Of Immortals and Tyrannicide
Dear gods, You cannot ask me to carve sigils and sacrifices of my body and not dream of murder. A mess of bone. Of something. Of sinew. You cannot ask for offerings and tomes of prayer and not make me remember the burning cities bearing your name. Dear God, You cannot ask me for my Saviors of all, my children and not make me bleed every time a nail is hammered down. Down into splintering skin, crackling wood. You cannot lead me to believe that your legions of divinities and immortals follow you willingly. Not when their harvested ichor gave way to the worlds you slapped your name upon. The realm of Creation that was the spoils of the War of Seven Days. You cannot change the reality of your being; a common coward hiding behind the guise of an ordinary emperor. Dear gods, When the others tried to help us, did you see yourselves in them? Did you see them; naïve and innocent,...