Getting rid from the infection

The King often tended to observe his realm, Dreamworld. There was something in seeing how life in his own small world went on and on, how his forests slowly flowed from place to place, how his creatures, battered by sand, hid in the cracks from the glass storm right before it would hit on the full strength. How small buopoth, pressing its big ears to its moss-covered head, waving its trunk, trying to escape from the predator.  Trying to. Something made him imagine what it’s like to be eaten. What it's like to be nothing more than prey, what it's like when claws digging into your flesh, through your skin tearing it apart, blood splashing everywhere, a metallic smell fills the air, when your body rips open, so they get to your muscles, to your meat, tearing it out and— King moved, his yellow robes rustling in the ringing silence, turning back to see yet another gutted body. Something made him turn away, some ancient instinct did, while twisting, piercing into his eyes, screaming to look away, don’t look, don’t look, because what if... What nonsense, really. Creatures like him are omnipotent. Or they should be omnipotent, at least. He knew he was one. After all, He is the King in Yellow. He is God of this realm and will remain so. So why would he be… Why would… He… King freezes at one spot, listens with odd carefulness to his feelings. A cold runs from his insides, down his back. Unfamiliar, yet… It felt as if it was as ancient as the instincts embedded in everyone from the very Beginning.  King brushes it off. Buries it in depth of his soul to forget. He’s above that. He always was more powerful, he gained his power, living on these exact the most ancient instincts, gnawing into creatures’ minds, driving them into the vast of madness. And he liked it. It was… an entire other form of entertainment, almost like gossiping over a meal or a glass of some fancy drink, no matter how he disliked the fact that such thoughts almost made him look like a human. Humans were too loud for his liking. Too impulsive, and even though this was precisely what made them exposed for his influence, they still closed the door through worlds too early, too abruptly. The worst time, doesn’t matter if he wasn’t the one they called, he didn’t want to stay Here, he wanted to escape. And he wanted more. He always wanted more, more than sands and abandoned, dilapidated towns with walls covered in blood, more than wandering forests, storms and stars, more than canyons and passages underground, with hundreds of creatures constantly crawling, lurking in them, searching for prey. He wanted to know what this world had to offer him. He wanted something new, but they closed the portal and now… well, now… He looks inside his own entity, right into his still bleeding wound. The missing piece that prevents him from gaining full power. So small, insignificant, the one that screams now somewhere in the dark, and yet it continued to not allow King to leave the Dreamworld.   King remembered the first time he saw the one who stole his piece. He remembered seeing his face, very blurry, but still he saw it.  If it weren’t for that human, — King refuses to say his name, the name of that upstart, who constantly tend to to go where he shouldn’t have, does what’s wasn't asked, risks his life as if he has all eight left, — if it weren’t for that humans, he could continue traveling through the worlds, absorbing more and more souls, thoughts, bending them to His one and only true will. So he will get what belongs to him back, no matter what it takes.   And so he leads his loyal subjects among humans in the footsteps of that little fool of a man, the one who stole part of his soul. Calculates his very step, getting more and more angry from understanding that he couldn’t even control himself, his part, and with each coming day it seemed to get only harder to do so. And he still couldn’t get his hands on what’s his. Until finally that human comes to the Sleeping City. Until his own part, looking him straight in the eye, rejects him. King was almost surprised. Almost, because in the same time his entire entity was shaking from all-consuming rage. Just like that, all of a sudden, his so carefully, so ideally created plan fell apart. Human and his part — John, is that what he decided to call himself? What a ridiculous name, really, — ended up in the Dreamworld. King could feel them. Slightly, but still he could. He will take that damned part back. Even if he has to break every single bone in that human-worm’s body. And so the King in Yellow follows them. Slowly, yet surely, he gets closer and closer, drives them straight into his halls, firstly having them almost starve to death, exhaust their minds, until finally he appears before them in all his glory. But even then. Even then this insignificant piece of humanity, Arthur, refuses his offer. Decided to take the harder path, well his choice. Oh, once He’s whole again, he swears, he’s going to rip pieces of skin off his pathetic body, letting it heal, before tearing it off again, more and more. Of course he couldn’t separate them now. Not until they would want it themselves. Well then. He has enough time to make Arthur regret ever picking up his book. King encloses him, breaking his legs, bone by bone, while he, just like worm, squirms, trying to escape him, screaming in agony. Until finally John, the Soul, his missing piece, breaks through his aura and screams to stop. Of course, King doesn’t do that. Not right away, at least. After all he wanted to enjoy this new way of entertainment a bit longer, he wanted to take revenge for all the time he wasted, for all thwarted, perfectly laid out plans he created. This allows King to tear out exactly what he needed from that tangle of mind.   But after that, when he thought that everything was foregone, the human, that foolish, insignificant human, slit his throat up with a dagger. Fear flowed into his body again, almost like the water flows into your open mouth, filling your lungs, choking and drowning you; a pity, sadness made his heart stop as he watched blood flow from human’s throat, as King in Yellow listened to his death rattles and the cries of his own part, almost begging to save him. King harshly waved his hand at this and everything went quiet. He looked at the piece of his flesh, his mind, a fresh wound that had just begun to heal and tore it out. Because he shouldn’t have been feeling it. The King twisted his part, a part that hissed in anger and pity. Oh no. It was no longer his part, but nothing more than an infection, destroying his mind. Though he remembered how That Place made him feel. How it made him curl up in a ball, like a pitiful, pathetic creature, like a worm crawling in dirt under him. But he snapped out of it, caught up into the air. But even when his body expanded, filling almost the entire space, and fought, fought, fought, yet it still couldn’t break through the matter of the worlds. He couldn't. He was locked. He… He felt how the dark was slowly consuming him, drowning him in it, mixing with the stench flowing from the entire universe into This Place, endlessly black, endlessly disgusting and dull.   A wonderful place for a Soul that doesn’t want to obey.