john le roux, district one | finished

Princes become kings become vagabonds.

It's the cycle of the thing, sons born into empires with castles rising beneath their hands. Only to tear them down when their fathers become useless and old; to build something new from the ashes. Glory is a monster with many heads, and John Le Roux has learned that godhood is not only earned in arenas.

A prodigal son can stay prodigal. He only has to be clever. Not that he'd ever share this knowledge with his own children, much too content with the rush of control that comes with being a terrible father. The only drug he ever got hooked on. Being the patriarch, standing just a head taller than the rest.

His kids are shadows searching for light to give them shape, and if they listen to him, they'll surely have it. They deserve to wear crowns, he often thinks to himself, so that he may earn the right to melt them down into pure gold and fashion something for himself. That's the thing about debts. They owe him this much.

Lions can be charming, mighty and wicked and so quick to play with their prey. He's never claimed to be a good man. Jealous, spiteful, self-interested. He never reached out to Eurydice when his nephew died in the Games, he only leaned closer to his friends in a private bar. Whiskey on his breath.

"She needed to be knocked off her fuckin' high horse. Good riddance."

That's the difference between John and his kin. She might have the title of mayor, the world may know her name and share in her mourning, but that's not how you build a true god. You don't try to change the world, you don't weep for the lesser, you just turn to what you have left and smile so eagerly.

So many soldiers. One king.

John Le Roux is nothing without his army — this light brigade of his sons and daughters, all reaching out for his favor. They're just investments to him, deals made in the dark on satin sheets, pretty little words whispered into worthless ears. A battle plan. A cruel trick that ends with him being immortal.

And who could stop him from taking the kingdom for his own, really? It's such a large house, but so crowded, too. So many mouths to feed, so many opinions, too much to share. Too little. He's a brilliant man, wealthy and sociable and envied. But little more than that. For now.

He is a hero performing his twelve labors. Slaying beasts, and felling empires, doing ungodly things in the interest of achieving sainthood. And of course that means his children are the ones shouldering the burden, but after all, they're so much younger than him. Full of so much hope.

The world will eat them raw, each one, and he won't shed a tear.