He should be scared.
When Thana screws her eye to his he should feel something more than the bolt of deranged joy that slithers its way down his back–he should scream when the ground starts to soften beneath him. Instead, Andras sucks in a breath that is not quite a gasp and holds it.
The trees bend around them and Andras thinks for the last time tonight that there is much to do. There is death in their woods. There are monsters with smiles like smooth butter and knives made to skin and to peel.
There are monsters out there that are not Thana and Andras with their wild, angry magic, and their clenched teeth, and their voices that say yes so much louder than the night that squeezes their throats. But all he can feels is the night as it melts under her touch. All he can hear is its heart as paces faster, and faster, and faster. All he can taste is the ecstasy of impending doom, the sort of joy that only comes running high from demise.
She slides closer still, like a snake in the underbrush, and she thinks he has never looked more mortal. Andras sees the glint in her eyes, the sharp point of her horn, the earth itself bent in a circle to frame them, and Andras thinks that he has perhaps never felt more mortal, either. He shudders.
For what purpose? Thana asks. Her voice is almost inaudible under each fork of light that hums off of his skin with a buzz like a sub station coming apart.
He is so hungry. She is so hungry. And here they are slavering wolves with mouths full of lightning and rot. Andras’ smile glows bright blue when he clenches his teeth. “Do it.” he demands, or begs; the voice that comes out doesn’t sound like his own.
Andras doesn’t have patience for her restraint. He wants wild, he wants hungry, he wants to look her in the eyes and see the face of some old god that drives men to madness.
–and when he does, when he sees her face, poised like an asp, waiting to strike, the icy dread that runs him through comes too late.
When Thana screws her eye to his he should feel something more than the bolt of deranged joy that slithers its way down his back–he should scream when the ground starts to soften beneath him. Instead, Andras sucks in a breath that is not quite a gasp and holds it.
The trees bend around them and Andras thinks for the last time tonight that there is much to do. There is death in their woods. There are monsters with smiles like smooth butter and knives made to skin and to peel.
There are monsters out there that are not Thana and Andras with their wild, angry magic, and their clenched teeth, and their voices that say yes so much louder than the night that squeezes their throats. But all he can feels is the night as it melts under her touch. All he can hear is its heart as paces faster, and faster, and faster. All he can taste is the ecstasy of impending doom, the sort of joy that only comes running high from demise.
She slides closer still, like a snake in the underbrush, and she thinks he has never looked more mortal. Andras sees the glint in her eyes, the sharp point of her horn, the earth itself bent in a circle to frame them, and Andras thinks that he has perhaps never felt more mortal, either. He shudders.
For what purpose? Thana asks. Her voice is almost inaudible under each fork of light that hums off of his skin with a buzz like a sub station coming apart.
He is so hungry. She is so hungry. And here they are slavering wolves with mouths full of lightning and rot. Andras’ smile glows bright blue when he clenches his teeth. “Do it.” he demands, or begs; the voice that comes out doesn’t sound like his own.
Andras doesn’t have patience for her restraint. He wants wild, he wants hungry, he wants to look her in the eyes and see the face of some old god that drives men to madness.
–and when he does, when he sees her face, poised like an asp, waiting to strike, the icy dread that runs him through comes too late.
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
