when vercingtorix approaches, the thing that is erasmus reaches to it like a storm embracing the sea – beneath its skin, shuddering bones, a belly that swarms with a black pit of hungry snakes. it does not move but o! it craves, it eats, as it knows to do, the empty spaces between them that hounds with silence and cold. it aches to trace the winding path between them, to swallow up the heat that pervades – to drink, and drink, and when erasmus looks to the golden thing with an empire in his eyes, is it not as one looks fondly to art? it leans ever so slightly, never noticeably, like the heatseeking serpent that it is, recoiling beneath its skin and testing fangs with its tongue. it does not know of the ways in which predators, when prowling the nuance of power and prestige, look to each other in such ways. but it learns.
it thinks of the way in which wolves revolve, kings in their own minds. gods in their hearts. their shoulders are hunched, their heads low, tails high. one pants, the other growls.
erasmus grins again, all teeth, all sharpness.
it cannot help the way those hungry black snakes twist in his belly like begging, writhing against his core with tedious bide. it cannot help the way, when the shining creature stretches, its eyes linger over the softest parts of his neck. it forgets where it is for a moment, in this cathedral. this church. this holy place of oak boughs and opiate prayer, and for a moment the leaves that drift heavenly from the ceiling look more like ash than rebirth. it waits. it waits. inside, it howls.
solterra. it rolls off the man's lips, and erasmus drinks it. his eyes drift back to the inky caricature of flourished datura, and he searches for reason. he remembers a carton of wines in the bowels of a stone temple, and the way their dark contents shift like death when the bottles clink softly together. because why not, answers some small, distant reflection of the erasmus that was, the boyish parts of him that remain only in memory and flicker in and out. because death is inevitable, and the world waits for none. page 43. erasmus flicks the paper back, and wild rue springs from its page. psychoactive. hallucinations. the illustration is mounded blackness peppered by pale star blooms. centered beneath the dotted sketch of its seeds, another skull waits. solterra is a hellscape for a hungry deserter, but death dreams in its wake.
the story of us all.
is that not also what the thing that becomes erasmus seeks? and the thing that what erasmus, though his delvings into botany were admirable, never aspired for such depths. but it craved knowledge like a starving creature. it looked to vercingtorix with expectance, need. stories, yes, stories of solterra and golden boys with ruin in their eyes. stories of denocte and its sea-dragons and jewel-crested dreamers. it rises in his throat. it forgets hunger, predatory fury, and the way it buckles against itself like a rattling snake. tell me, tell me, tell me.
but it is brief. because the wolf in the man's eyes is circling again, and erasmus is grinning again, and he dreams of sharp things rising from oak altars and spindling, poisonous flowers. its dreams do not come. oh, how awful, that they do not come. the aether hums discontentedly, and it swallows itself in his throat like a muffled sigh. his teeth feel so tight against his lips. his tongue presses the spaces between.
is he, too, waiting? waiting for the stories of us all? the stories of erasmus? of a boy-wolf lost in the tragedies of lunatics and fanatics? of shamans and their vague whisperings that not even they understand? of gods who rendered themselves to nothing, and what comes from their dust? of dying worlds, of bursting stars, of being endlessly hungry and knowing the meaning of eternity? of stealing flesh as though it were a suit, and finding where it fits in the spaces between memories like trying on new shoes?
it relents nothing. there is more coming. but it also wants to know of golden things with sharp horns and sea eyes.
something hungry lurches in erasmus's eyes when the man speaks again. does he see it? does he know it? even the thing that is erasmus does not know. maybe he can tell. he is singing of poisons like he knows erasmus, and his grin becomes darker. perhaps, somewhere deep in the dark pit of his eyes, something that looks like a spark of amusement jumps between the dancing crescent-moons. they wax, and the grin crooks itself in the east again. "so did he." quiet, quiet, near-whisper, his tones emit like menace but the Solterran book shuts with a volume that muffles the he, so it is unclear whether the thing says he or i or they or even the concluding way it may even sound like of course. it sees the way they are strung together then, and the aether thing is merely a star caught looming in the canvas of their shared skies.
before there are more questions, he presses past vercingtorix. the motion is not aggressive, not fleeing, not challenging, but simply is, and it does revel in the way his flesh, friction'd against the man's, sparks with a carnal delight. is it not sensual, when you bring the glass of wine to your mouth, and caress the silvery rim with your lips? he knows of the things that wait beneath his flesh. those warm, flavorful, pulsing things. how it spills like wine. it cannot help itself. "and what is, the story of us all? where do you begin, then?" erasmus's eyes rove over the A section as a shadow of a quivering branch draws a line across their spines in the golden light poured through the windows. the hot glow washes across his form, the night-webbing across his spine, starfire of his core, the glistening cracks of gold etched into his shoulders. his shadow swells against the wall of books and he looks back to vercingtorix expectantly, patiently, for what the man knows of stories beyond the classification of poisons. does he too know of wolf-boys and their unendurable hunger for the cruel world at their doorsteps? does he too taste like metal, and salt, and arrogance? "where do I begin?" it echoes.
