His was a curse that he inherited, like his name. It was granted to him when he was born, dictated by his blood. He could not call this thing by name as a child, but he knew the dread of it. He could see it in his father's eyes when he looked upon his son. The sorrow in his joy. He could see it in his mother's tears. Those she tried to hide. He could hear his doom in the distance though it was as silent as a carrion bird and more patient in its approaching.

As he aged it took shape. It grew with him. As he grew strong, it grew stronger still. As he grew wise, it crushed his hope. He never knew whimsy. He never knew fancy. He knew his task, his burden, his curse.

Soon his curse took shape upon his face: his cheeks turned gray; his eyes grew clenched; his brow furrowed. It crafted his form: he grew hard; he became stretched; he was cracked. The curse was upon him. By the time he reached the age of a noon day sun, the curse was all he knew.

It was a curse for which many men desired and strove. But he could not cast it off to these fools. It would not crush only the fool. It was his burden and his doom and his alone. To cast it off was to invite its utter wrath. At least in this he'd die as he stands. But alone.


Skip said...

Cool piece of poetic narrative you got there. It definitely lends itself to being explored more. At first, I think I might be able to guess the curse but then I have no idea. Hehe, I liked it.

Skip said...

I am so retarded.