under a swollen silver moon; kingslay

[etro]

that moon has a name in the fires of a silver corpse
and only I seem afraid of a drop through a dark

She feeds him humanity, perhaps, but it will never be enough to keep the beast of him at bay.

She knows that. She’s always known it.

Perhaps she loves him for it.

Once, she might convinced herself that she was as innocent as he was cruel, but she knows that she has long since moved past those boundaries, far transcended the black and white understanding that drives most of the world. Otherwise, how could she love a monster who always reeks of blood? How could she look past the pile of bones at his feet and be enamored by the harsh angles of his face instead? How could she step over the ashes of the innocent to curl by his side, accepting of the edge of his blade?

She said she would sacrifice everything for him and perhaps she has.

She has sacrificed her morals, her willpower, her resolve.

She has sacrificed the anchor grounding her.

He is the anchor now, she thinks.

Her gift smothers them both but she breathes in the space of it freely, intoxicated momentarily by what she is able to accomplish, by how she can bring his gift to heel. She almost relinquishes it now, giving him the freedom to burn her alive, but she doesn’t draw it into her chest yet. Her gift doesn’t require her to call on it, it is instead a part of her—its power a weight she carries with her. It requires more of her to silence then it does to wield it and she doesn’t bother to drop the own sword from her hand just yet.

“I know,” is all she says, because she didn’t need him to say it to feel it in her bones.

Of course he loves her. He has always loved her.

Like she has always loved him.

“You will kill me one day,” she says simply, but there is no fear in her eyes as she finally reaches over to run muddy lips over his jaw, tasting redemption and condemnation there on his flesh.

“But not today.”

E T R O || how deep does the water go?

@[Kingslay]

ahahahaha. i responded so quickly. take that, nev.

(how dare you inspire me this late)

[Kingslay]

KINGSLAY

They stand together a moment in quiet reverie.

Even the skies are still; the wind is hushed, and the lightning pacified. This vulnerability is new to him, and in unique irony, tastes like ash in his mouth. For so many years he has denied her, denied any attempt of normalcy - but there’s a thirst in her eyes now that he hasn’t noticed before (a hunger, a greed). It surprises him, as much as there is room in him to be surprised, because it’s cold, and raw, and doesn’t look easily satisfied when he is meant to be the monster of the two of them.

“I know,” she says, but he should doubt her.

He was born into obliteration; the only warmth he has known before her has been his dead mother’s entrails wrapped around his throat like a noose - all of it, reeking and wet, spilled out across the river shoreline like garbage. When she looks at him and there are pieces of things that once existed set out like shrines all around them, how can she know?

When slaughter was bred into his bones, how can she know?

He isn’t made for this, but here they are, and her lips are soft against the plane of his jaw and they smother any reserve left untouched in him.

There is no future for them, no possible normalcy. There’s poetry in their ebb and flow, certainly, but what could possibly come next for them but ruin? How many of their children would die at his feet? Skinless, wearing entrails like scarves, or burnt past the point of recognition - their bodies feebly curled, charred black, pieces pulled away and leaving with the wind. Would she still love him then?

It’s what Yael had never wanted, and Etro confirms it when she says: “You will kill me one day.”

And then, at last, his hungry eyes find the meadows edge where the ferns part to reveal the pink nose of a white rabbit. He remembers how the whistles of its screams while it was dying sounded. Here, in these moments, they’ve come full circle - but she’s not the same girl he met when they both began. He doesn’t see the galaxies in the fractures of her irises anymore.

“Life,” he says, echoing the first time (because they have come full circle now).

“Take it.”

And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.

KINGSLAY BY NEVAEH | HTML BY MAAT | IMAGE © ILYA KISARADOV


@etro

[etro]

that moon has a name in the fires of a silver corpse
and only I seem afraid of a drop through a dark

She had always thought that she would be the one to change him. That she would find her way into his heart, transforming it and welding it into something resembling humanity. She thought that she could soften his edges, draw forth warmth from him, but instead—oh, instead—he has changed her. If he cannot love her as she is, then she will morph herself, shedding her skin and taking up a different mantle.

She will turn a blind eye to the monstrosities scattered at their feet.

She will hide their children away.

She will ignore the screams he draws from the throats of the innocent, the blood staining his mouth.

She will sacrifice her soul just so she never needs to know a world without him again.

So she gives herself into the ebb and flow of their love, knowing it is a twisted beast, knowing that it has been mangled beyond recognition but cradling it to her breast all the same. And if the galaxies in her eyes have to morph for it—if they have to splinter and grow, black holes consuming the peaceful light of them—then so be it. It is a price that she will pay hand over fist. It’s a price she will pay in her own blood.

“Okay,” she finally says in her silver bells voice, and the agreement tastes like the devil on her tongue, sin between her teeth. Perhaps this is the moment she recognizes him as the smoke curling up from her belly. Perhaps she recognizes the ash of her bones as they crumble, as the columns within her turn to dust.

She is no longer the starry-eyed daughter of Yael and Vanquish.

She is no longer the forgotten Deserts princess.

She is hellfire and star-smoke and she turns her muddy eyes to the edges of the meadow to where the small prey twitches its nose. There is part of her that squirms against the suggestion, but she looks to his shark eyes, and she knows she’s lost before it begins—and so she squashes those internal protests.

Instead, she gives herself into the hunger that she borrows from him.

She makes it quick, but it changes her all the same. The second that her hooves break its spine, the crack reverberates her, and she suppresses a shudder. She leans down and the blood of it smears across her nose.

When she glances up to find Kingslay, her stomach churns and solar flares light her eyes.

E T R O || how deep does the water go?

@[Kingslay]