the horror of our love; yael

[Kingslay]

KINGSLAY

Sometimes he forgets.

When the hunger turns his yellowed eyes to slits, when his ribs heave from the efforts of his bated breath, and when the gaps between the bodies of prey and predator become nonexistent, he forgets. He forgets because he becomes slave to instinct. He forgets because the blood is hot and the flesh is burnt. He forgets because the smoke feels like an opiate in the way that it cradles him.

Sometimes he forgets.
Sometimes he forgets, but never the things that he should.

He remembers the carnage. He remembers the red-tinged world. He remembers the carnage he was brought into; a river of tears and blood and organs. He remembers the sickly sweet smell of death, and how it clung to his flesh when he was made of simpler pieces. He remembers the fire, and he remembers the screaming. He remembers the way the witches kissed his flesh before it fell away, like it belonged to them, like he belonged to them.

He remembers the crack of bones breaking, and the silence of hearts ceasing.
He remembers the way the light can look when it is stolen – when life is stolen.

What he forgets is her.

When the hunger turns his yellowed eyes to slits, when his ribs heave from the efforts of his bated breath, and when the gaps between the bodies of prey and predator become nothing, he forgets her. He forgets what the slope of her hips looked like when she ran from. He forgets what the light of her muddy, brown eyes looked like (the light he let burn). He forgets the day in the sand when he asked her to run with him, and she ran from him instead.

She ran even when she swore she didn’t see him as a monster.
She ran, even when she said she was not afraid.

Today, he remembers.

He remembers because grains of sand are blowing in the wind, and they fall against his eyes. He remembers because the desert sun sits on the same horizon she ran into. He remembers because the creature in the cage of his ribs is salivating, gnawing on his insides, greedy for the metallic tang of iron in blood. Today, he remembers, and today, he comes for her.

And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.

KINGSLAY BY NEVAEH | HTML BY MAAT | IMAGE © ILYA KISARADOV

[Yael]

She does not forget; she cannot forget. She could forgive, but she will not and cannot, in a stubborn refusal to adhere to all that is good and light. In memory of all that she has created. In the name of the blood that her daughter carries, and in the name of Adonai, and in the name of mothers everywhere.

If he can ever forget Etro, then he is more monster than Yael can fathom. Etro is the wind and earth and water. Etro is a piece of her world, and for Kingslay to forget her, even for a moment…

Ah, but if Etro was a whispered prayer in the night and in his lungs with every breath he took, then she might be able to look the other way. As he has forgotten, he must be punished. It is known.

The golden woman knows her daughter has returned, but has yet to set sore eyes on her. Her very presence makes her baby ill, and she is sure someone below is cackling in glee at her pain. Perhaps she is prolonging the inevitable; a rehashing to Vanquish’s death is the last thing she wants to do. But that she did not come home first, that she found the beast, oh, it is infuriating. That he should come here, smelling of her, is unforgiveable.

Lightning falls from a clear sky, a blast of heavenly destructive heat in an already hot, hot land. She is somewhere and nowhere, except perhaps for her scent. It wafts alone, accompanied by neither wind nor hoofprints. It comes with the lightning bolt, as it plummets towards the beast’s eternally burning form.

Yael, guardian of the desert