KINGSLAY
He forgets what he comes for.
He forgets the girl with the plain brown eyes. He forgets her like he forgot her in the meadow, when he ran and she told him she would think of him still. He forgets her for the blood that slides down his cheek and sets every nerve ending on fire. He forgets her for the rattle of a frantic pulse thrumming through the veins of a stranger’s neck. He forgets her, even though he wants her in ways he hasn’t wanted before. He forgets her, even though he wants her alive, wants her cut open, wants her near, wants to curl up in her innards – wants her.
He forgets her, because this is what he lives for.
Because this is what he is made of; the pieces that he gives himself to, the pieces she can never understand because there are no monsters buried in her bones that stretch out underneath her skin. He is a reaper. He is death. He is a god, and she is just a girl. He breathes these moments deep into his lungs, and something in him feeds off the panic it tastes mingling with the oxygen. And she is still just a girl.
The air is on fire now, and it climbs hotter in fractions of seconds. He wants to boil his blood until the veins cauterize. He wants to watch his eyes bubble and spill gel before they roll back into his skull. He wants to see the flesh fall away from his bones like cooked meat.
‘I love you, Kingslay,’ she had said, but he forgets.
He remembers blood. He remembers glass. He remembers heat.
He watches him quake, and they are skin-to-skin, teeth-to-neck, flame-to-flesh.
And then suddenly they are not. He hasn’t heard the roar above the clamor of his own haughty arrogance and the sharp burn of gluttony. He doesn’t know she’s come until he is small against her teeth, settled on her tongue with a body that doesn’t belong as his. He should fear her, maybe, but these aren’t pieces alive in him. Instead he feels the heat of her breath. Instead he hears the thrum of her heart. Instead he salivates internally for a murder that he cannot commit in this shape, and he writhes as he aches. He thinks about melting her bones. He thinks about spilling her open from the inside out, and the hunger, it feels like acid in his gut.
But it doesn’t last. He sees the slate-grey haze of smoke again, and bone by bone his body changes. He would writhe again with agony if the feel of bones changing and skin stretching was not so familiar already.
“Bring her to me,” he says when he has at last a voice to say it with, and this time he looks to Yael.
He forgets the girl with the plain brown eyes. He forgets her like he forgot her in the meadow, when he ran and she told him she would think of him still. He forgets her for the blood that slides down his cheek and sets every nerve ending on fire. He forgets her for the rattle of a frantic pulse thrumming through the veins of a stranger’s neck. He forgets her, even though he wants her in ways he hasn’t wanted before. He forgets her, even though he wants her alive, wants her cut open, wants her near, wants to curl up in her innards – wants her.
He forgets her, because this is what he lives for.
Because this is what he is made of; the pieces that he gives himself to, the pieces she can never understand because there are no monsters buried in her bones that stretch out underneath her skin. He is a reaper. He is death. He is a god, and she is just a girl. He breathes these moments deep into his lungs, and something in him feeds off the panic it tastes mingling with the oxygen. And she is still just a girl.
The air is on fire now, and it climbs hotter in fractions of seconds. He wants to boil his blood until the veins cauterize. He wants to watch his eyes bubble and spill gel before they roll back into his skull. He wants to see the flesh fall away from his bones like cooked meat.
‘I love you, Kingslay,’ she had said, but he forgets.
He remembers blood. He remembers glass. He remembers heat.
He watches him quake, and they are skin-to-skin, teeth-to-neck, flame-to-flesh.
And then suddenly they are not. He hasn’t heard the roar above the clamor of his own haughty arrogance and the sharp burn of gluttony. He doesn’t know she’s come until he is small against her teeth, settled on her tongue with a body that doesn’t belong as his. He should fear her, maybe, but these aren’t pieces alive in him. Instead he feels the heat of her breath. Instead he hears the thrum of her heart. Instead he salivates internally for a murder that he cannot commit in this shape, and he writhes as he aches. He thinks about melting her bones. He thinks about spilling her open from the inside out, and the hunger, it feels like acid in his gut.
But it doesn’t last. He sees the slate-grey haze of smoke again, and bone by bone his body changes. He would writhe again with agony if the feel of bones changing and skin stretching was not so familiar already.
“Bring her to me,” he says when he has at last a voice to say it with, and this time he looks to Yael.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.
i am sorry for making you wait so long ;_;