Thoughts Of A Broken Record
He drowned in blackness. He knew where he was now. For a few years, there had been disorientation. But now he knew, oh yes, now he knew. He was back in stone. He tried to scream, but no sounds came out. He tried to see, but his eyes saw only darkness. He tried to move, to claw at himself, to prove that it was all just a dream, a nightmare. He could only float in the ebony darkness of stone.
They had done it again. They had sealed him in a fate worse than death. On the brink of passing, but not quite dead. Teetering and flailing on the edge, trying desperately to find a side, but only managing to squirm in his own private Tarturus.
The Elements of “Harmony”. Was this what harmony was? He couldn't help what he was. When he was free, he would sometimes wish he wasn't like this, that he was just like the others; but then he would blink, and he would go about his way. The Elements were supposed to help, not hurt. And besides, who is right to judge? The Princesses? The one that had tried to bring everlasting night? Or the one that banished her sister to the moon for a millennium? It's not like he'd hurt any of them. All he did was cause a little chaos. Chaos didn't equal evil.
If they wanted evil, he could give them evil. If he wanted to, he could burn their world with their own sun. He could cause plague, famine, war, and countless others. But he wouldn't. Because as much as he loathed them, he wasn't like that. They had once been together. The princess and him. He tried to think back, and remember where it had all gone wrong, but couldn't. He supposed it was over a course of time, a gradual build to his downfall.
He still loved her. After all this time, he still loved her. Her loved her, and he hated that he loved her. He hated her for not understanding. He hated her for doing this. He hated her for not giving him a chance. He loved her so much.
After that, he'd screamed for a few years. Screams of sorrow, despair, and the agony of not being fully alive or dead. Being blind, deaf and dumb, with no company but his own thoughts.
He'd screamed, then he'd cried. He cried because of her. Because of what he was. Because of what was to come. Another few thousand years in the dark. A few thousand years of blind and deaf paralysis. Then, he'd planned. Actually, planned isn't the right word. Dreamed, is more precise. He dreamed of being set free once more. He dreamed of being able to move, to see, to hear, and to speak. He dreamed of basking in his chaos. And he dreamed of her.
He dreamed of seeing her again. He dreamed of talking to her again. He dreamed of being around her, without chaos.
He'd dreamed, then he'd cried once more, because he knew his dreams wouldn't come true. He couldn't change what he was. He would promise himself that he would change, that he would do good. Then, he'd be set free, and with one snap of his talon, he'd go about his way. He was a monster in the eyes of them. All he wanted, was for one of them to understand. For her to understand.
He didn't know how long he'd been frozen now, but he knew he wasn't leaving anytime soon. Not if she had anything to do about it. Sometimes, he would stay silent, and he could almost swear he could hear her voice again.
Then he would weep again, and he would scream again, and he would fight against the stone, and fight against the magic. Sometimes, he could almost feel her, almost feel what it was like to move again, but then he'd wail in defeat, and he'd collapse back into the brink.
Sometimes he would see things. Not memories, but visions. Like he was actually seeing them. He would grasp these visions and hold onto them, relishing in the fact that he could see again. But then they would change. Like nightmares, they turned twisted and horrific. He would see himself, no longer the entity of chaos, but the god of hate. He would watch himself burn the world, and he would scream with anguish as she burned with it.
Then, the vision would slip away, and he would see her. He would see her standing there in all her beauty. She would look out over her land, and sometimes she would weep. He would try to get to her, but he would find himself unable to move. Then, she would turn, her head hung low, and she would walk to him. He would try to say something, try to comfort her, but then she would walk through him, and be gone. He would try to turn, but find himself locked on the window she had been at. It overlooked the statue garden, and he would see himself there. Frozen in stone, looking as if he were singing. He would start to cry again, then it would fade back to the familiar, loathed blackness.
He was silent for a few hundred years. Slowly loosing his mind in the brink. Occasionally, he would sing, or he would laugh for a year or two, but then he would fall silent once more, and he would start to cry.
Multiple times, he felt a presence. A dark, angry presence. It would sit in front of him, and it would weep no tears. Then, it would tell him its name, and it would leave. It would tell him how they were alike. How they were hopeless abominations to the world. It never told him what it was, and it never told him what it did. It simply talked. Then, it would leave, and come back a few years later. He never heard its voice, it was simply thoughts. That's all he, and it, were. Thoughts of misunderstood entities.
One day, he could feel the walls of the brink cracking. He didn't know what to do at first other than laugh. He laughed, and then yelped, realizing he could hear himself again. The stone, and blindness, and the deafness cracked; and shattered. He gazed around in wonder, seeing and hearing again. Then, he stood up and laughed loudly. He forgot about how much he loved her. He forgot about what he was. He forgot about the thing that would talk to him. He forgot about how much he wanted to change.
And in the end, he cackled,
And went about his way.
