Actually I Would Like To Note A Few Things

actually i would like to note a few things

the main character has died at least once in all mxtx's books

they are not allergic to death, they eat it and survive

ever main character, in every universe: i'm allergic to death

screaming

sometimes its because i see something lovely

sometimes its because i say something unfortunate

sometimes its because i hear something wonderful

sometimes its because i think something awful

most times its because i do something unspeakable

but of course, i cannot scream here.

there are words and words and words to say.

much better to waste words on kindly nonsense than wordless worldless words.

so in dreams i scream

i scream for my eyes my throat my ears my mind my hands

bloodstained with thoughts i brought into existence

hands bloodied by their my our own doing

all these things i've done

perhaps i will be the blood that stains another's hands

what a comforting thought

Narinder returns to his bed. It is nighttime, and all are asleep, but he sleeps the latest of all, save for the Lamb. He cannot sleep when others are awake in case of the assassination attempts that he now fears.

He lays himself down, but finds that his pillow has a lump. Upon further inspection, it is a piece of wood and a knife. What?

Was someone trying to kill him, placing the knife under his pillow to cut him in his sleep?

He holds the wood and the knife. He is supposed to do something with this, isn't he? His hands shift, and he holds the knife with his thumb on the base of the blade, his hands moving on its own.

He knows not what he is doing. He knows not what he is creating, but it feels so good to do. He remembers shapes, built in wood, crafted in hours.

His hands shake. The nerves in his wrists and forearms are permanently damaged from the centuries he spent in godly handcuffs. Nonetheless he continues. It has been so long since he created, rather than destroyed, and it is addictive.

Some unknowable amount of time later, in his hands he holds a rough shape of his youngest brother. He holds it to his chest. But it is not enough.

He could sculpt life-size, detailed statues of his siblings in the past. It is not enough to have a small, rough shape. He needs more.

His hands shake as though the earth were moving beneath him. He carves out small details at first, then smaller and smaller, from the tiny horns to the crosses embedded in his skull. His hands shake harder.

In a tremble of his barely controlled hands, he snaps off the neck of the bishop.

He cannot create.

He buries his head in his useless, dead hands, and cries.

do you think leshy loved painting? do you think narinder hung every one on his wall?

do you think heket loved singing? do you think narinder loved hearing her sing?

do you think kallamar loved music? do you think narinder sat with him, listening to song after song written by the most skilled of his followers?

do you think shamura loved riddles? do you think narinder was stumped every time until they told him the answer?

do you think narinder loved whittling? do you think his family loved the small wooden versions he made of their crowns?

do you think they regret taking all that away?

five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes Nothing.

kinger is iroh

"And that he may raise himself to grandeur on the ruins of his country"

Montesquieu, in the Enlightenment

Narinder returns to his bed. It is nighttime, and all are asleep, but he sleeps the latest of all, save for the Lamb. He cannot sleep when others are awake in case of the assassination attempts that he now fears.

He lays himself down, but finds that his pillow has a lump. Upon further inspection, it is a piece of wood and a knife. What?

Was someone trying to kill him, placing the knife under his pillow to cut him in his sleep?

He holds the wood and the knife. He is supposed to do something with this, isn't he? His hands shift, and he holds the knife with his thumb on the base of the blade, his hands moving on its own.

He knows not what he is doing. He knows not what he is creating, but it feels so good to do. He remembers shapes, built in wood, crafted in hours.

His hands shake. The nerves in his wrists and forearms are permanently damaged from the centuries he spent in godly handcuffs. Nonetheless he continues. It has been so long since he created, rather than destroyed, and it is addictive.

Some unknowable amount of time later, in his hands he holds a rough shape of his youngest brother. He holds it to his chest. But it is not enough.

He could sculpt life-size, detailed statues of his siblings in the past. It is not enough to have a small, rough shape. He needs more.

His hands shake as though the earth were moving beneath him. He carves out small details at first, then smaller and smaller, from the tiny horns to the crosses embedded in his skull. His hands shake harder.

In a tremble of his barely controlled hands, he snaps off the neck of the bishop.

He cannot create.

He buries his head in his useless, dead hands, and cries.

(based on this post)