Screaming

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.

(based on this post)

based on a real interaction

honk

i think all the siblings of the old faith did art before their respective tragedies

leshy painted masterpieces. each of his siblings has a painting of themselves in their temples, and his followers sacrificed art pieces to him, before he lost his eye.

heket sang beautifully. she wrote songs for all her siblings, which are still played in their temples, and her followers always sang during sermons, before she lost her throat.

kallamar played any and all instruments. he orchestrated magificent pieces for all his siblings, which are played without knowledge of their background, his followers had to learn instruments for indoctrination before he lost his ears.

shamura wrote impossible riddles. they had one for each of their siblings, and only heket and narinder managed to figure out theirs, the others of which are still thought about today, and their followers sacrificed everything to them, begging for answers before they lost their mind and forgot the answers.

narinder whittled intricate designs. all his siblings had mini wooden versions of their crowns that they carried with them often before, his followers sacrificed and burned hardwoods for him before he was chained.

leshy can no longer paint.

heket can no longer sing.

kallamar can no longer play.

shamura can no longer remember.

narinder can no longer whittle.

they have stolen the others' abilities to create.

have they stolen the others' abilities to love?

kinger is iroh