Long Live the King of Mercy

The Idol

(A/N: So, this is probably one of the most unusual things I've written - a very short fanfiction directly inspired by W.A.S.P.'s album The Crimson Idol, which stuck with me long after the final song had finished playing, and I had to write something about it. I've tried to write it so it's readable as a stand-alone, but anyone who's listened to it should understand the references I've snuck in.
Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy it.)

You were there when it happened.

In the crowd, hundreds and thousands of people packed together in the stadium all for a chance to see him perform.

His rise to fame had been quick, almost supernaturally so, but he had charisma, he had passion, that six-string a symbol of success and sex in his hands.

The blood-red six-string that had led the crowd to dub him the Idol, the great Crimson Idol, as he poured his heart and soul out through its chords.

A voice so raw and young that screamed with pain and fury and fear. A voice so soft and tender that crooned with lost love and grief.
A voice so powerful that it inspired everyone to stand up with him and not just sing, but pour their own emotion into the words, loud enough to shake the foundations of stadiums all over the world.
And above the crowd you could still hear his voice, an echo in your heart long after the concert had finished.

And as he came on stage that night you smiled when you saw his face on the screen, wild curls framing intense hooded eyes.
Yet even with how far back in the crowd you were, how your eyes strained to see his face on-screen and pick him out onstage, you could tell there was something a little different.
A little more sadness then usual in the smudge of his eyeliner, a little more determination in the way he walked, a gold cross around his neck that hadn't been seen since the very first time he had been dubbed the Crimson Idol, two years ago.

You hoped that meant he'd be playing some of his older material.

The microphone whined ever so slightly as he adjusted it to the thunderous cheers of the crowd, and as always he waited until they died down before he began playing.
The sound of his guitar was expected to be a familiar friend, the ferocious introductory riff that had heralded the beginning of each show.

Not this time.

The chords were slow, almost mournful even, and slowly unease began to creep into your stomach.

A hush fell over the stadium.

"Welcome to the show, the great finale's finally here..."