: Complete narrative.
In the city wreckage, petty lawbreakers seek and find opportunity. To the guildmate: "Aye." The gavel pounds for the criminal freed. Take this, the good in me, for your crimes. Each second chance given to someone deserving, undeserving. Inside his judges' armour, the ties of his blood wash away. But guild loyalty clutches his heels, keeps him from moving. The man beneath the mask wears his title with pride except for the times when he wears it for someone else. The city is rubble but the people are standing when he walks into the room. Are they down on the ground — in the ground — when he isn't looking? Playing god with their fates like a necromancer, dealing with the devil. Prince with calloused hands from paving his road to hell with good intentions. He is not fit for the crown. It slides off his head and around his neck into noose. He scratches the back of his neck where it has been rubbed raw, exposed. Burn. (His hands are not made for healing. They have other people for that.) But so many he knows are lawless (or falling to the Dark), who is he to leave them alone? decked in gold, tarnished. swimming in riches, undeserved. he nods. he smiles. the crown tightens for a better fit. it colors his neck. | |
as another man, in some coming time, he will walk to the gallows himself. "no" to the guildmaster, to the crime, to his father. take this — all of me. i am more than what i can give. his guild is not made for leaving. no more of this. each word, each step against the river fits the rope closer to his skin. the dam breaks, water rushes over him. he has never burned brighter than this before, hot enough to melt metal shackles and burn wooden scaffolds and defy what fears had held him back. (a lighthouse in the foggy ocean, a storm brewing overhead.) he throws his head back, laughing and happy, and a crown sits on his head for a perfect fit. his footing steadies without the weight of someone else on his shoulders, so he stands without fear of falling, not the way they wanted. expected. | |
for now lady justice cries. underneath it all, so does he. |