There is part of him that finds his eagerness to infiltrate their minds as a kindness; he only wants to shepherd this lost sheep, care for and nurture her in ways his own family couldn’t do for him. There is nothing wrong in the way he tries to guide (control) her, even though there is something far more vulgar and obscene that lies beneath the surface. Something that, at his young age, has not manifested itself fully - it is only a feeling, simmering and dull, but noticeable enough to where the young colt answers to it’s call, ready and willing to be the author of her story. Perhaps she will be the first to experience the terrible relationship between puppet and master, or maybe he is still too young to enforce much of that just yet.
He does not, however, deny himself the gentle way she leans into him, her breath but a whisper against the deep green and white of his shoulder. She needed him, he deems to himself, finding that the resolution to vibrate forcefully in his own mind followed by the incessant willingness to see it through. She needed him and no one else. He would be enough or there will be nothing else for her to live for.
Molech is lost in those galaxy-soaked eyes, wondering if they have looked upon anyone else in the way that they do for him. Rainbows dance uncontrollably against the dark patches of his skin, shimmering with each tender inhale and exhale of her delicate lungs. He sets the bed for her - soft and warm and welcoming - and all she needs to do is lie down. He makes it easy for her, he tells himself, because he is so very kind.
The pastel purple of his irises hides behind dark lids for a moment, reveling in the way she promises him with such finality - I won’t - without knowing she wouldn’t have had a choice anyway. He would always find her; their thoughts always give them away. Her mind swells with delight the moment he lays his promise there (was it a lie? He cannot tell for certain) and that same handsome smile graces his dark lips once again in satisfaction.
Clementia.
Perfection rings out into the chilly air like the sound of clear bells and the young colt’s eyes gingerly open, those enticing lavender pupils coming to rest on the spiraling and starry depths of hers. “Clementia,” he repeats her name like a song, melodic in the baritone of his voice. “My name is Molech.” Silence engulfs them, the darkness of night and the frigid cold creeping in like a fog.
“If you ever need to find me, Clementia,” he says her name again because he enjoys how it sounds in his throat and off his tongue, and to secure the possession of her name to him, “I’ll always be at the water’s edge.” He smiles at her, taking a single step forward so that the river’s water now runs across the deep goldenrod of his knees. Like a wave, the clear water runs up his legs and then his shoulders, draining the color from his coat and melting his skin into the water itself until he is a completely translucent being, completely liquid. It’s at this moment that he would normally succumb to the water’s path, traveling down the river to other parts of Beqanna as quickly as the river would take him and even to the ocean - but she would not be able to accompany him, so he remains suspended, half equine and half water, with that same dreaded smile on his face.
With a breath he becomes solid again, the color returning as his skin reforms to what it once was, dry as it had been only moments ago. “See,” he explains, “you were meant to find me tonight.”
molech.
@[clementia]