as he waits for an answer, the aether hums the song of dying suns, and for the slightest moment, the grin spreads to his eyes.
it is not kind and it is not unkind. but oh, it tells something terrible.
it thinks of the way in which wolves revolve, kings in their own minds. gods in their hearts. their shoulders are hunched, their heads low, tails high. one pants, the other growls.
erasmus grins again, all teeth, all sharpness.
it cannot help the way those hungry black snakes twist in his belly like begging, writhing against his core with tedious bide. it cannot help the way, when the shining creature stretches, its eyes linger over the softest parts of his neck. it forgets where it is for a moment, in this cathedral. this church. this holy place of oak boughs and opiate prayer, and for a moment the leaves that drift heavenly from the ceiling look more like ash than rebirth. it waits. it waits. inside, it howls.
solterra. it rolls off the man's lips, and erasmus drinks it. his eyes drift back to the inky caricature of flourished datura, and he searches for reason. he remembers a carton of wines in the bowels of a stone temple, and the way their dark contents shift like death when the bottles clink softly together. because why not, answers some small, distant reflection of the erasmus that was, the boyish parts of him that remain only in memory and flicker in and out. because death is inevitable, and the world waits for none. page 43. erasmus flicks the paper back, and wild rue springs from its page. psychoactive. hallucinations. the illustration is mounded blackness peppered by pale star blooms. centered beneath the dotted sketch of its seeds, another skull waits. solterra is a hellscape for a hungry deserter, but death dreams in its wake.
the story of us all.
is that not also what the thing that becomes erasmus seeks? and the thing that what erasmus, though his delvings into botany were admirable, never aspired for such depths. but it craved knowledge like a starving creature. it looked to vercingtorix with expectance, need. stories, yes, stories of solterra and golden boys with ruin in their eyes. stories of denocte and its sea-dragons and jewel-crested dreamers. it rises in his throat. it forgets hunger, predatory fury, and the way it buckles against itself like a rattling snake. tell me, tell me, tell me.
but it is brief. because the wolf in the man's eyes is circling again, and erasmus is grinning again, and he dreams of sharp things rising from oak altars and spindling, poisonous flowers. its dreams do not come. oh, how awful, that they do not come. the aether hums discontentedly, and it swallows itself in his throat like a muffled sigh. his teeth feel so tight against his lips. his tongue presses the spaces between.
is he, too, waiting? waiting for the stories of us all? the stories of erasmus? of a boy-wolf lost in the tragedies of lunatics and fanatics? of shamans and their vague whisperings that not even they understand? of gods who rendered themselves to nothing, and what comes from their dust? of dying worlds, of bursting stars, of being endlessly hungry and knowing the meaning of eternity? of stealing flesh as though it were a suit, and finding where it fits in the spaces between memories like trying on new shoes?
it relents nothing. there is more coming. but it also wants to know of golden things with sharp horns and sea eyes.
something hungry lurches in erasmus's eyes when the man speaks again. does he see it? does he know it? even the thing that is erasmus does not know. maybe he can tell. he is singing of poisons like he knows erasmus, and his grin becomes darker. perhaps, somewhere deep in the dark pit of his eyes, something that looks like a spark of amusement jumps between the dancing crescent-moons. they wax, and the grin crooks itself in the east again. "so did he." quiet, quiet, near-whisper, his tones emit like menace but the Solterran book shuts with a volume that muffles the he, so it is unclear whether the thing says he or i or they or even the concluding way it may even sound like of course. it sees the way they are strung together then, and the aether thing is merely a star caught looming in the canvas of their shared skies.
before there are more questions, he presses past vercingtorix. the motion is not aggressive, not fleeing, not challenging, but simply is, and it does revel in the way his flesh, friction'd against the man's, sparks with a carnal delight. is it not sensual, when you bring the glass of wine to your mouth, and caress the silvery rim with your lips? he knows of the things that wait beneath his flesh. those warm, flavorful, pulsing things. how it spills like wine. it cannot help itself. "and what is, the story of us all? where do you begin, then?" erasmus's eyes rove over the A section as a shadow of a quivering branch draws a line across their spines in the golden light poured through the windows. the hot glow washes across his form, the night-webbing across his spine, starfire of his core, the glistening cracks of gold etched into his shoulders. his shadow swells against the wall of books and he looks back to vercingtorix expectantly, patiently, for what the man knows of stories beyond the classification of poisons. does he too know of wolf-boys and their unendurable hunger for the cruel world at their doorsteps? does he too taste like metal, and salt, and arrogance? "where do I begin?" it echoes.
as he waits for an answer, the aether hums the song of dying suns, and for the slightest moment, the grin spreads to his eyes.
it is not kind and it is not unkind. but oh, it tells something terrible.
@
