between the shadows and the soul - weed

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

Weed is not the most trustworthy of soldiers. He is not someone to be given orders that one expects to be followed exactly. He is, instead, an instrument of chaos. He is a catalyst, a virus. He is something to be released when one does not care about the result so long as there is one—because if anything, Weed is someone who gets results. So his smile is as mischievous as hers, something within him straining toward what he knows is to come, groaning with the coming release. He could almost taste it in the air.

Not that he wanted to hurry the process.
There was something sweet in the waiting.

“You should,” he whispers into her ear before biting her neck one more time, his teeth pinching her flesh and holding, only slowly letting her go with a small, breathy sigh. “I have much to accomplish.” They both know the truth of it, the words unspoken between them hanging with dark intent. The world was open before them, and he could not wait for the earthquakes to start splintering the kingdoms apart.

So, not without regret, he steps away from her, lifting his elegant head to look toward the border, his coal-black eyes flashing with anticipation. The wind lifts his mane for a second away from his slender neck before he turns back toward her, catching her gaze and then nodding. “I’ll be back,” he says and there is purpose behind it, because he does intend to return one way or another. “I expect you to miss me.”

An order, as much as a small concession that he to would miss her, in the only way that he could. Then, with a small, devilish smirk, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind just one more gift for her: the beginning of a pine tree where he had been standing, the branches already reaching toward the sky. The second to the first—a pair to be exact. And in the bark was a simple, scripted S.

WEED

© oscar keys