Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XLIX. When The Oracle Speaks

A/N: Warning – p*dophilia below.

❦❧♱❦❧

2
Oro
Chiloéʼs Island, Chile
Territory: Blackfyreʼs Caverns
Islet: Wh*reʼs Bay
June 28th, 2004
Time: 12:00 PM
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Golden crowns for golden shrouds.

    Oro saw a golden crown when he claimed his prize.

    Smoldering, like the Moorish sun, under balls of fire that were eaten by the riverʼs flesh. In the dark curtains of the blood moon, where the undying met the living, the Bajan pirateʼs treasures stirred – studded in obsidian and gold, barred by Wealthʼs doors – howling into the abyss. An opulent mistress, under the waves of molten gold, Wealth stood, whispering in his ear. Teasing his hungering body, coaxing his mind into luxurious complacency. The Hall of the Undying roared against the rivers of El Doradoʼs fire, screaming their sea shanties to the Queen Teresaʼs Glory; tales of unforeseen riches, and ruin, stories of the wealth heʼd always wanted. A taste of the gilded poison, just as the princes of Dubai had promised him. When he claimed his prize, he saw the Heavens crest into a Paradise full of Wealthʼs virgin youth. Ripe for the tasting and ripe for the taking.

    Golden crowns for golden shrouds, the Oracle wrote.

    On the docks of Wh*reʼs Bay, where the men were wild and the women wanton, a thirteen year old girl straddled him – a gift of coy innocence from the Gods – and as Oro dreamed of his fortune, he knew what he needed, and he took it. With golden curls and stormy gray eyes, the little girl on top of him was divine, her cries of pleasure heavenly. Snarling into her lips, Oro rode her the way he rode one of his ships. The islandʼs crags would kiss the Queen Teresaʼs Glory as Oro would steer his longship into the harbor – and the girl did the same. When her body tortured his with its shuddering pleasure, Oro knew what he needed. What he wanted. Her tears were honeyed divinity, her cries of pleasure heavenly.

    Golden crowns for golden shrouds.

    But she wasnʼt the prize he wanted.

    His hands itched for her perilous screams, for her high-pitched whines, for her snapping bones and sobbing skin and he took them. She wasnʼt the prize he wanted, and so, he let her stab him with hot pleasure and he returned the favor with a stab of his own. His palms craved the blood in her bones, his fingers slobbered over the opportunity to turn her pretty pale skin purple, his feet needing the sensation of the toes jerking into her spleen...

    Golden crowns for golden shrouds.

    When the Queen Teresaʼs Glory entered the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West Indies – the cityʼs curves, two n*ked women tangled in one another, greeting him with their bodies bare – Oro took what he wanted. The low port of the mercantile city gave way to an expansive forest of tall palm trees, kissing the lush green conquered lands with the force of a brutish lover, and he entered the the thirteen year old girl from behind, the waves crashing on the talon-shaped rocks like a pendulum. Moaning, as a lover would. The sound drove men to their deaths, drove foragers deeper into the heart of the sirenʼs jungle, and drove even the purest heart mad with lust.

    Golden crowns for golden shrouds, the Oracle had written about his lust.

    But Oro could give a sh*t about lust. When lust overtook him the first time, he butchered his first wife during childbirth. When lust feverishly consumed him the second time, he choked his second wife when she sat by idly, an expensive wife with expensive tastes. When Oro found his third wife, he beat her bloody when sheʼd invited another woman into their bed, beat her black-and-blue until the scars of her bones breaking skin shattered against his knuckles. And when lust devoured him as his fourth wife, his purest wife, left for work in Cockburn Town, he let the little girl – a f*cking little girl – be his punching bag, until she was a shaking, whimpering mess, until murder was all he wrote.

    Golden crowns for golden shrouds.

    Oro saw dead little girls kiss the Hall of the Undyingʼs fires, scorching, blackening, and he wanted, he wanted...

He wanted his prize.

    Vyolèt Domingoʼs fortune; the gates to El Dorado.