BUT THERE IS US, THERE IS WE. WE DO NOT ALLOW IT, DO NOT ALLOW HIS APPETITES TO WAX AND WANE LIKE THE LIGHT THAT POURS IN THE HOLLOWS OF HIS FACE, IN THE CRAGS OF HIS RIBS AND THE SHALLOW WELLS OF HIS BREAST – WE CROON AGAINST IT SOFTLY IN HIS EAR, BUT WITH HISSING REPRIEVE. HER BLOOD IS ASH. HER FLESH IS ROT. IT IS NOT FOR YOU TO TASTE – DO NOT DESPAIR, DO NOT DECAY. YOU ARE OURS YET. AND AS HE FEELS HER EYES PULL HIM, THE WHISPERS OF THE DARK DO CROON AS THEY WILL – AND HE TASTES WHAT HE THINKS IS THE BITTER FAINTNESS OF DEATH WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT HER, TOO SICKLY TO THINK OF THE RUST IN BLOOD. IT LINGERS ON HIS TONGUE WITH EVERY TEMPTATION, AND IN ITS VAGUE CONTEMPT HE FINDS A GROWING DEPRAVITY. WHEN HE LOOKS BACK TO HER IT IS EVER PROMINENT, AND HE DOES NOT SEE THE RESPLENDENCE OF A CELESTIAL, THE BLOOD-RED OF AN ALTAR, THE SACRIFICE OF REPENANCE. HE SEES WHAT WE SEE. ROT. RUIN. DESTRUCTION. SOMETHING ABOUT HER LOOMS LIKE A SCYTHE, AND WHILE HE ADMIRES ITS FINALITY HE CANNOT HELP BUT DISTRUST THE BITTERNESS THAT LINGERS WHEN THE SALT OF THE ASHES IS LICKED AWAY FROM HIS LIPS. THERE IS SOMETHING LIKE DESPAIR THAT GREYS THE BRILLIANCE OF THE NOT-MOONLIGHT, AND IN IT IS FILTERED ABHORRENCE.
AND THEN, IT IS MORE THAN NOT-MOONLIGHT.
IT IS THE FLARE OF A DYING STAR, THAT GREAT AND FURIOUS REPRIEVE IN SUPERNOVA FLIGHT – HE TURNS HIS HEAD SLIGHTLY FROM THE BLAST, AND THE SHADOWS DEEPEN IN THE DARKEST PARTS OF HIS SCOWL WHILE THE LIGHT THREATENS TO PERVADE. SHE SPEAKS LIKE INTERSTELLAR THUNDER, AND THE CASCADE OF INFINITY BLOTTING EACH SWIRLING BLACK HOLE. SHE SPEAKS LIKE THE DEEPEST PARTS OF THE SEA, THOSE PARTS INTO WHICH HE HAS STARED AND FEARED LIKE THE BLACKEST PARTS OF HIS DREAMS. IT IS WITH TURMOIL. IT IS WITH WRATH. IT IS WITH SQUALOR. IT IS WITH THE BRIMMING HOTNESS OF A THOUSAND SUNS AND THE BITING COLD OF A HUNDRED WINTERS. ALL WITH HER HUM THE BEETLE WINGS, THE DESOLATE THINGS, THE HOLLOWED CADAVERS OF LOCUSTS AND SKELETON LEAVES THAT SHUDDER WITH THE WEIGHT OF HER GROWL. IT IS A CHALLENGE. IT IS REJECTION. AND ALL TOO SUDDENLY, THE HEAT REDOUBLES IN HIS BLOOD AND RUSHES WITH AN EQUAL FEROCITY. HIS SCOWL SHEDS ITS BOYISH MENACE AND RIPPLES WITH VEINED SNARL, A FANGED GRIN THAT SHIRKS HER WORDS WITH UNGODLY ARROGANCE. GARGOYLE CONTEMPT. THE HEAT DRUMS AGAINST HIS FLESH AND HE TURNS TO THE BRILLIANCE WITH A HUNGRY IRE.
BUT IT IS TOO LATE, TOO LATE.
WHEN THE LIGHT IS CAPSIZED AND ALL IS LEFT TO SETTLING DUST, THE RIND OF HER RED, RED SILHOUETTE IS LOST TO THE DISTANT GLOW OF THE SHORE. THE SEA, IT FRAMES THE FINAL TRACES OF THE TREES IN THE TOUCH OF HER GLOW – AND HER WORDS ARE LEFT TO RESONANCE. WHEN THE DARKNESS FEELS HOT AND MOLTEN. IT IS ALWAYS THE SEA. THE SEA. BUT HE THINKS OF THE CUNNING ISLAND AND ITS PECULIAR MAGIC. HE THINKS OF THE SPACE BETWEEN THE SEA AND THE GREAT SHADOW SWEPT FROM DESOLATE SANDS. AND HE THINKS, WITH PRECARIOUS HUBRIS, THAT PERHAPS A GOD MAY ALSO BE MAD.
