07-15-2015, 05:22 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-15-2015, 06:56 PM by Kingslay.
Edit Reason: tried to grammar. tried is key word.
)
KINGSLAY
The shadow of a weeping willow casts dappled shade across the meadow and the child's back.
She is muddy brown, with legs that are too long, and hips that slope too gently. She is pulling at the hanging boughs, pulling the curves branches taut before releasing them up again, and he is watching from not far away, listening to the erratic thrum of her young heart, watching the light in her eyes and thinking of the ways that he will take it. She is the closest he's found, with her plain little face and her dark brown eyes and her muddy flesh, but she is not close enough. There is no one close enough. There is no close enough.
He moves forward, and she looks up. The ends of her lips will quiver with a smile, but he will not be moved by it. There are boughs that will fall across the burning skin along his spine and catch fire, and she will gasp aloud, and it will only bring him too much closer, too much faster. There is no distance between their bodies now. She is crying, and he is stone-faced and dead-eyed. She is not close enough. There is no close enough.
But something changes.
He knows before he ever sees her.
He knows because the fires he is burning through the leaves of the willow tree begin to waver and collapse into themselves. He knows because smoke curls from the branches now instead of flame. He knows because his charcoal skin rolls along the ridge of his spine and then the fire on his body settles. He knows, because the throbbing ache of a carnivorous hunger simmers down into a dull roar, and he leaves the child who is not close enough for something different than the crack of bones and the sounds of warm blood sizzling.
Something changes.
The ravens flew. They filled the sky with black feathers like storm clouds might, and they flew. They flew a thousand directions with empty eyes and empty hearts. They flew a thousand directions with nothing but a command save for the cacophonous flutter of wings beating that he will never stop hearing. He thought about their endings. He thought about their broken ribcages, and emptied eye sockets. He thought about pulling the feathers from their wings and of the sounds that they would make. He never thought that they would matter.
But something changes, and they do.
They do. They do, because close enough no longer matters. They do, because the slope of her hips and the length of her back are still the same. They do, because her eyes are dark and her flesh is muddy. They do, because she is real on this horizon.
He stops too close to her. She will feel the heat of his breath before anything else, and his flesh will quiver and roll, and his legs will be as taut and tense as the curved branches of the willow tree that the little girl held tight.
"Etro," he says, like he has a thousand times before today, but there will be no masking the need in his voice this time. This time he will be ready if she runs.
She is muddy brown, with legs that are too long, and hips that slope too gently. She is pulling at the hanging boughs, pulling the curves branches taut before releasing them up again, and he is watching from not far away, listening to the erratic thrum of her young heart, watching the light in her eyes and thinking of the ways that he will take it. She is the closest he's found, with her plain little face and her dark brown eyes and her muddy flesh, but she is not close enough. There is no one close enough. There is no close enough.
He moves forward, and she looks up. The ends of her lips will quiver with a smile, but he will not be moved by it. There are boughs that will fall across the burning skin along his spine and catch fire, and she will gasp aloud, and it will only bring him too much closer, too much faster. There is no distance between their bodies now. She is crying, and he is stone-faced and dead-eyed. She is not close enough. There is no close enough.
But something changes.
He knows before he ever sees her.
He knows because the fires he is burning through the leaves of the willow tree begin to waver and collapse into themselves. He knows because smoke curls from the branches now instead of flame. He knows because his charcoal skin rolls along the ridge of his spine and then the fire on his body settles. He knows, because the throbbing ache of a carnivorous hunger simmers down into a dull roar, and he leaves the child who is not close enough for something different than the crack of bones and the sounds of warm blood sizzling.
Something changes.
The ravens flew. They filled the sky with black feathers like storm clouds might, and they flew. They flew a thousand directions with empty eyes and empty hearts. They flew a thousand directions with nothing but a command save for the cacophonous flutter of wings beating that he will never stop hearing. He thought about their endings. He thought about their broken ribcages, and emptied eye sockets. He thought about pulling the feathers from their wings and of the sounds that they would make. He never thought that they would matter.
But something changes, and they do.
They do. They do, because close enough no longer matters. They do, because the slope of her hips and the length of her back are still the same. They do, because her eyes are dark and her flesh is muddy. They do, because she is real on this horizon.
He stops too close to her. She will feel the heat of his breath before anything else, and his flesh will quiver and roll, and his legs will be as taut and tense as the curved branches of the willow tree that the little girl held tight.
"Etro," he says, like he has a thousand times before today, but there will be no masking the need in his voice this time. This time he will be ready if she runs.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.