Periit1's L.I.L.U. Book

Theseus Hates Amara

I hate her.

Theseus smiles at her, as brightly as the summer sun while his thoughts leaked of thick vitriol and loathing.

There wasn't anything wrong with her.

She was sweet as a dove.

She reminded him of the times of brave knights, gentle princesses and ferocious dragons. Of whimsical fairytales and fantastical legends. Of the warmth of familial love and nostalgia of bedtime stories-

I hate her.

He wanted nothing more than to see her burn like a decrepit log in a hearth. He wanted her screaming as she burnt in the blazing fire of Dante's fucking inferno-

"There isn't anything wrong with her." He said with conviction.

He looks at himself in the mirror before knocking it over with a roar of incomprehensible rage.

It shatters, leaving only a mess to clean up and sudden isolating silence.

A million pieces stare back at him. His eyes reflecting back an electrifying and angry blue. A sign of his divinity.

He wants to tear them out.

Her divinity was subtle. Nonexistent. She was no better than any other wandering nymph or spirit despite her prominent status.

His chest clenches and he can't breath, the uncomfortable pit in his stomach churns and his mind is restless and loud. He aches for a fight.

She was birthed from conquest and misfortune, like many of her kind, yet remained benevolent and kind. But her presence was more akin to a slow acting poison which festered even after she left.

Faintly, the gentle trickle of wine being poured cuts through the suffocating silence.

The Observer doesn't remark on his plight and doesn't care.

Why would the manifestation of Inevitable Change and Ineffable Rebirth ever care about such a fleeting and simple thing such as inexplicable loathing of another person?

The Observer twirls his wine glass, like a bored but great king.

His eyes, as bright as life.

His hair, a reminder of the inevitable passage of time.

His aura, as choking and dreadful as Death.

He blends into the crowd like a fine brushstroke on a Renaissance painting. He goes about as unassuming and quiet as a mouse.

His presence, that of a ghost.

It isn't until you notice him and he stops being a faceless apparition that the overwhelming pressure of his presence bears down on you like a tsunami.

Freezing.

Devastating.

Suffocating.

But not as suffocating as Amara's warm presence which pushes him to accept her gentle love and insistent care.

He doesn't need a mother to guide him on the righteous path of a hero.

He wants a friend who will stand by him as a once great empire collapses into ruin, as time changes the narrative to fit the propaganda of the victors, as blood is shed and families are unfairly torn apart.

As legends are formed, as self- fulfilling prophecies are fulfilled and as martyrs are burned at their Gods' stake.

He wants a friend who will observe it all with him without a remark or hesitation.

He wants a friend who will observe and continue to observe realms even after their destruction and record the death tallies without batting an eye or judging him.

He wants a friend to watch The End with, even if it means that he'll crumble to dust like the rest of the world.

And he knows The Observer will last beyond The End.

Because that's just how it's supposed to be.

And Amara will never understand that.

Would the representation of such a temporary concept ever understand that?