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)
She is good, and he would admire her if he knew the depth of her deception, the ways that she allows herself to play the game. He would admire the way that she accepts the darkness in, giving it a home. Was this not a victory? Was it not a victory to be given refuge in her breast—to be given her time?
Philosophical questions for another time, another animal entirely.
He is too engrossed in their dance, each tracking the other, one step taken mirrored by a step back and then a surge forward. He waltzes with her effortlessly, the sheen on his neck and the Fear in his eyes natural and alive, the monstrous stallion instead letting the Krampus make him weak, make him prey.
“No,” he breaks, anger seeping into the word at her misunderstanding.
“Y-y-you don’t understand.”
He is pleading with her, vulnerable and pained and terrified before her. For the first time, his fingers graze over the edges of her own Fear, seeing how she responds. Does she begin to feel the same sense of dread? Does it begin to creep into her bones? He is delicate with how he manipulates it, with how he draws it forward. In his youth he had been heavy-handed. He had been unable to find the balance between it, instead beating his victims over the head with horror. Now, he is a surgeon with his delicacy.
There is a sweetness to finding the knife’s edge of the Fear and holding it there.
There is a beauty in the building of it.
His concentration on it doesn’t break his performance, doesn’t break the ragged edges of his breath as he takes a step toward her, desperation carved deeply into his face. “I-I-I can’t stand up to him.” His voice takes on a new edge, and he throws himself at a nearby tree, the bark roughing up the sooty gold of his hide. “I-I-I have to g-g-go.” He staggers away before throwing himself at another tree. “I-I-I have to c-c-c-change how I look.” He glances at her wide-eyed and terrified. “I-I-I have to hide.”
