i’ve been both a saint & a viper

Darkness burns deep in his bones; hatred plumes from his very nostrils, fueled by rage deep within his chest.

He comes to the forest in the middle of the night, brandishing the wounds of the Alliance along his blue mottled body - he had failed (part of him knew he would, of course, just like he had failed in the caves what seems like eons ago; when the demons crawled across his flesh and he murdered them one by one, he had failed). He almost wishes he had died there in the arena, with Jamie’s sad yellow eyes looking down at him helplessly, offering him as somber tsk as he gave into the nothingness.

But nothing of the sort happened. He had been sent on his way, revived somehow and without injury that would cause death at all. Balto could hear them trapezing through the wood beside him, high off his battles and filled with fury for not spilling enough blood. They swarm him viciously, tearing at his skin with sharp teeth (but so gently, because they care about him so), reminding him of their presence and the fact that he would never die.

Never die, they whisper hauntingly in his ears, like a lover in the night.

The stallion whinnies hoarsely and loudly; they disperse into the shadows, writhing somewhere beyond the trunks of the redwoods and watching him with beady, lustful eyes. He calls for her, the Queen, with that obvious red mark just below his left eye, branded by the faeries themselves.

“Sabra,” he chokes into the night, his voice grisly and tough. He is not himself at the moment and when he is not himself, it is her he seeks.

Balto