I'm not okay

Zèklè And in the sea that's painted black Creatures lurk below the deck But you're my queen and I'm a lionheart The beat of the rain grows louder in the silence. Somewhere nearby, thunder rolls. More water is getting in now, eliciting wails from the inconsolable flowers, leaving black trails among your dark hair. A drop lands on your cheek; another strikes your leaf, filling the cup of it, trembling and threatening to overflow (like your heart, like your soul, like the emotion that wells within you and pushes at the floodgates, pounds on the doors, rocks and shifts like a storm beneath you as you try to stay steady, a ship without a lighthouse, carried by cruel winds into a starless sea). Wouldn't it be easier to capsize and just be done with it? you wonder as you eye your leaf, still rising and falling in time with your breathing, still the only anchor you have in the weird set of circumstances you've stumbled upon. Instead of fighting, instead of trying - wouldn't it be nice to spill your contents like blood on the pavement, until all that's left of you is a taped up silhouette and a body in a bag? No, says Kaos, and for once the beast is right - it's not your turn to die. That single word, that soft denial - you turn to face him, your devil, surprised enough by this new development to finally widen your world past the little speck of green, to accept that, okay, maybe this is real life. Your body follows your eyes, rolling you from back to side, your metal wing tucked beneath you, your normal one tucking back to your side. Still on the ground you gaze up at him, unabashed emotion dancing in your sunbeam eyes, a mixture of fear and loathing, disbelief and acceptance, fury and relief. 'No?' you're tempted to demand, to spit in his face, 'Why not? You had no problem killing everyone I love'- but though you may be an idiot you are not that stupid, and for once you manage to hold your tongue, literally biting down on the organ to keep it from bleeding more words. Not for him - not even for you - you keep your temper for them, for the ones you love who aren't dead, not yet. For Sparky and your Little Mountain, because if you get yourself killed now, their mothers are sure to murder you when you reach wherever they are. "Oh," you say through gritted teeth. "Okay." So why is the monster here, if not to kill you dead? Has he come to witness your descent into madness; does the demon find pleasure in your agony, your grief? Is this, you wonder, how he prospers and grows, where his strength comes from? Is misery the thing that fuels the beast? In that case you must be a fatty feast indeed, a five-course dinner for the most discerning glutton, a tasty treat indeed. No- Kaos isn't here to eat you, or kill you, or bake you into a pie. His intentions, it seems, are far more sinister, far less decipherable, incredibly opaque. Kaos, Kisamoa, your new and generous god, Santa of the Rift, He Who Is Definitely SorryNotSorry For Ruining Your Life, wants to do something for you. That's right - you, Zèklè, Zero, the Cripple and your mountainous grief, have earned the attention and benevolence of the goddamned asshole who slaughtered half your family right before your eyes! Must be your lucky fucking day. You can't help it. You laugh. The sound is dry, humorless, mirthless - a far cry from your usual boyish tone, the delight that historically rings from your chest. You continue to chuckle as you rise, your knees pushing against the flower-strewn ground, your body flexing and tightening as you struggle to your hooves, shaking, scoffing, face downcast and feathers ruffling. "What can you do for me?" you question incredulously, your gaze still on your hooves, on the ground, on the bright green leaf that now lies, discarded, on the dead earth. "What can you do for me?" Kaos is more a presence than a person, more an impending sense of doom that a physical creature, or even a god. You get the feeling that he could reach out and swallow you whole if he wanted, just unhinge those jaws like a giant snake, wrap you in his tongue and pull you past those crooked teeth, into the cloud of his rancid breath and down the oily, seeping throat. Looking at him makes you shudder, raises bile in your mouth - but look you do, your sunbeam gaze vibrant with unshed tears and quivering rage. Your mouth is a mockery of your crooked smile, your gaze is bloodshot- you look a little crazed, Zero, maybe you should sit back down before you do something you regret. But behind the anger, behind the pain, something deadly lurks - something that glitters, knifelike, in your eyes, brutal and cruel, coiled like a snake. It is the thing that will drive you crazy, the thing that will cause your death. It is your kryptonite, your weakness, the wource of your strength and your greatest flaw. It is hope. "You can bring them back." The shield of mirth is gone from your face, and the thing in its place is raw. Your voice is a hoarse whisper, a child's prayer, a flickering candle in a wind tunnel, valiantly fighting through the night. Your eyes meet his, and you try to hold that terrible gaze, to find within it some spark of humanity, some sign that maybe, maybe, your request isn't as crazy as it seems. "My siblings, an' Isopia, an my Ma-" (Ampere, flying, her voice a ringing cry, the same old concerns - "what about companions?" - the same passion, and you watch her through the wailing of your shattered heart, hear her over the screams, wanting, needing, aching for your Ma-) You swallow, blinking, a sudden shield of fresh tears obscuring your sight. Bite your lip; furrow your brows; you're not ready to cry over her. Not yet. "You can bring them back," you croak. "And then you can leave us the fuck alone." Isopia is a tear in your heart; Ampere is a hole. You're empty either way.

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@Kisamoa