It matters not whether you wear a crown, plough fields, or wear God around your neck. Everyone sustains the Garden of Blood.
It is said that many eons ago, the greatest of men rallied the people under one Silver God and ruled as emperor. Legend ha...
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Gray skies slowly parted for the amber glint of dawn. His fingers held the hollow wooden cylinder, skilfully moving from one opening to the next as he blew into a round hole at his end of the instrument. The sound was bright and airy, painting such an imagery that made him want to fly through tall pines, and up to meet the stars that faded behind the glare of the sun.
A sweet, gentle melody filled the massive chambers of the electun. Stefalex's private quarters were quite possibly more extravagant than any room in the Silver Palace, even the throne room. Pale blue silken curtains draped over windows that loomed hundreds of feet over Silver City. The windows were titanic themselves, and outside, the stone frames were chiselled with intricate lions and stars and even the faces of past electuns, as well as the current one. Clay only really knew about that detail because of Stefalex's boasting, and to this day he believed it to be such a useless display of luxury as they were so high up, it was difficult to imagine anyone seeing the details on the ornate frames.
What one would be able to see when they enter the chambers was the colossal bed in the centre. Behind it, in place of a basic wooden board that a lowborn citizen would be fortunate to have, was an equally colossal silver construct sculpted in the likeness of Stefalex. Without the many feather pillows stacked against it, Clay found it to be most uncomfortable to lean back onto. But, there were occasions he had to, as Stefalex often requested to watch Clay please himself while his skin brushed against the electun's silver equivalent. It was not at all pleasurable. Clay hated how cold it was on his back but thankful for the fact that the electun would only watch and not touch him.
Anything was better than being touched by the electun.
The flute in his hands, calming him, was a great deal better than being touched by the old man, for the dulcet notes soothed him like a mother's love. Sometimes he imagined her face, or at least tried to. She would have the same dark brown hair and hazel eyes, eyes that would shine exultantly at her son, whether he was wielding a sword or playing a flute.
Clay thought about bringing the instrument with him on his journey south. Maybe he could play for the other soldiers, weary from battle, or captivate pretty maidens he might meet along the way. Maidens that he was not allowed to bed. Charm, maybe. But never take as a lover. The only lover he will ever know was the old, obese man wrapped in expensive sheets behind him.
He felt him stir, even as far away from where he was seated, the bed creaking as he moved.
"That's lovely, Clay!" Stefalex expressed his approval, making Clay pause. "You've become such an accomplished minstrel."
From his seat by the window, he rolled his eyes, knowing the electun could not see his face. He hated being interrupted while he played.
"Thank you, Stefalex." He went back to playing.
"What exactly is it called?" the electun asked.
Clay had to breathe deeply to control his tone, wanting nothing but to silence the holy man. But the holy man owned him, and he was not to disappoint. "It's a composition of mine, but I haven't given it a title."
