09-25-2018, 01:24 AM
KINGSLAY
The lightning grows it’s crooked roots into the sky, and the roll of thunder follows with a crash immediately. He’s held her to the dirt, but she throws her head into the sky and lets the wind touch her. She’s an angel in the chaos, and even he can see it. His teeth and lips are still against her skin, and if you ask him he will deny it, but there are pieces of him creeping in that can’t bare to move away.
“It could be,” comes the answer he isn’t ready for - the answer he’d never be ready for. “For us it could be.”
And then she laughs, the bitch - she fills the air with music between the lightning strikes and clash of thunder. It’s a sound that ruins his resolve, that leaves him quaking at his core (and reapers never tremble). This is it. This is the culmination of everything they are. These are the moments they say goodbye. He can feel it.
Because he’s never noticed her power before - that she is a god, of sorts, too.
He’s never had a reason to.
They came together like these flashes of lightning, intermittently and without notice, and never long enough to know more than the feeling of an immediate electricity. He doesn’t know she’s feeding him pieces of humanity just by being close. If he did, would anything be different?
“I told you - you’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
And then the laugh warps.
“Enough.” She says, and at first he won’t understand.
At first he’ll still think of a thousand ways that she can come apart, but then the power in her will swell between their bodies and hit him like a brick wall - and suddenly, he’ll be exposed. The flames along his body, the fire in his wake and burning up the trees around him, it will smother, become nothing but pitiful pyres of smoke and ash. The mud holding her fast will recede back down into the earth. The monster in his ribs will silence.
He doesn't think about the witches, and the trenches they carved into the skin of his ribs. He doesn't think about anatomy, or sickness, or heat.
And Kingslay will say:
“I love you, too.”
“It could be,” comes the answer he isn’t ready for - the answer he’d never be ready for. “For us it could be.”
And then she laughs, the bitch - she fills the air with music between the lightning strikes and clash of thunder. It’s a sound that ruins his resolve, that leaves him quaking at his core (and reapers never tremble). This is it. This is the culmination of everything they are. These are the moments they say goodbye. He can feel it.
Because he’s never noticed her power before - that she is a god, of sorts, too.
He’s never had a reason to.
They came together like these flashes of lightning, intermittently and without notice, and never long enough to know more than the feeling of an immediate electricity. He doesn’t know she’s feeding him pieces of humanity just by being close. If he did, would anything be different?
“I told you - you’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
And then the laugh warps.
“Enough.” She says, and at first he won’t understand.
At first he’ll still think of a thousand ways that she can come apart, but then the power in her will swell between their bodies and hit him like a brick wall - and suddenly, he’ll be exposed. The flames along his body, the fire in his wake and burning up the trees around him, it will smother, become nothing but pitiful pyres of smoke and ash. The mud holding her fast will recede back down into the earth. The monster in his ribs will silence.
He doesn't think about the witches, and the trenches they carved into the skin of his ribs. He doesn't think about anatomy, or sickness, or heat.
And Kingslay will say:
“I love you, too.”
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.
@etro