10-07-2021, 06:42 PM
it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
Death is unbeknownst to him in the way that it grips her tight; he does not fathom the feeling of helplessness, the bitterness that hitches in the throat as you succumb. He only knows what it means coming from him, the Reaper and the Finisher. He knows the feeling of their last writhing movements in his watery grasp, can only imagine the emotion and trauma that rattles their mind in their final moments, screaming silently beneath the weight of him, their garbled voice falling on deaf ears.
He expects the same from her. Drowning her will make their conversation cease, end her relentless attempts to carve out more from him as if there was anything underneath the beast that only finds happiness in cold-blooded murder. It’s almost laughable, the way she relents into him without hesitancy, a little lamb, falling into place as another victim for him to watch unravel at the bottom of the dark and brooding Sylvan lake. She’ll follow him anywhere, even to Death, and though there is a delight in the struggle, Maugrim finds himself pleased with such a willful and perfect offering to him.
She doesn’t know how close he’s pulled her to him (or maybe she does, somehow understanding that he is the water surrounding her, burning her eyes and forcing itself into her nose and throat), but he is there - watching with fascination as the breath she holds slowly loses its ability to keep her alive, ready for the moment her pale mouth opens and gasps for air. She would only be met with the chill, unfriendly water to fill her lungs and only moments will pass before the spasms of her body attempting to remain alive would fall away into a beautiful nothingness.
He’d pull her down with him, to the darkest parts, and maybe he’d even build a pretty grave for one of his most beautiful prizes.
Her struggle is nearly completed and though he has no voice, he soothes the fright in her body with gentle waves as if to caress the fear from her. It won’t be long now, he seems to say.
The faceless stallion frowns. There is no pleasure in her final moments, despite the raw beauty in the way her mane and forelock float like a murky halo around her head, illuminated by the full moonlight that filters through the dark water. The idea of her face hollowing and becoming warped by hungry fish suddenly brings a sour taste to his mouth. He imagines the white of her bones in the silt, green with algae - beautiful, but sad. His frown deepens.
He’s looking into the brown of her eyes and he wonders if she looks for him in the darkness. He scowls, still and unmoving as her body begins to convulse.
There is a flurry of movement and the water now pushes instead of pulls. The moonlight is unfiltered and raw against her dripping, blue skin as he pushes her onto the muddy bank with the ease of an ocean’s tide. For a moment she is alone, on the brink of death (or quite possibly there already). The water ripples from where she had just breached the surface, settling into stillness.
The sound of trickling water is the only thing that signals his presence, confirmed only when he begins to solidify above her - a sinister shadow of green and pale purple, water constantly dripping from his body as if standing beneath a waterfall. His damp lips trace the unconscious slope of her shoulder, inhaling the musty smell of lake water that now intermingles with her own - the smell of stars and moonlight, he reckons - and follows the curve of her neck, pausing against the mottled blue of her cheek. Here is where he beckons the water from her, calling it from the places it didn’t belong. It trickles almost remorsefully from her nostrils and mouth, twisting through rivulets in the mud back into the lake.
Maugrim does not wait for her to stir. He lifts his head, snorting sharply, before deciding to leave her alone, disappearing into the forest.
If she truly would follow him anywhere, she will find him again.
He expects the same from her. Drowning her will make their conversation cease, end her relentless attempts to carve out more from him as if there was anything underneath the beast that only finds happiness in cold-blooded murder. It’s almost laughable, the way she relents into him without hesitancy, a little lamb, falling into place as another victim for him to watch unravel at the bottom of the dark and brooding Sylvan lake. She’ll follow him anywhere, even to Death, and though there is a delight in the struggle, Maugrim finds himself pleased with such a willful and perfect offering to him.
She doesn’t know how close he’s pulled her to him (or maybe she does, somehow understanding that he is the water surrounding her, burning her eyes and forcing itself into her nose and throat), but he is there - watching with fascination as the breath she holds slowly loses its ability to keep her alive, ready for the moment her pale mouth opens and gasps for air. She would only be met with the chill, unfriendly water to fill her lungs and only moments will pass before the spasms of her body attempting to remain alive would fall away into a beautiful nothingness.
He’d pull her down with him, to the darkest parts, and maybe he’d even build a pretty grave for one of his most beautiful prizes.
Her struggle is nearly completed and though he has no voice, he soothes the fright in her body with gentle waves as if to caress the fear from her. It won’t be long now, he seems to say.
The faceless stallion frowns. There is no pleasure in her final moments, despite the raw beauty in the way her mane and forelock float like a murky halo around her head, illuminated by the full moonlight that filters through the dark water. The idea of her face hollowing and becoming warped by hungry fish suddenly brings a sour taste to his mouth. He imagines the white of her bones in the silt, green with algae - beautiful, but sad. His frown deepens.
He’s looking into the brown of her eyes and he wonders if she looks for him in the darkness. He scowls, still and unmoving as her body begins to convulse.
There is a flurry of movement and the water now pushes instead of pulls. The moonlight is unfiltered and raw against her dripping, blue skin as he pushes her onto the muddy bank with the ease of an ocean’s tide. For a moment she is alone, on the brink of death (or quite possibly there already). The water ripples from where she had just breached the surface, settling into stillness.
The sound of trickling water is the only thing that signals his presence, confirmed only when he begins to solidify above her - a sinister shadow of green and pale purple, water constantly dripping from his body as if standing beneath a waterfall. His damp lips trace the unconscious slope of her shoulder, inhaling the musty smell of lake water that now intermingles with her own - the smell of stars and moonlight, he reckons - and follows the curve of her neck, pausing against the mottled blue of her cheek. Here is where he beckons the water from her, calling it from the places it didn’t belong. It trickles almost remorsefully from her nostrils and mouth, twisting through rivulets in the mud back into the lake.
Maugrim does not wait for her to stir. He lifts his head, snorting sharply, before deciding to leave her alone, disappearing into the forest.
If she truly would follow him anywhere, she will find him again.
m a u g r i m.
@dark