blood, guts, and goodbye

And look just there, how the goat guts drip down your scythe. Liquid rubies slipping down the obsidian blade, like your fingertips once slid down the length of my arm, both coming to rest in a warm, messy tangle of life and death. Oh, Dark Lord of the Barrrowlands, we were once something great.

Now we have spent fortnights unnumbered with each other and yet apart. We have always been about our own tasks, yes, but between the cruel ruling of our own lands won with dark magicks and deceit and our respective insatiable appetites for obscene power and raiment, we once found time for one another as pleasurable and simple to make as a virgin sacrifice to the wicked forest warrior priests of the ancients.

We once loved each other as madly and fully as our own ambitions. We oft made the blood and bed and breakfast pledges to each other, to our love, to join our great powers as one High King and High Queen of Endsong. Violent and vicious and wild-eyed, we made love and promises. Grown men shook before us united. Fair kingdoms were ruined. Children were eaten. Now we would sooner share an awkward moment of forced pleasantry than a bed, or even a set of runes. How could there now be so little to say to each other, when once there were tomes? How could we both inwardly cringe at the thought of taking on another joint campaign of dark wizard hellfire?

Though our bed has always wailed with the voices of innocents meeting their doom, another sound has joined their enchanted chorus. And oh, my love, what a dirge it is! A tune much like but far superior to the funeral of a dwarf monarchy I once witnessed briefly before igniting with flames thrown from my Staff of Nether. Sad and slow and sung by the ghost of this, us, what we were and could be but are no longer.

Many moons could be wasted lamenting this loss, our fates. But know this my once-love, my Darkness. If I had a heart I would hold you in it forever, a prisoner being slowly starved for food and hope. I would let your memory fester and die there, in that space inside me that should be.

But since we are heartless folk, I say this. A bit of the old black magic flared when you struck the guts of the goat that would be your final sacrifice to me. Remember what we once had always as I will, riding for strongholds unknown, this intestine pendant round my neck.