07-09-2015, 01:19 AM
KINGSLAY
He delights in the chase, as predators often do.
The quiver of her body would send thrills shooting through his own. It would turn his legs to springs, and set the ground beneath them both ablaze. The smell of panic, of sweat, beading before it drips along the contours of their bodies is something he finds intoxicating. The thrum of heartbeats before the cloud of dust kicks up is enough to send him reeling.
Everything inside of him is begging her to run.
Everything inside of him is ready to unravel.
She holds her own for a while, but then she falters. He watches her head fall back, watches her legs search for space between their bodies that he is not willing to give. For every step backward that she takes, he moves forward.
“Are you dead?” She asks him, and he breathes the panic in her voice. He devours it. He consumes it. He feels it sink in through his charred flesh, through his bones and into the marrow. He feels it merge there, with the molecules and atoms of him.
“No,” he hisses, although in so many ways the answer is yes. Yes, because he was born through death. Yes, because the living flesh was seared from his bones and replaced with ash and fire. Yes, because there is nothing left living of him.
“No,” he says again, and this time it is softer – this time it will feel almost like the lyrics in a song – “No,” he croons against her ears, and he listens to the hammer of her heart against her ribs, and he thinks: No, but you will be.
The quiver of her body would send thrills shooting through his own. It would turn his legs to springs, and set the ground beneath them both ablaze. The smell of panic, of sweat, beading before it drips along the contours of their bodies is something he finds intoxicating. The thrum of heartbeats before the cloud of dust kicks up is enough to send him reeling.
Everything inside of him is begging her to run.
Everything inside of him is ready to unravel.
She holds her own for a while, but then she falters. He watches her head fall back, watches her legs search for space between their bodies that he is not willing to give. For every step backward that she takes, he moves forward.
“Are you dead?” She asks him, and he breathes the panic in her voice. He devours it. He consumes it. He feels it sink in through his charred flesh, through his bones and into the marrow. He feels it merge there, with the molecules and atoms of him.
“No,” he hisses, although in so many ways the answer is yes. Yes, because he was born through death. Yes, because the living flesh was seared from his bones and replaced with ash and fire. Yes, because there is nothing left living of him.
“No,” he says again, and this time it is softer – this time it will feel almost like the lyrics in a song – “No,” he croons against her ears, and he listens to the hammer of her heart against her ribs, and he thinks: No, but you will be.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.