Twisted Dreams

I Swear it's the Truth

They said I made it up, but I swear it's the truth. They didn't believe me when I said I could fly. My wings, as white as the snow and feathered as bird, outstretched and mighty. They didn't believe that I soared across the seven seas, or circled the highest mountains, or dived deep into the darkest canyons. They didn't believe that I was cast from the angels, thrown from the heavens, tossed from the clouds like litter. I was sent down, down, down, tumbling.

My pure white feathers turn darker and stormier and wider the farther I went. Clouds, treetops, dirt. The earth split open to let me pass. Stone, stone, stone. Fire. I dropped into a pit, landing on my back. Dark shapes rolled over me and buzzed around my eyes. They coiled and rippled, great basilisks of shadow. Needles and prongs and swords of every shape and size pricked my skin, scarred me until I bled, rich, into the already soaked soil.

A massive pain split my head, had me writhing on the jagged rocks. My halo had cracked down the middle, shattering with the most sorrowful, agonizing sound I'd ever heard, even now. My halo had split, and from the shards grew dark, powerful horns. They protruded like spears, and weighed my head, though I held it higher than ever.

Whips cracked around my ears, and the shadows slunk backwards, trembling. A bloodred man as tall as a mountain, but as thin as a tree, stood above me. He extended his hand, and a grin like a slice spread across his face. I took it. He pulled me up, up, up, and my wings spread wide behind me; they were as sharp as daggers. He hoisted me up, and looked over me from every angle, muttering in deep growls from the depths of his throat.

The air glowed wherever his eyes were cast, and his fangs reflected a light that didn't exist. His skin was as red as a sunset. His claws were as long as knives. His eyes were as yellow as a cat's. His feet were as gnarled and cloven as roots. His tail was as long and forked as his snake tongue. His trident was as warped as old driftwood, as transparent as glass, and as strong as stone. He peered into my eyes, once lavender, now royal.

Finally satisfied, he stepped one hoof back and sliced his hand through the air. From it, he produced a staff. A staff made of darkwood, a glowing amber shard ensnared in curling roots upon the end. He bestowed it upon me, mock-bowing, as his equal on the throne. I accepted. From then on, forever until the end of days, I had become his Prince of the Underworld. They didn't believe me, but I swear it's the truth.