An Angel Called Eternity

Faetales and Forgotten Stories - Child, God, Dust: The Cruel

Tjenkha, Central Nekhtou, the Kikhepis.
The Seventh Day of the First Moon, 2395 BD.

Today was a day for reflection. For contemplation. For instance, he thought that the vintage in his goblet was most pleasing, and he could see his face in it. Contemplation and reflection.
He smiled at the joke he had made in his own head, before drawing himself together and regaining some semblance of a serious aspect. He had achieved much in the few years he had reigned so far. The royal coffers remained full no matter how much gold and silver he poured into his monumental project, and his people regarded him as a true god-made-flesh. He had forged a fast friendship with the Sotenari and would likely go on a tour of the great cities of that empire within the next few years, and his armies were buoyed by their successes against rebels and marauding nomads alike. Indeed, it seemed that a strike against Nrtkha, the City of Vultures, would soon be made possible. With the nomads' piteous tent-city swallowed by the sands of the desert their power would be utterly broken, and they would be forced to scatter on the dunes. His advisors had warned him against such an action, stating that keeping the nomads centralised made them more manageable, and that splitting them apart would only increase the number of raids they launched against his good and loyal subjects as they scoured the land looking for food, shelter, and gold. He remained undeterred. If Nrtkha was destroyed then there would be less nomads to launch raids in the first place, didn't they understand that?

He shook his head and regathered his thoughts. It was not only the Sotenari Empire he had begun trading with; further north the city-states of southern Kliskorios were most receptive to his diplomatic overtures, and his exiled cousin seemed to have founded an empire of his own on the Dathanian peninsula centred around a city fittingly named 'Khypria'. It seemed cousin Khypra, backed by an eclectic band of his other cousins, wished to bring a touch of civilisation to the northern savages. Of course relations between them were strained, after all, Amerys had ordered the exile of his cousins, but they were not stupid; they knew that trading with their southern brethren was the best way to secure their power in these new lands. On top of that the easterners were coming with increasing regularity, their appetites for the black-diamonds found in the south of his kingdom around Ntidwakha seemingly never satiated. He took pride in that; these men and women had travelled thousands upon thousands of miles through dangerous waters and hostile lands, and then spent a fortune that most could only dream of acquiring in their lives on something that could only be found in his kingdom. He'd hosted dignitaries from far off lands that most had never even heard of, and sent them away with great gifts that were, to him, little more than trinkets and baubles.
To them, they were more valuable than all the riches of whatever distant kingdom or backwards tribe they had hailed from.

He had acquired many titles over the course of his reign so far. His own people knew him as the King-of-Kings, the Divine, the Magnificent, the Holy. The Sotenari called him the Peace-Bringer, the Slave-Master, or just the Radiant. He was much loved amongst the former enemies of his people.
The nomads had different names for him. They had heard of how the Sotenari had subjugated and broken an entire kingdom to fill out the ranks of the slaves he had purchased, they had seen the great monuments he was building in the Valley of the Gods, and were appalled. They called him many things. But no-one would ever repeat them to him unless pressed.
Sin-Made-Flesh. He-Who-Forges-Chains. False-God. The nomads had a great many names for him indeed. He was unaffected by them. Well, almost all of them. There was one name he despised;

A child, younger than Amerys himself, rushed forwards out of the line of slaves, waving his fist towards him. There was a look of uncontrolled fury on his face as he directed a flurry of curses at "He-Who-Waters-The-Desert-With-Tears".
Amerys signalled to the guard to his left, and a halberd fell swiftly. The boy dropped to the floor before he'd even been able to utter another word, an expression of shock on his face. Really, what had he expected to happen?
He had taken the tongue from every slave under twelve after that. He would brook no further insult to his person. He was holy, did they not see that? Were they so blinded by worldly attractions that they did not recognise his divinity?