T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
There are so many pieces of his soul upon which she might cut herself. His soul, submerged in darkness, is so full of wicked edges and pin point corners. She fears how he will make her bleed, how he will eviscerate her. But already, as his faith makes him ail, so too is he already bleeding. Tenebrae is strung upon her soul. It is a cross upon which he perishes. Her heart the pyre upon which he turns to ash.
Elena ends the monk with a look.
And then her voice...
It is a song, a melody that undoes all the pieces of him his faith has bound together. Elena remakes him with her wanting. She demands of him and oh, he gives and gives and gives. He is a fool, drunk upon love. It makes him uneasy, to ever think himself a fool for loving Elena. There is nothing of her that is foolish.
Her words are honey, deeply golden.. Tenebrae’s lips have already reached her jaw and they turn for hers, to taste where her words tumble from her mouth. There is a sweetness there, it is addicting.
“Of course you are.” The black stallion murmurs against her lips, whiskey over honey.
The monk’s kiss does not linger there, not when she still looks up at the sky. He moves to look up, to see what gods and stars hold her interest when his kisses cannot. Yet their gazes snag as hers descends and his rises. All of Elena is held in the white light of his star-bright gaze. He breathes lowly and only now wonders if Caligo’s altar has been reassembled, or if it still lies in pieces, spilled across the festival grass.
Elena speaks. It is more honey that he does not taste (though he longs to). But her words turn with crystal hardness. He might laugh if the lake had not already washed the sins out of his skin. All Denocte is still and sombre around them. The stars stretch out, keening out their sorrows and their eternities in blinking light.
Tell me you love me..
Has he not already told her once? Had he not breathed is across her skin when it was still slick with saltwater. Now the column of her throat is not cool salt, but warm satin. The smoke of bonfires and the scent of jasmine cling to her skin like wild gypsy promises.
“I love you.” He concedes with eyes too bright, too wide. “I see you.” He offers her. ‘You are a vision not easily forgotten.” And then, after a pause, as the final droplet of water leaves his side and drops back into the lake he murmurs, “You are in my soul.”
Are you ready yet?
He does not ask it. Though the stars cast the question down like crowns.
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