04-22-2024, 06:57 PM
lord, I fashion dark gods too;
Though time does not pass for him in the same way, it does eventually dawn on him that it has been some time – even by his warped standards – since he has last seen her, or even checked in on her. She is a background hum, often, one of several things put into motion by his magic and still going.
(This is how he thinks of her – as his possession, his prize. His, his, his.)
No one thing in particular drew him back to Beqanna, He’d returned to the land, bored, and blood still remains on his lips from his efforts to alleviate that boredom. It had worked, for a moment, but then the joy of it had faded and he was again left idle, and so his thoughts turned to her, to the pale woman he so prizes.
(We’d say love, but love has never been a word to fit well on the dark god. He consumes, instead.)
He moves to the meadow, such familiar ground, and he reaches out for her. He feels her presence, tugs on it like a string, reaches further, beckoning. He finds, oddly, that what he can read of her is muddled, less refined, but he does not dwell on this. He dwells instead on the feel of her, of tracing the familiar lines, hearing her heart speed up as he chooses what to mete out.
She does come – of course she does, how could she not? – but she is changed, and it was not him who changed her.
He does not like this alteration, for he considers himself the sculptor of all things regarding this particular angel. Never mind that he has been gone for years, that she has always been powerful, in her own way – this is something else. His jaw tightens, and he feels the dried blood on his chin crack as the flesh stretches.
“Ryatah,” he says, and he does not touch her, although he wants to, “you’ve changed.”
c a r n a g e
@Ryatah