The thorn of flowers
We trot, under the light of the heavens, through both the tempting darkness and the purifying light. We trot through oceans of blood and cities of rubble.
I halt the line as I command the men through a narrow road. The captured souls moan restlessly behind. Their eyes grey from the overbearing reality they face, their feet a bright red. Layers and layers of pain rest upon their soles. I watch them as I count each stake that we must rise at the side of the narrow road. Once their place of purification is erected the men tie them against their stakes, each one almost dead already, almost calling for death, yearning for it.
I stand between them all, the living and the tranced. My men at my back and the impure in my sight, I hum softly and clear my throat as I look to the sky then to each of their empty eyes and begin.
“The strong bend to the sentiment of the weak.
The weak bend to the will of the strong.
An everlasting tug for salvation...
...can only end. With. Blood.
Now rejoice, as your soul will no longer suffer in chains.
Be free, at the cost of my sin. Be free with the hum of my blade.”
The sounds of the men's blades ring through the world, then comes the thump of the severed heads being dropped to the floor.
I weep, and weep and weep. But I have to do more, I must save the world before I can save mine.
...Before the sound of that last thump will reverberate from their severed heads.