The Maker moves above the surface of the world like storm clouds rolling over heat-scorched plains.
Above him, the stars are a dull white roar. Their voices a brilliant burning backdrop colliding in a crackling cacophony of boundless heat and light. Each flickering point sending its song spiraling as strains of shimmering sunlight into the endless skies. They sing even as they burn with ferocious abandon. The fires of their existence calling out bright and proud even as their heat runs down and the unabashed radiance of their being fades into the cold density of celestial death.
Yet even in death they remain. For the beauty of his design is that no matter may ever be truly destroyed. The stars, even in death, give up only their physical forms. And their remnants race out across the universe like ripples across the surface of a great dark pond.
It is his mandate and so it shall be until his ultimate ending no matter how many times the crown is knocked from his bruised and battered head.
So why this screaming pit? This hollow racket scrabbling against his bones? There is a hole in his heart where even the relentless radiation of the stars cannot reach. A blackened craggy pit that hearkens to another. This one a distorted scar stretching its malignant purples and blacks across the pale white canvass of his most beloved creation. A stain upon the skin of his most perfect design.
It calls to him, one broken heart to another. A jarring discordant note of silence striking out at him from the tumultuous symphony of his stars.
Do you remember, his blood sigh-ripples against his ribs. Do you remember the ecstasy and the pain? The supernova crash of your pulse against the determined grip of your fingers when you split your heart in two? The way his still form warmed against your hands when you wrapped him around it and your starfire blood filled his veins?
He has long ago given up his tears to the atmospheres of innumerable planets. Sowing his grief into skies full of clouds that his regret may bring only the bloom of new life. He cannot weep. All he can do is close his eyes and breathe in the hymns the stars may bring him.
Yet among these countless cherished voices, there is only one he wishes to hear. And from this voice he receives only a cold and bloodless silence.
[[On the way home from work the other day, I suddenly became obsessed with the idea that when the Maker made The Mad King, he used half of his heart to create him. And while Ryan feels the constant physical pain of having lost his heart to the Beast, the Maker is the one who suffered the loss on spiritual, metaphorical level.]]