hold me down [any]

[elve]

it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

If he wants her crushed, he has all but done so. Such a brave little thing has turned into this cowering, shivering mess, who can’t control her gaze let alone her power. But she wants to bend to his will, to please him, because she cannot think of any other way to get through this (join him, something whispers; join him and be like him). She pushes any other thoughts away. Pushes herself upwards, trying so hard to look him in the eyes again, to show him that she isn’t scared (though fear is all she feels, perhaps all she will ever feel again, the only true emotion running through her).

She should never have left her mother.
He speaks of her, of that poor mare, and it reassures the bright filly that she is not lost, not truly, that her mother must be somewhere, must be looking for her daughter. It gives her enough hope that she can look this strange stallion in the eyes, just for another moment.
His laugh makes her look away again, that sound rolling through her body, a thin tremble following it. She does not want him, she wants her mother, he is a poor substitute (but it’s all her fault, this is the price that must be paid for being so foolish).

He names her, Elve, and she runs the word through her head, across her lips, silently. It feels bitter, in her mouth, full of something that she is too young and too naive to understand. But she accepts it; to reject it would be stupid. “Thank you,” she mumbles, that word still seeping into her body, still moulding to her. It doesn’t occur to her to ask for him name (but she doesn’t want it, no, to name this beast would be to make it all real, and not some sort of childish nightmare that she still prays it may be).

She wonders if she must stay here forever, if he will never let her go, out of his sight. She wants to ask, she wants to find her mother again - though he says she must be looking, what if she doesn’t recognise her daughter (too young, too naive, to realise that green-and-red is not normal in this land, in any land). The question trembles her lips, but stays behind her teeth; if she asks to see her mother, Elve has a terrible feeling she may never see anything again.

ELVE

Sorry you had to wait so long, especially for this bit of poo >.< I've had a rather stressful few days! <3

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

He has his claw wrapped around her throat.
When he squeezes, he can feel her pulse under his thumb quicken.
And when he releases, it makes no difference. She squirms, but she does not settle.

And that is all be wanted. To stay with her beyond his moment.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, shifting his weight back and away from his sore leg, surveying her. Each length of ungainly leg, each bleed from red to green on her skin, stirring up the silt in his gut – wanting to reveal something to him, but still it remains locked up, or somewhere North. He feels a strange surge of pride. In his protégé and her wonderful pliability. In his work in molding her – bending and hammering to fashion something of his own making.
The true trade of a god.

“That’s yours forever.” But it is poison. Or he hopes it is – it means more to him than to her, and there is ownership in that.
If it will not be venomous to her, he knows it will be for her mother. “Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. You cannot change it now. Understand?” When she finds that wretched cow, and she asks her where her daughter has been…

With him.

His grin grows, and he faintly remembers an eerie, yellowish sneer… ear to ear… imagines it mirrored on his own lips.

He fades away once more, gone. Somewhere. And that will be what he leaves her with.
The idea of somewhere. Or anywhere. Or right there.
“You can go now. Find your mother quickly, Elve.”


Pollock,
The gift-giver.