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[P] men of mortal flesh [fire] - Printable Version

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men of mortal flesh [fire] - Alecto - 11-29-2020




Alecto Vermillio Raptis



N
ight slips into nothing more than the whisper of a memory. His skin less mysterious and he more visible than ever as dawn’s gentle fingers slice across the sky in pastels of pink and green and orange. Alecto’s lips curl down at last, a whisper of ash upon his tongue from the next conversation he was flitting to, and golden eyes cast themselves woefully along the throng of people that are fish out of water. 


Beneath a moon, they are brave. 


Among a fire, they are bold. 


When their secrets are lain before a god of gold with judging eyes in a place that nothing can hide, they are cowardly and they hide. Few, so few, smile at those of Delumine they’ve talked all night to or danced a ring with time and again.


But he, sovereign son to a crooked man, stands beside none. Bodies once pressed nearer and nearer, both eager and desperate to listen as words rain from him, stories spun as gold past shimmering lips made as much from moonlight as they are from the void. 


One who comes from the dark returns to it. 


Mist and smoke cover the meadows. Further bodies are just shadows now, but soon they will be whole again. Soon they will all wake up from their reverie as though this is all some long dream in the land of Faerie. 


Soon does not come soon enough, not when a white unicorn presses like death through the bodies. Blood red is her horn. Sanguine her freckles. 


She is as opposite to him as fire to water, and how Alecto is drawn by that which is not like him. He moves then, and distance is nothing to a man who eats the world with every thought of every day. Danaë is a blade and he the board she slices onto but never through. 


He smiles his starlit smile when at last the heavens meet the earth. And she is beautiful. And he is fickle. 


”Do you disappear with the dawn as a mist stayed too long?” he croons to her gently, more sweetly than a mother fawning over her child. 


There is nothing sweet about a wolf smiling in sheep’s wool.








my heart broke loose on the wind
« r » | @'Danaë'


RE: men of mortal flesh [fire] - Danaë - 11-30-2020



And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.


Never has she known a night to seem as endless as this night.

There is not enough joy in the sound of mortal music, or the rejoice of children born, to make the dawn quicken like a pulse below the skin of the night. All the nights she had spent in the belly of the dark forest seem like nothing more than wisps of time compared to this cage of it. Even the feel of skin on her skin, a thing that should settle even the most feral of animals, only makes her feel like a creature caught in it instead of one free of it.

And if it makes her steps more prowl than a dance, as she moves like a willowisp in the crowd, the mortals are too drunk on their meager joy to notice. It is better, she thinks, that they see only the fragile spiral of her horn glimmering in the darkness.

It is better, in the end, for them to see the flowers blooming from the dead-charred wood in her wake than for them to wonder how it grows only from dead wood and not the ripe soil.

The dawn has not seemed to quicken at all below the horizon when the mortal, another one, crosses her path. She does not hear the croon in his voice but sees only the tremble of the air in his throat where it brushes against the pulse hiding there. She does not see the night-sky in his gaze but the white rim of it where a tear might puddle.

“No.” A rose grows in the ground torn up by hundreds of mortal hooves as she moves closer to him. It waivers in the breeze of her tail as it drags to curl around her hock. “I am what is left behind.” She smiles, her teeth bright in the flames dancing around them. Another rose joins the first, and another one after that.

“What are you?” A sheep blinks and it is to the image of moon flowers growing out of his jaw and unfurling for the very first time.





« r » | @Isolt