The Prayer

Duties unwanted

Chapter 3

Towering over all others in his black velvet doublet, Munthir ascended the marble stairs. In daylight, as Munthir remembered the Cameron's manor, it's campus was a bright green expanse dotted with wild cherry trees. But even at night, the plethora of wandering torchbearers revealed the grounds pristine beauty.

Munthir's uncanny visage garnered stares and whispers. Their fearful wonder tasted like sand on his tongue, somewhat bitter and bland. Their curiosity was tart enough that he rolled his tongue, rubbing the roof of his mouth. How one could literally taste emotions, he could never solve, but the coils did what no mind could ever decipher.

With one eye green and one black like a ball of obsidian, he knew his face was not a forgettable one. Neither were his half brothers, scattered across the Earth in their assorted forms of servitude, all involving some sin. He frowned as he recalled their visages, what appearance they shared from their father, and what they did not share from their assorted mothers. Munthir's stature and breadth did not aid in his mission to become forgettable, nor did the scars. He picked the highest hanging cherry off a tree as he milled with the crowd, hiding his face in it's foliage till the stream of people thinned.

The man in emerald stood at the top of the stairs by the door, checking names, stepping aside for the dinner guests after reading the list. The air that enshrouded him was a disgusting soup. Thick, slimy, cold. Yet none could see it, save Munthir, for the brands gave eyes that none other had. The open door behind the green agent of Edward was akin to a bantam sun, radiating out light into the night, breathing music into the silent air. And what started out as a hint of savory aromas grew quickly into great wafts of meaty smells. And those were real, not phantoms of the coils upon his shoulder blades. The fragrancy of bronzed pig and pan fried venison stirred beneath his nose. As Munthir's eyes adjusted to the bright light, he stopped before the doorman, whose nose was level with his chest, "Thy name?" To the same degree of stillness that a statue possesses, Munthir stood, allowing the balding man to take his gander. His eyes lit up with recognition, "Ah...Yes...You." He scribbled nothing with his pen, then stepped aside, "Please." Munthir made no expression as he stepped past the halberdiers. The man in green grinned, "Please."

The music doubled in volume as soon as his ears passed through the door. Immediately, a goblet of wine was thrust toward his chest and succinctly declined. All faces exuded some modicum of joy, laughing as one should be when at a party. In the logical vestibule of his mind, he knew it was normal, and that in no way was meant to be meant an affront to him. Yet for reasons Munthir pretended to not be aware of, it all looked so out of place, so grotesquely maudlin. Malicious even. Lovers leaning their heads towards each other, hopping children tugging on their nurses dresses for sweets. He felt assaulted, mocked by the joviality of it all, by the lack of his heart's capability to participate in this. In these sensations that birthed smiles. Submerged in a sea of emotions he could not feel, Munthir was the black rose in a field of lily's.

What vexed him was that none could smell his malignance, none of his hateful envy was detected. It felt as though that at any moment, they would sense his venom, for the feeling was so immense in it's blazing furor that he thought it impossible for it to go undetected. But they were the blissfully unbranded, who cannot taste love in the air, hear hearts beat in passion, feel air grow grainy with envy or wet with sadness. Did they know, that somewhere in the world a room existed where hatred, love, and every emotion that could be sensed had been manifested into the graspable, corporeal? Could they imagine that there was a room where one could hold the beating and bleeding love for their daughter, in the palm of their hand?

The dining hall was lively with scullions, hoisting heavy platters with whole roast pigs over mounds of carrots and peas. French ambassadors flirted with ladies. The musicians strummed with eyes closed, simpering, appearing as though they thought themselves cherubs on harps. Smiling with none of the emotions that could ever create one, Munthir watched the children leap over benches, acting much like his own. Envy in it's cleanest form filled the cracks of his craggy soul. A servant sundered the hypnosis of his coveting, offering him some venison pie and frumenty, which Munthir hoped the latter was made from boiled milk and not ale. But he would not ask, for the whole of his existence was sin. One sip could not make him anymore drenched in it. He pushed out the memory of what the imam had told him years ago, in a village likely long reduced to vined over ruins.