The War For The Pallid Throne

Icarus the Rat King

I know in my heart that the war has started. I hear my god calling to me and I answer, as is my custom. Oh Persephone, Xerxes, and Velbrava too. Forgive my indolence, but I have no arms left to give you and no toes with nails to pry. Though your names are great, I serve only one and he scares me above all others, for he has no throne and no crown, but you call him king all the same.

2

The struggle began in darkness, an unforgiving abyss that sheltered not light, sound, or the gentle breeze of a coming spring. In this place of boiling tar and coarse sand, he awoke. A fledgling, a larva without direction, he was driven by an unstoppable urge. An urge that made his fingers twitch and lip quiver, a line of drool running down his scaled jaw. An urge that drove him to his feet, ankles still soft with bones sticking through the webbing between his toes.

No matter the pain, struggle, and suffering, when the dinner bell rang, he rose.

But he didn't rise alone.

In the darkness, he could smell their breath like diesel fuel and taste the sweat of their brow, salty and sweet. War was inevitable. Upon the abyssal dunes raged a nameless conflict, and it was in battle that he first tasted greatness. He was strong, claws tearing through his sister's chitin and forked spine. He was nimble, untouched by the countless blows from his brother's barbed knuckles. He was hungry, tearing into his cousin's neck and gnawing on the ribbed tube between his shoulders.

Soon his siblings shook in the dark, unable to flee from his harvest. Thus, the strong consumed the weak until only the strong remained.

He was among the last, swimming in a pool of blood, ribs between his teeth as his fingertips hardened. Yet, it wasn't just his claws that grew sharper, but his mind too swelled. Like a drop of clarity in an ocean of madness, a powerful force pushed back against the instinct that controlled him. Soon, a new desire took hold, an itch that scraped his spine.

There was something that all those born in darkness, clawing at their throats, lust after.

The nameless crave a name.

Names were scarce, a limited resource more precious than water. But, in the dark place, names burst forth from the Devourer's belly like harsh light, and those without scrambled together, reaching into the void. When their hands touched, fighting ensued. He was caught up like the rest, swept away in a terrible current.

Suddenly, the void parted, and a formless soul peeked past the curtain, luminescent tendrils pulled towards ambition and strength.

This name wasn't like the others. This one was old, so old the light produced hung like cobwebs and was as porous as cheese. Soon, the roots of their world sang of ancient prowess, and he saw visions of victory across brittle bones, tattered hides, and broken corpses.

He saw a king without a throne.

That scarlet hue, that dense, bitter taste, that shrill cry. No names remaining could compare.

This one was his for the taking.

None were left who shared the breadth of his mane, the curve of his claws, or the tightly packed muscle fibers in his arms and legs. Instead, his brothers lay in a heap holding their breath, sisters bowing in the darkness. He cut them open all the same, spreading ichor upon his brow and crying to the heavens with skulls between his toes.

"I am worthy!"

Indeed, he was the strongest, and the luminescent tendrils of an ancient spirit embraced him, sliding through the back of his skull, and fastened tight to pulsing pink tissue erasing what remained of his individuality.