05-20-2015, 12:05 AM
KINGSLAY
Of course he doesn’t belong.
He belongs nowhere. He belongs nowhere that isn’t suffocating for the sweet and sickly reek of death. He belongs nowhere, except for the spaces of their ribs, or woven through the layered flesh and muscle and yellowed fat of them. He isn’t trying to coax the alarms that sound in their minds. He isn’t trying to illicit the bumps that creep down the backs of their necks and along the ridges of their spines (if they do). He isn’t trying to look sinister when he tilts his head a little too far to the left and looks more feral than he ought too, more still than he ought too, more unnerving than he ought too.
Of course he doesn’t belong.
So, when she croons: ‘Make yourself at home, Kingslay’, and all he thinks about is how he could carve a home out of her hollowed carcass, of course.
He imagines them like bones. The second backs away, and he can taste the heat of her body and it thrills him in ways that it shouldn’t. He tastes her sweat before it ever hits the dirt; he breathes it in, feels it ignite flavors on his tongue he has almost forgotten – almost. For every step she moves backward, he moves one forward, propelled by the creature stirring in his gut, propelled by the famine that wracks his hungry bones. He could have her so easily. He could have her unwrapped, bones laid bare, flesh burnt clean, and it could be so easy.
She smiles, and he thinks about her insides.
She smiles, and he thinks about how easy it could be.
She smiles, and he says nothing, but if they listened closely enough, would they hear the clatter of teeth on ribs? Would they know what he is enduring for them to live these moments? Would they hear the rattle of salivating jaws and snapping teeth? Would they recognize the cacophonous ring of the drums of war?
Yes.
Yes, because he doesn’t belong.
Yes, because he doesn’t care for queens and politics – and why should he?
He is a god among them.
He is made of souls and fire and teeth and blood, and they are made of flesh and frailty.
He is a fire, and they are moths, and they come and they come and they come, and they burn their wings and he drinks the ash through his teeth.
Another comes, and his head tilts right. Pevensie. He tastes her name like he’ll taste her blood one day, slowly, as though he means to savor it even when reality makes a glutton out of him.
She smiles, and he thinks about the feathers in his teeth.
She smiles, and he thinks about the sound of bones snapping.
She smiles, and he says nothing, but his eyes will say everything. They are dark and bleak, endless and hungry, and if she looks closely, she might see what it would look like to have the feathers in her wings fall around her like snow painted red.
He belongs nowhere. He belongs nowhere that isn’t suffocating for the sweet and sickly reek of death. He belongs nowhere, except for the spaces of their ribs, or woven through the layered flesh and muscle and yellowed fat of them. He isn’t trying to coax the alarms that sound in their minds. He isn’t trying to illicit the bumps that creep down the backs of their necks and along the ridges of their spines (if they do). He isn’t trying to look sinister when he tilts his head a little too far to the left and looks more feral than he ought too, more still than he ought too, more unnerving than he ought too.
Of course he doesn’t belong.
So, when she croons: ‘Make yourself at home, Kingslay’, and all he thinks about is how he could carve a home out of her hollowed carcass, of course.
He imagines them like bones. The second backs away, and he can taste the heat of her body and it thrills him in ways that it shouldn’t. He tastes her sweat before it ever hits the dirt; he breathes it in, feels it ignite flavors on his tongue he has almost forgotten – almost. For every step she moves backward, he moves one forward, propelled by the creature stirring in his gut, propelled by the famine that wracks his hungry bones. He could have her so easily. He could have her unwrapped, bones laid bare, flesh burnt clean, and it could be so easy.
She smiles, and he thinks about her insides.
She smiles, and he thinks about how easy it could be.
She smiles, and he says nothing, but if they listened closely enough, would they hear the clatter of teeth on ribs? Would they know what he is enduring for them to live these moments? Would they hear the rattle of salivating jaws and snapping teeth? Would they recognize the cacophonous ring of the drums of war?
Yes.
Yes, because he doesn’t belong.
Yes, because he doesn’t care for queens and politics – and why should he?
He is a god among them.
He is made of souls and fire and teeth and blood, and they are made of flesh and frailty.
He is a fire, and they are moths, and they come and they come and they come, and they burn their wings and he drinks the ash through his teeth.
Another comes, and his head tilts right. Pevensie. He tastes her name like he’ll taste her blood one day, slowly, as though he means to savor it even when reality makes a glutton out of him.
She smiles, and he thinks about the feathers in his teeth.
She smiles, and he thinks about the sound of bones snapping.
She smiles, and he says nothing, but his eyes will say everything. They are dark and bleak, endless and hungry, and if she looks closely, she might see what it would look like to have the feathers in her wings fall around her like snow painted red.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.