ren

ㅤ ʽ ‥ #cesare #nocturne ʽ ᴺᴼᵀᴱ … snapshots from the past narrated in a lucid dream, one that tells the story of the scar on the lower back of the crowned princess. a short reprieve after experiencing hollow lullabies when cesare finds himself whisked away by a strange girl who named herself #princessophelia as she insisted that he goes with her. a memory introducing another character in the works, the golden one. ʽ ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳ … implied psychological manipulation and abuse. ㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ in a distant past when fortresses still stand tall and laurels rest with the victors, when history burned to ashes once recorded a handful of mercy from the crown, but not of the unnatural quiet that the heir brought once he stepped in the room.

the weight of the lingering stares from the audience and his forefathers from above awaiting his judgement was an outer―worldly experience. the surrealism of having a hold over the world, where his words meant moving the mountains and heavens, come hell or high water had always placed him in a position where he felt as if he was watching another person in his own body, even if he was fully aware of every sensation and every movement that he took in simply existing.

and the elephant in the room was quite evident ▬▬▬ what would othello the young prince decide in the face of treason, without the queen mother's insights or the king's word since it involved him?

the timely arrival to the tribunal hall had been hastened by the news of an assassin that dared raise their blade against the empire. the relief that followed the declaration that the crowned princess uncovered the plot and was fortunate to be left only with a strike to her back had left a sour taste in othello's mouth.

nothing else mattered once he saw his sister lying on her own pool of blood across the black―and―white flooring tiles. nothing else mattered when he kneeled next to her, his arms were to gather her in his embrace while the royal guards attempted to incapacitate the intruder several feet away. nothing else mattered when in the next blink, the prince carried his sister with one arm and the other gripped steel against a mutinous neck.

for a moment, the world stilled as bated breaths awaited his judgement.

❝ let it be known that i may be my mother's child, but i am also my father's son, ❞ ㅤ othello spoke with a raised tone, chin up and shoulders broad, as he experimentally tilted the edge of his sword next to the perpetrator's face and ordered a hold in the cell while the crowned princess would be tended. when the crowd dispersed once the order was being enacted, a condescending chuckle escaped quietly from tight―lipped mouth.

❝ you think His Highness frightening? trust me . . . ❞ ㅤ the eerie nonchalance matched with a cold gaze that looked beyond, seeing the shadow of the empress watching the entire spectacle the whole time. ❝ i am far worse. ❞

ㅤㅤㅤ and such thing would always be proven correct time and time again.

ㅤ ▬▬▬ the way the empress howled with laughter behind closed doors within her own palace, eyes twinkling with malice and pride as she shared her joy with her close, corrupted confidants during dinnertime. that night, with othello seated at the farthest chair in the long table and silence befell at the sweet gesture that the queen prepared in celebration of her eldest child's display of maturity, just before his coming―of―age posed in few years' time.

❝ “my child”, you say, ❞ ㅤ the queen mother repeated in approval, her mirth drowned the despair rising in the crowned prince's eyes once he realized what she'd done.

the assassin whose life he spared through due trials awaiting their crimes, now presented and bound for him to butcher for everyone in the long table to witness.

once again, othello found himself in her web too late while hestia's canines peek through her unnaturally too―wide of a predatory grin, spreading from ear to ear; and her expression suddenly drops to an expectant, empty smile.

❝ you truly are your father's son, ❞ ㅤ the queen cooed as she approached him, her sharp nails pressed in between his shoulder joint. ❝ but surely, you did not forget what being my child, from the house of Hills, means? ❞

ㅤㅤㅤ in the end, othello found it better to rely on the surrealism of imagining another person in his body, disconnected from the sensation of holding a blade above his head in preparation for imparting defiled justice.

❝ the life of this traitor or your dear sister. for failing either way whether to kill or save you, choose wisely. ❞

ㅤㅤㅤ the surrealism of how his words of apology meant nothing to the cooling corpse who once had a life outside their intentions to turn against the crown, and how come hell or high water, othello would always find himself in the chokehold of his mother by simply existing.

❝ remember, my darling, i do not have the need for weapons who weep. ❞

ㅤㅤㅤ much later that midnight, with bloodied hands and cracked fingernails, othello kneeled by an unmarked grave under a petrifying storm.

while ozone and petrichor filled his lungs and the mud soaked through his garments, the thorns around his heart overworked in bleeding him dry from the amount of remorse and fury nestled within his ribcage. while he worked tediously in digging the corpse that he was the cause of, every roaring thunder fed to the pounding drums in his chest and the rush of blood and heat that spread through his veins despite the rain that stick to his skin.

there were flashes of hot and cold, flashes of mania and apathy taking turns in deconstructing and remaking him from within; the wrath that he suppressed for long, hardened into lava, was now being molten back to magma, nestling in the cracks of the ivory and divinity that composed his very being.

and when the prince raised the dead for the first time, his wrath is a raging river that cut through stone, transforming the impossible into reality.

cesare felt everything as if it was his own, as his, with how this rage still runs as still as it was on that night and the years before that midnight; how calm and tranquil its surface is until the time a pebble disturbs its flow to reveal its depths.

ㅤㅤ ▬▬▬ and then, the most surreal thing happens.

cesare wakes up to a line of tear on his cheek, a sour taste in his tongue, and a hurricane right outside his window. ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ㅤ