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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [private]  save me from the nothing I've become - carnage
    #11
    “I know when you go
    down all your darkest roads
    I would have followed all the way
    to the graveyard.”
    She recognizes the look on his face – disappointment. She is used to it, has seen it so many times before. From him, from Dhumin, from Skellig – everyone. Time and time again she has fallen short of their expectations; never quite as bold or as loyal or as obedient as they want her to be. When the shame rises up, from her chest and into her throat, spreads like heat across the top of her skin, she thinks she would rather choke on it than to continue to withstand his stare.

    There is an apology somewhere, burning at the edge of her tongue, but she lets it turn to ash. He doesn’t want an apology – she already knows that. He wanted her to be willing and complaisant, and when he lets the alien disappear into the trees, the full weight of her fault settles uneasily over her. She had half expected him to kill the creature if she did not, and the fact that he released it unscathed reiterated that this mistake was entirely her own.

    Her breath hitches in her throat at his touch, at his question. “Yes,” a quiet affirmation. As if she could ever forget. As if it had not been a defining moment in her life, as if it had not turned her into forever being the queen who lost her eyes to him.

    As if it was not the very foundation to whatever they had become.

    She doesn’t move, even if she knows what’s coming. She knows, because it’s what she always expects – though he frequently surprises her, reminds her that he can hurt her in countless ways. But there was a part of her that always knew she was one misstep from losing her eyes again, and there is a peculiar kind of relief in knowing it will finally happen.
    That the anticipation is finally gone.

    It doesn’t keep her from trying to recoil. It was basic instinct, futile though it was. But much like that day in the dale, the shock of having the first eye ripped out freezes her where she stands. She cries out, the sound ragged in her throat, but she does not try to run. Then they are both gone and she is left with that phantom feeling of wanting to blink blood from the eyes she no longer has.

    The blood glistens, iridescent beneath the light of her halo, bright red and morbidly beautiful set against the stark white of her skin. A broken, bleeding angel, trembling before a dark, wrathful god, and still she wants him. There is fear and shame and regret and desire churning in the pit of her, but never is there any part of her that doesn’t want him.

    She can never decide if that is her fatal flaw or her saving grace.

    She knows how to find him, even in the dark. She steps towards him, hesitant, following that pull she always feels when he is near. She can taste her own blood on her tongue when she asks him, “Is this your endgame?” It would make sense – for them to come full circle, to end where they had begun. Nothing about her has ever really made sense, though, and the feeling of what she wants his answer to be is no exception.
    ryatah


    @[Carnage]
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    #12

    lord, I fashion dark gods too;


    It's not that he hasn’t considered it. That maybe he’s had his fill of her – that this failure of hers had pushed them to the edge. He could walk away now, leaving her bleeding, leaving her wondering.
    Yet –
    Yet he does not despise her for her failure. He should, perhaps – and once, he might have. But he is used to being failed, now, for don’t they all fail him at some point? Nothing can measure up to a god, and he has learned this lesson time and time again. He is disappointed in her, sure, and he will leave her with this punishment, will force the remembrance of her defiance on her until he deems time to bring it back. If he does. Perhaps he will leave, and he will tire of her.
    The sweetness of her blood in his mouth suggests otherwise. She should not taste so sweet.

    He considers her question. He could lie, hurt her further – because he can feel her want, despite this, despite the blood pouring like tears down her face. He could have her believe he is finished with her.
    Yet –
    Yet that is not the kind of pain he wants her to feel. He is too drunk on the devotion to cut in such a way.
    “I’ll come back for you,” he says, “in time.”
    A pause, as his lips touch her bloodstained face.
    “However,” he says, “I’m not quite finished.”
    He picks up a rock from the ground beneath them, small and smooth. He places it where one eye had been, its flat brown surface staring out horrifically from the wound. He repeats the process, and seals the rocks there with his magic, tethering them to her.
    “A souvenir,” he says, “of your defiance. If you’re good, perhaps one day I’ll take them back. If not…”
    He lets the sentence die in the sweltering air between them.
    “Goodbye, Ryatah,” he says – a final brush of his lips against her bloodstained cheek, a final glance at the unseeing surface where her eyes had been – and then the dark god is gone.

    c a r n a g e



    @[Ryatah]
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