02-03-2019, 07:49 PM
and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He doesn’t know which he enjoys more: her death, or her apology.
They both spark something in him, perhaps the same thing, or perhaps there is a line there, thinly drawn. Regardless, when she speaks, still damp from her time with death, he is drawn to her, to run his lips over her skin once more. She tastes of saltwater and death, and it leaves him eager.
“You’re learning,” he murmurs into her ear, a terrifying praise and he draws the dampness from her, the water beading in the air in front of them, shimmering for a moment before it blinks into nothingness. She is dry again, her same smooth white, and the only remainder of seawater is the salt drying on his lips.
He remains close, though he no longer touches her, he wants the space to look her in the eye, to force her to meet his gaze. The lair around them is back to its old self (or, the representation he’s made for her, still cleaner, less morbid), all hints of water gone. You’d never know she’d drowned only minutes ago, that the room still echoes with that final panic.
(He’ll remember, of course, will replay that memory as it comes, hungry.)
“Since you’ve been good,” he says, still kind from her acquiescence, “tell me what you want, Ryatah. The world here is full of possibilities, if only for a while. I can make it so.”
He says this as if it is a gift, and not the dangerous wish upon the monkey’s paw that it is.
“Tell me what you want,” he repeats, voice pitched low, his own wanting a dark and cloudy thing in wine-dark eyes, and he waits, patient.
c a r n a g e