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The golden nails pinned him onto the wood. Hanging from the sky with the sun as a blazing pair of wings behind him, the Elvenking was the Sacrifice. The true saviour of Aeor.
And as holy fire began to rip him limb from limb, he heard screams echo in his ears. Cries, yells, chokes; all of them rattling inside his head.
Prophecies that did not come true, promises that were broken after the first silks were made, poisonous poetry waxing lyrical about the glorious glow of the gold-lit grass.
The Elvenking is many things.
He is a warrior, before whom all combatants would tremble.
He is a friend, one whom all would rush to protect.
He is a lover, dancing deep into the night with the sounds of heaven on his lips.
He is hope.
He is life.
He is love.
He is loved .
The Gods smiled as they twirled the pen of Fate, filled with the ink of Destiny, in their mighty hands.
And then they stabbed.
The Elvenking’s body ripped apart.
A fresh soul borne anew.
A soul of the stars.
He floated.
And floated.
Up, up, up.
Where he belongs.
He is not dead, he is not gone.
Only spectating.