i’ve been both a saint & a viper
The vines at the entrance of the cave’s mouth hang like snakes, brushing against each other with an eerie whisper as they twist and sweep in the night wind’s lonesome howls, the light of the silver moon as it peeks through illuminating the gaunt of his blue face, caressing him and calling him forward. Their darkness presses in at all sides, reminding him that they are with him constantly, a cloak that he wears like royalty, fashioned as chains as it falls gently across the sway of his weary back.
Tonight their whispers are unintelligible, haunting and listless in his ears; perhaps it is their own demonic language they speak so he cannot understand, but he does not misinterpret the almost affectionate way their mouths kiss at his skin, slobbering jowls clicking as they feed off of his broken mind and the terrors that rest there.
A voice - beyond the cavern mouth - answers him and though surprise finds him, the only movement is the crystal blue of his eyes flicking towards the sound, a dark and furrowed brow casting a shadow across his face. Their whispers continue to overlap, but between the white noise of their hellish voices, they begin to command him. Show her your darkness, they moan as he takes hobbling steps forward, his worn hooves clicking against the damp stone until he finds himself passing through the tangled vines. The foliage pulls against his chest until they finally snap and the stallion enters the dimly lit woods with an expressionless, terribly malnourished face.
She is bright compared to the darkness around them and the shadow that welcomes him in the cave behind him. He squints, a groan leaving his black mouth as he finds himself weary suddenly. “You’re lucky, then,” he nearly spits, the sound of his shadows and their intertwining bodies loud and distracting in his ears. “What I wouldn’t give to be numb.” This confession brings a chorus of chilling laughter from his own voices, angrily nipping at his skin at such an idea, their breath hot and putrid as they melt over his face like water. You’ll never die, they remind him heatedly, their laughter turning malicious - how dare he thinks he could escape this, them?
She needs us. We’ll take care of her like we take care of you.
His eyes flash to the worn woman before him, wondering if the thought was theirs or of his own. It bothered him that he could not tell and so his ears fell into the tangled mess of whatever is left of his onyx mane, a grimace on his cracked and dried lips.
Make her feel something.
He straightens suddenly, a dim and almost solemnity in his shining eyes as if he already regrets something he has not yet done.
“Would you like to feel something?”
As if asking permission would make it any better.
Balto
@[Sabra]