it's not the waking, it's the rising; jackel

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever   He is sick, dizzied still with his wanting, with the desire inside him keening obey, obey. (He’s sick in the head, too, surely – for wanting this. For being thing. Craven and wanton. Disgusting.) The monster’s - Bruise’s - words throb inside him like an infected wound. Find me a plaything. Something to break. He would have been the plaything a thousand times over but no, Rapt was going to be kept (the words send a thrill down his spine, they send bile into his mouth – such duality, the wanting and knowing that the wanting is oh-so-wrong).   He obeys, of course. The man he’s known so briefly could order him to do a hundred awful things and he thinks he would. He doesn’t know yet where the line is drawn. If, indeed, there is any kind of line at all. But he struggles when he heads off, when he looks at the sea of horses. Rapt is not particularly strong or brutal, so he doubts he could bring someone by force. Nor is he particularly beguiling – he’s handsome enough, but there’s a hundred handsome horses in the meadow alone. He smiles thin, watery smiles to a few horses, none engage him, and he is not suave enough to ignore their disinterest and sally on.   Panic starts to flit in his chest, buzzing like horseflies. What if he can’t fulfill the monster’s request? The very first thing asked of him? (The second, really – the first thing Bruise asked was to kneel. This, he did easily.) He sees a mare, sandy gold, and he smiles at her – and this time, she smiles back. The sliver of an opening. He takes it. “Hello,” he says, “I’m sorry to bother you, but you caught my eye.” The words stumble out, sound false on his tongue. He is no Casanova, nor does he have any desire to be. But he tries, as best he can. “My name is Rapt.”   rapt caius x else

@[Jackel]