And so, he made the gods themselves bend at the knee; etro

[etro]

etro --

in the hushing dusk, under a swollen silver moon,
I came walking with the wind to watch the cactus bloom

The sky is dark, but Etro does not mind. The clouds split open with the pull of lightening, but she finds that she likes it, finds that she enjoys the threat of rain in the swollen heavens. After all, the electricity in the skies is nothing to that which crackles and sparks between them; it is forgotten in the tension of their young bodies, in the touches that linger and then sweep away. He is a knife to her throat, but she leans into it. He is a fearful beast, but she does not fear—not even when his breath rolls over her skin.

He shudders, and her flesh responds in kind, bunching and shivering against his dissipating heat. Her throat is suddenly dry, but it is not because of how he may kill her. It is not because of how she may love him. It is real and tangible, and she feels her skin tingling with sensations unknown. “Kingslay,” she breathes against him again, as if she is fated to say it; as if she is to forever pray against him this way.

“Tell me that you missed me,” she murmurs, and the sentence is both demanding and hopeful, her muddy brown eyes moving to find his, her head blocky and lacking in grace. The older she gets, the harder the lines that draw her up become. She has lost the softness of youth and no longer can hide behind the awkward growth of a child. She is created in this fashion—made up of the colors of earth and rock, tall, perfectly average except for perhaps the extra weight from Percheron blood. In another life, she may have been a warrior; her body could handle the stress of it. In this life, she is nothing of the sort.

“Please.”

-- vanquish and yael's forgotten trait-negating princess --