05-12-2015, 12:51 AM
KINGSLAY
There are plumes of smoke that he leaves in his wake, and they burn up the bits of her that tag him a murderer. The smell of death would stick to his skin like cologne, if it weren’t for the flames. The smell of death would hug the curves of his xylophone ribs, if it were not for the smell of ash and charred bone that lingers thick in the air.
They will smell the grass as it burns before they see him. They will breathe in the flames that grow like towers in the meadow before they know that he is near. He is like smoke in the way that they will never hold him in their palms. He will always linger just out of reach. He will always be made of the purple-grey that shadow is made of. He is like smoke in the way that he will choke you if you let him.
There is a piece of her caught in the back of his molars. He bothers it with his tongue, moves it backward and forward, but never enough to dislodge the flesh from the bone. He wonders if she tasted like this alive. He only knew her as she screamed. He only knew her as she died. He only knew her flesh between his teeth. He only knew her veins on fire. He only knew her as she died.
‘Kingslay,’ she breathed into his ear like a lover might. It was raspy and breathy and it made his skin crawl in ways that delighted him. He looked her in the eyes until the light drained out, but he never said her name.
The only name he’s ever spoken has been hers.
Etro.
There is a piece of her caught in the back of his molars, and he moves it with his tongue while he sets the meadow ablaze. He thinks of the last seconds she lived. He thinks of the ways she tried to give him what he wanted until he took it. She was naïve. She was a child. She became blood on bone. She is dead, now.
They will smell the grass as it burns before they see him. They will breathe in the flames that grow like towers in the meadow before they know that he is near. He is like smoke in the way that they will never hold him in their palms. He will always linger just out of reach. He will always be made of the purple-grey that shadow is made of. He is like smoke in the way that he will choke you if you let him.
There is a piece of her caught in the back of his molars. He bothers it with his tongue, moves it backward and forward, but never enough to dislodge the flesh from the bone. He wonders if she tasted like this alive. He only knew her as she screamed. He only knew her as she died. He only knew her flesh between his teeth. He only knew her veins on fire. He only knew her as she died.
‘Kingslay,’ she breathed into his ear like a lover might. It was raspy and breathy and it made his skin crawl in ways that delighted him. He looked her in the eyes until the light drained out, but he never said her name.
The only name he’s ever spoken has been hers.
Etro.
There is a piece of her caught in the back of his molars, and he moves it with his tongue while he sets the meadow ablaze. He thinks of the last seconds she lived. He thinks of the ways she tried to give him what he wanted until he took it. She was naïve. She was a child. She became blood on bone. She is dead, now.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.