violence
It is glorious.
The memories spill forth, and he opens for her, a strange and filthy intimacy. And oh, how she plunders it, she sinks into what he saw, what he felt – the tear of claws, the feeling of teeth sinking into skin. The heart-wrenching panic – the surety! – of death coming, the taste of blood in his her mouth, her nose, suffocating and painful.
She had experienced something like this once, when she possessed a foolish girl and had her run herself off a cliff (she had survived – immortality is a bitch). But this is different, perhaps because this is given to her, or perhaps because of the particular gruesomeness of these memories.
And then it is over, the memory ends with him alive.
Violence jolts back into her own body, breathless in her own way. She feels strange, jellied by this experience, and she imagines she can still taste blood in her mouth.
Glorious.
“Incredible,” she says, more to herself than to him, “to have survived such a thing.”
She smiles at him. It is a genuine smile, albeit one fed by the terror she had tasted. He does not need to know that.
Instead, she touches his scars. Feels their rough edges with curiosity.
“Your mother,” she asks, “did she survive?”
these violent delights bring violent ends
@[Clegane]