03-17-2019, 07:12 PM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He can feel himself being called away, the tug of other worlds. It is not wanderlust, exactly, but he never exists too long in one specific place, he must keep moving, he feels. So though there is a certain temptation in the idea of keeping her here, of spending more time taking her apart and putting her together, he will prolong this no more.
He could keep her here, of course, for whenever he deigned to return. He could create some illusion for her, keep her comfortable – or he could leave her here as is, in this unglamorous prison, with the full weight of knowledge of what had been done.
But he is fond of her, or something like it, so he decides he will turn her back onto the world, to wreak her own particular king of havoc there. Besides, she will have the children soon (in months is soon, to him, a god to whom time barely exists).
“I’m returning you, for now,” he says, though he cannot resisting touching her again, where she smells of sex and seawater.
“I do hope you found your time here memorable,” he continues, and grits his teeth against the remerging desire to keep her here – it’s too easy, too obvious, and he does not play so cheaply.
He’s at her hip again now, the curves which had supported him so shortly ago. His teeth graze the skin there, testing.
“I won’t have you forgetting, Ryatah,” he says, as if she’d resisted, and then his teeth change, grow sharp and magic, and he carves a mark there on her hip, a twisted symbol.
Claiming, branding – she is his, in this way if no other. Marked.
He makes his leisurely way back to her face, lips brushing her forehead, where he’d given her eyes not long ago.
(To replace the ones once torn from her, true.)
“I’ll even let you keep the eyes,” he says, a dark god who could be almost benevolent.
“Though you’ll see only when I want you to see,” he says, and his magic penetrates her once again, forging yet another connection. He can blind her intermittently, should he choose – wherever he was.
“Know it’s under my control.”
It’s a threat, or a promise, or something in-between.
(It’s almost romantic, you see.)
He steps back to admire his work. She is lovely, and though their children are barely sparked inside her, he can imagine a glow. The brand at her hip shows fresh, and he knows she will feel an ache, a burn, whenever he thinks of her.
She is wrecked and remade and wrecked again, and he thinks she is a masterpiece.
“Goodbye, Ryatah,” he says, and with that he sends her back to the meadow, and himself to who knows where.
c a r n a g e