The queen slayer's strife {Anthrax}

He was blind, and yet he could see. He was deaf, and yet he could hear. He was empty, and yet he felt filled to the brim with sadness, bitterness, anger, wrath, pure and sullen emotion. He was envious, and yet he cared, he was frightened, and yet he was brave. Everything about him contradicted itself, which therefore only brought the man further to his knees, if that were possible. A sigh ripped from his larynx, forcefully thrust upon the warm summer air. His body stood stony and stock-still, as if movement might somehow intensify the pain he felt deep in his chest. The only thing he'd ever known, the only one he'd ever loved could not even remember him, could not fathom who he was or that he'd ever even existed in the first place. She cringed in his presence, recoiled from his touch, and was so fragile he was sure just one stony stare might break her in half. Insides wretched as the one-eyed beast looked over the woman as she spoke a blatant phrase he might have expected from his father - were the demon still alive.

"Sure can," A silence fell between them, and he wondered if the harlot was seeking for a way out of the conversation. He wouldn't care if she left, hadn't really cared if she was there in the first place. He really ought to be getting back to her, back to his life, his love, his precious. But then the woman began to recite something, to chant as if her life depended upon it. Her words made little sense to him, but given the swimming state of his mind he was sure that even if she were to speak coherently he would not have understood it. She shook, great head of the she-beast rotating rapidly from side to side. Demon-posessed, he thought her to be, but it mattered to him not. He had his own demons to reckon with.

She would speak again, almost seeming to try to comfort him in her own unique way. Some of the words sunk in. She knew his pain, and yet, she did not. How could she? How could she even pretend to? A rage, a fury grew in his belly, morphing into a dragon that clawed at his insides. "You know not of my pain," he would spit at her, as if the taste of his words were detestable and wrong. As if speaking them was far more painful than what he was already enduring. Saliva would drip from the corner of his lips, where the top met the bottom, as he shot a glare in her direction with the one eye he still had.


"Speech"