I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He is delighted by her laughter, delighted by the words she barely gets out between gritted teeth. His laughter joins hers, twists through the air and echoes around them, and he continues to laugh as she lunges for him, side-stepping quickly—his motions faster, smoother than any normal horse had the right to be. He escapes unscathed from her attack and twists his head, sighing like a disappointed child as she makes a break for it. “Oh, darling,” he calls after her, twisting the landscape around her—keeping it dark, keeping the path long, the distance stretching onward forever. Let her run and run and run.
Let her think she could ever find escape.
Clucking, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, he picks up his own pace to pursue her. His speed is alien, cloven hooves skimming over the forest floor as he catches up to her. He loves this game, loves this part, and his heart thrums in his chest, despite the sweat that dampened the sooty gold of his coat. He reaches out for a moment, mouth grazing over the curve of her hip before he pulls back and then comes up along her other side. He speeds up enough to match her weakened pace, finding it easy.
Reaching over, her buries his nose in her neck, drinking in the nectar of her fear and finding that it sated him. But the gift had been given, and he grows bored; she would not break today, and he reminds himself to have patience. Great art did not happen overnight. It took time and effort and patience.
So he opens up the space between them, taking in the sight of her as she runs.
“We will meet again, love.”
Then he draws back, placing another kiss along her hip, and then comes to a stop. His fingers still pull masterfully on the threads of the Fear as he watches her race away, and his laughter rings out around her.
He would find her again. He would.
Great things come to those who wait.
