01-03-2016, 08:40 PM
KINGSLAY
It does.
He feels the wind, and his flames quiver with indecision. There are parts of him that come alive, parts of him that taste her skin in the air and hunger for desiccation, but they are not alone. There are other parts that ache in ways he cannot fathom. Because his entire existence is a curse. He was born (no, bled) into this. He was made for things bigger than her. He was made for ending things. He was made for Carnage, and in His likeness. He exists, because evil is real and sometimes it wins.
It’s there, as much a part of him as she is.
It’s even in his name. King. Slay.
A warning.
But she is almost as persistent as his instinct.
And when he sees her there, under the boughs of oak trees older than the both of them, there are parts of him that tell him he should not be here – that he is not made for these moments, that he is for the darkest hours and not those in which beauty creeps in like veils of sunlight on the horizon. He hears her pulse in her throat, and it feels natural. He sees the maps of her veins drawn out beneath her skin, and that feels natural, too.
But he moves anyways. He moves despite the risks he is taking. He moves despite the instinct in his marrow that screams out against it.
Because the way his body curls around hers now is natural, too. Because she undoes him, and in more ways than just these. His skin loses its flames, they quiver once before snuffing into smoke and air. Once wrought with indecision, she quells them at last in seconds.
“Are you thinking of me now?” He says, because she promised she would.
He feels the wind, and his flames quiver with indecision. There are parts of him that come alive, parts of him that taste her skin in the air and hunger for desiccation, but they are not alone. There are other parts that ache in ways he cannot fathom. Because his entire existence is a curse. He was born (no, bled) into this. He was made for things bigger than her. He was made for ending things. He was made for Carnage, and in His likeness. He exists, because evil is real and sometimes it wins.
It’s there, as much a part of him as she is.
It’s even in his name. King. Slay.
A warning.
But she is almost as persistent as his instinct.
And when he sees her there, under the boughs of oak trees older than the both of them, there are parts of him that tell him he should not be here – that he is not made for these moments, that he is for the darkest hours and not those in which beauty creeps in like veils of sunlight on the horizon. He hears her pulse in her throat, and it feels natural. He sees the maps of her veins drawn out beneath her skin, and that feels natural, too.
But he moves anyways. He moves despite the risks he is taking. He moves despite the instinct in his marrow that screams out against it.
Because the way his body curls around hers now is natural, too. Because she undoes him, and in more ways than just these. His skin loses its flames, they quiver once before snuffing into smoke and air. Once wrought with indecision, she quells them at last in seconds.
“Are you thinking of me now?” He says, because she promised she would.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.