between the shadows and the soul - weed

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

The two of them should never work; they are volatile, selfish, distrustful. Yet, somehow, they do. There is a spark between them that Weed does not attempt to fight; there is a magnetic pull that is both unwelcome and pleasurable. Not that he would ever admit that he was at the Chamber for anything beyond his own selfish motives, but he cannot say she was not a factor—or a frustratingly lovely distraction. Behind the teeth on flesh and thorns in flesh, there was something that he could not name. Something dark and twisting that smoked through his veins and up his throat. Something he both hated and longed for.

Not that he was ever going to admit that to her.

Instead he presses up against her side, breathing into her ear, “I will get you new ones.” And, like that, he digs into the earth, forcing the remnants of the roots to grow—faster and faster so that the trees growth is in warp speed, going from sapling to aged pine in a matter of moments. “Happy, Queenie?” He considered it a gift of sorts, a rare move for him, but something that seemed oddly fitting.

Soon, he is laughing, and he is surprised that it has happened twice in such a short period of time, the sound both elegant and rusted as if his throat didn’t know how to conjure the correct tune. “It doesn’t have to be obvious,” he toys with the branches of the nearby tree, the brush underneath them swaying in time with his breathing. “Not with a little bit of magic.” He leans in again, “I can be much more effective than ravens.”

WEED

© oscar keys