07-23-2015, 10:02 PM
If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together
The impact was familiar, driving Drow further back to the days when the moon’s face sang sick siren songs in his head, coaxing him toward self-destruction. He had beaten himself against trees, against rocks, against ruins. He had cracked bones, bruised himself so badly he could barely move, torn himself apart at the beckoning of the imaginary moon. So when he hit the other stallion so hard he felt ribs cracking from the collision of flesh and something much, much harder, when his ears rang with a far too familiar song, it felt like coming home to his darker self, his younger, moon-mad, tortured self. Hello, precious. Did you miss me?
Mmmm, and part of him had. He tried to throw himself at the iron mountain again, to charge into the sharp agony of cracked ribs and the ferocious ache of bruises yet to form, but his body wouldn’t move. Oh, but the iron mountain obliged, pounding him mercilessly, raining blows down on his body with relentless savagery. And the pain built, swelled, filled him until he couldn’t contain it anymore—until it broke and twisted into something delicious. He would have moaned, if he could move his vocal cords.
The mountain drew metal out of the earth, metal that matched his body, and shaped it into sharp edges that caressed along his skin, slicing through and letting his blood flow free. Heat filled him as tiny rivulets flowed down his sides, as knives slashed across old scars, crosshatching and forming exquisite new patterns on the canvas of his volcanic-glass skin. So much cleaner than beating himself against rocks, than sanding his skin down against rough tree bark, than gouging himself on thorns. So elegant, the sharp little edges glinting in the sunlight as they lowered themselves toward his body, dragged themselves along his curves and edges. If his lips could have moved, they would have twisted into a sick grin stuck somewhere between heat and mania.
Carve me up, baby. Won’t stop me.
Even as the blood loss started to make his vision swim, even as red started to fade to black and spark along the edges, even as the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the slowly growing pool of his own blood was the iron mountain’s hold on his body, Drow kept his eyes on the one wielding the knives. He held that cold grey stare until something twisted in his leg, and the agony of a dying limb swallowed his consciousness.
Mmmm, and part of him had. He tried to throw himself at the iron mountain again, to charge into the sharp agony of cracked ribs and the ferocious ache of bruises yet to form, but his body wouldn’t move. Oh, but the iron mountain obliged, pounding him mercilessly, raining blows down on his body with relentless savagery. And the pain built, swelled, filled him until he couldn’t contain it anymore—until it broke and twisted into something delicious. He would have moaned, if he could move his vocal cords.
The mountain drew metal out of the earth, metal that matched his body, and shaped it into sharp edges that caressed along his skin, slicing through and letting his blood flow free. Heat filled him as tiny rivulets flowed down his sides, as knives slashed across old scars, crosshatching and forming exquisite new patterns on the canvas of his volcanic-glass skin. So much cleaner than beating himself against rocks, than sanding his skin down against rough tree bark, than gouging himself on thorns. So elegant, the sharp little edges glinting in the sunlight as they lowered themselves toward his body, dragged themselves along his curves and edges. If his lips could have moved, they would have twisted into a sick grin stuck somewhere between heat and mania.
Carve me up, baby. Won’t stop me.
Even as the blood loss started to make his vision swim, even as red started to fade to black and spark along the edges, even as the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the slowly growing pool of his own blood was the iron mountain’s hold on his body, Drow kept his eyes on the one wielding the knives. He held that cold grey stare until something twisted in his leg, and the agony of a dying limb swallowed his consciousness.
Watch the flames climb high into the night
Drow