10-08-2015, 02:49 PM
 i wanted darkness— i wanted him. She remembers her mother – her mothers – but she remembers them abstractly, as one might recall a work of fiction, or a dream they once had. They were not her real life, her real life began in the dark smokiness of His lair, where He taught her the pleasures her flesh could provide, the beauty in skin flayed, in bones carved with poetry. She looks like her, though – a molten, glorious silver. The color elevates the rest of the features, sunlight glints off her curves and the cut of a cheekbone. Less beautiful and more ethereal – the face would not launch a thousand ships, but it might haunt one or two. Still, for all this, she does not find herself beautiful now – now she is boring, a canvas whited out (she can share stories but her body does not back up the tales, seamless as it is). She misses her wounds, wishes she was not so whole – all that remains is a brand, burned into her skin on her crest beneath a wash of silver mane. She watches the stallion approach, idly, for nothing about him is remarkable, until he opens his mouth, speaks a name she knows so well yet has almost forgotten. Her body tightens, grows wary. She is not so idle now. “I am,” she says, though she wonders, sometimes – the time before Him is ill-recalled, “why do you ask?” ------------------------------cordis x spyndle |