AS THE NOT-MOONLIGHT BEARS AGAINST THE HORIZON AND SHIMMERS FAINTLY AGAINST THE BONE-WHITE SHORES IN THE DISTANCE, THE DARKNESS RECLAIMS THE PLACES IT WAS SHUNNED FROM WITH AN EAGER MALICE. SHADOWS ENTANGLE IN THE CROOKS OF HIS ANGLES, NESTLE WARMLY IN THE SHALLOW PLACES BETWEEN HIS MUSCLES. HE BLINKS, ONCE, TWICE. AN EXPRESSION AS COLD AS A WINTER CHILD OUGHT BE, AND HE TURNS HIS BACK ON THE SEA AND ITS HOSTILE INTRICACIES, KNEADING THE COOL BLACKNESS OF THE NIGHTLY FOREST.
finite.
AND THEN, IT IS MORE THAN NOT-MOONLIGHT.
IT IS THE FLARE OF A DYING STAR, THAT GREAT AND FURIOUS REPRIEVE IN SUPERNOVA FLIGHT – HE TURNS HIS HEAD SLIGHTLY FROM THE BLAST, AND THE SHADOWS DEEPEN IN THE DARKEST PARTS OF HIS SCOWL WHILE THE LIGHT THREATENS TO PERVADE. SHE SPEAKS LIKE INTERSTELLAR THUNDER, AND THE CASCADE OF INFINITY BLOTTING EACH SWIRLING BLACK HOLE. SHE SPEAKS LIKE THE DEEPEST PARTS OF THE SEA, THOSE PARTS INTO WHICH HE HAS STARED AND FEARED LIKE THE BLACKEST PARTS OF HIS DREAMS. IT IS WITH TURMOIL. IT IS WITH WRATH. IT IS WITH SQUALOR. IT IS WITH THE BRIMMING HOTNESS OF A THOUSAND SUNS AND THE BITING COLD OF A HUNDRED WINTERS. ALL WITH HER HUM THE BEETLE WINGS, THE DESOLATE THINGS, THE HOLLOWED CADAVERS OF LOCUSTS AND SKELETON LEAVES THAT SHUDDER WITH THE WEIGHT OF HER GROWL. IT IS A CHALLENGE. IT IS REJECTION. AND ALL TOO SUDDENLY, THE HEAT REDOUBLES IN HIS BLOOD AND RUSHES WITH AN EQUAL FEROCITY. HIS SCOWL SHEDS ITS BOYISH MENACE AND RIPPLES WITH VEINED SNARL, A FANGED GRIN THAT SHIRKS HER WORDS WITH UNGODLY ARROGANCE. GARGOYLE CONTEMPT. THE HEAT DRUMS AGAINST HIS FLESH AND HE TURNS TO THE BRILLIANCE WITH A HUNGRY IRE.
BUT IT IS TOO LATE, TOO LATE.
WHEN THE LIGHT IS CAPSIZED AND ALL IS LEFT TO SETTLING DUST, THE RIND OF HER RED, RED SILHOUETTE IS LOST TO THE DISTANT GLOW OF THE SHORE. THE SEA, IT FRAMES THE FINAL TRACES OF THE TREES IN THE TOUCH OF HER GLOW – AND HER WORDS ARE LEFT TO RESONANCE. WHEN THE DARKNESS FEELS HOT AND MOLTEN. IT IS ALWAYS THE SEA. THE SEA. BUT HE THINKS OF THE CUNNING ISLAND AND ITS PECULIAR MAGIC. HE THINKS OF THE SPACE BETWEEN THE SEA AND THE GREAT SHADOW SWEPT FROM DESOLATE SANDS. AND HE THINKS, WITH PRECARIOUS HUBRIS, THAT PERHAPS A GOD MAY ALSO BE MAD.
AS THE NOT-MOONLIGHT BEARS AGAINST THE HORIZON AND SHIMMERS FAINTLY AGAINST THE BONE-WHITE SHORES IN THE DISTANCE, THE DARKNESS RECLAIMS THE PLACES IT WAS SHUNNED FROM WITH AN EAGER MALICE. SHADOWS ENTANGLE IN THE CROOKS OF HIS ANGLES, NESTLE WARMLY IN THE SHALLOW PLACES BETWEEN HIS MUSCLES. HE BLINKS, ONCE, TWICE. AN EXPRESSION AS COLD AS A WINTER CHILD OUGHT BE, AND HE TURNS HIS BACK ON THE SEA AND ITS HOSTILE INTRICACIES, KNEADING THE COOL BLACKNESS OF THE NIGHTLY FOREST.
finite.
