I have never wanted like this, not since childhood, not since I first saw fire and thought to myself, to touch it! to become the flame!, entranced by the brilliant flicker. Both within myself and without myself. 

I have never wanted like this. To burn, to burn, to burn. I have never wanted to take a beautiful thing and burn it with me. For the first time in my life, I understand the appeal of sacrifice; of taking a white dove and slitting her throat, or laying a lamb at the priests’ temple bleeding down the marble steps, or a wild-haired woman at an altar before the sea. I understand what gods must feel when mortals offer the best of themselves, the innocent and the pious, for fair winds and fallowing seas. They feel like this. 

Hungry. 

Insatiable. 

Destructive. 

And, in this way, a little merciful. Let me gift you myself. Let me give you something extraordinary. Death in my arms. 

There’s nothing like it. This I know, because last time I loved and destroyed. This time, I only want. 

I walk into the palace of Solterra without opposition. By now, they are accustomed to my comings and goings. I visit their King, always, and rumors follow my entrance and my exit. I am a consort. I am hard-bodied and hard-eyed and pursued by whispers of, I would never have thought he was Adonai’s type.  

There’s nothing left for me here but him. And I am not the type of man who can be made to stay for another. And yet, I am caught in a paradox; I also cannot leave the one thing that reminds me of… of gentleness. I am afraid. I am afraid of who I would become without this wanting, without the gentleness of his lyre, of his indigo eyes. You make me better, I want to say, and cannot, because even as he improves me I condemn him. I cannot leave without him.

And I don’t know if I will give him a choice. I can feel Damascus through our bond; he circles above the city of Solterra, breathing bright fumes. He dreams of the destruction of the city, but does not want it because I do not want it. 

(Or do I? Is that a part of the wanting, too? To put a rift in history, to seal my name into the eons, unknown and unspoken but with an air of permanence?) 


At this time of night, the palace is quiet. The guards stand statuesque in suits of armor, glittering with firelight. I am reminded of Pilate’s party so long ago; of the weapon’s room, Adonai and I’s reflections stretched thin in steel. Up, up, up I go; all the way to his chambers. 

And once there, I hesitate. There is no undoing what I intend. And somehow, that grows within me even more voraciously. I understand, with sudden intimacy, the lioness that eats her own dead cub. I need it, I think. I need it. 

Not him. It. All he entails. 

“Adonai,” I say his name as I open the door, stepping into the luxurious quarters. The door to the balcony is open; for a moment I am afraid he’s gone, but a fire blazes in the hearth to keep the night’s chill at bay. I say his name again, more softly: “Adonai. Adonaiakis.” The term of endearment falls easily, sweetly. The door drifts close behind me. 

Somewhere high, high above, I feel Damascus breath out a heavy sigh. The city will not burn tonight, but he wants it to. 

“Adonaiakis,” I say again. Again, and again, and again his name falls from my mouth. Each time with more possession, with more force, with more honey sweetness. “I am leaving.” 

There. The truth.

But the words do not sound like a truth. They sound raw with longing, with need. Not I am leaving but I am going, I am going, I om going where I must go and I step forward, deeper into the room. I find him on the balcony and go to him, step by step, until my mouth is pressed into the hollow of his throat. To accommodate for our difference in height, I very nearly kneel. 

Subservience.

Are we not all subservient to our vices? To our addictions? Are they not the truth of power? I roll my eyes up, fringed by lashes, and look at him with unveiled longing.