What's a king to a god
In truth, he could have stolen another taste. A deeper taste, a stronger taste, not one that merely grazes flesh and dreams of carving, of delving, cleaving, a madness of wanting and never knowing the end. He grinned in response instead as fangs knit his lips. It does not know of soft things like love and romance and gentle, swooning breezes of lust. It has only ever known hunger. Such is infinite and ingrained, it is its first primal sin.
It thought of a stag aside a fire, an ocean swept in stars that dripped from her like dying constellations. In part, it is the original Erasmus that would know the true face of hunger is lust, as she is his first primal sin. But the aether is not wanton or innocent, so it mistakes the clambering in its throat and chest for pangs of thirst and ache, and drinks her in visions.
Her voice pleads to him from a distance outside of such dreams, and he realizes that the drone is even farther from them then. do you hear – his flesh prickles where she touches him, feeling too much like a meteor, like lightning, and an ear slips toward the paths they have abandoned. There are whispers still, fleeting and low, but the aether-thing does not recognize their cadence, even when he searches the monotonous hum that stores Erasmus's memory.
Erasmus stops to draw aside before the moonlit path, its euphoric glow spilling over his form in a halo that sets fire to gold veins. He is a shadow that blots the light, bright eyes peering beneath the contrast. He stands, a tall cosmic predatory prowess, an eclipse that promises a whole blood moon that beneath, heathens howl. “they cannot touch you,” his voice drawls, and the shadow of each word hisses, but I can, I can. “come.” this utterance is softer, fuller, and he reaches to brush her cheek with a reassuring caress.
***
The forest spills before them, vibrant and quivering, all the while tense and feral, and Erasmus waits for its sharpened teeth. It is, perhaps, fortune or coincidence that he notices the crook in the path: or perhaps it is the sight of how it continues on into moon-less quarters, shrouded in impenetrable dark. It calls to him in some sort, much like the drone of singing stones or the whispers of power from a menacing divine - not necessarily a whisper but a gravitational pull, one that the aether is keen to notice. This is one that does not brim with promise, nor glory, nor blood. The path is heavy-trod, but he cannot see if the prints continue on into that blinding black. That is when he paused, looking back to an overgrowth that strangles the husk of a dead tree, the maternal wax of moonlight that swells and seals each leaf-vein.
His eyes reach to the dark that unfolds before them, lounging like a waiting cat. And back to the moonlit path, ever slight but wishing, patient and cold.
The crown on his skull pulls a vine as he turns into the overgrown path, their thorns seemingly peeled from his flesh as he enters, embracing, inviting. In the wildness of the moonlit path, dark flowers await them in sleepy, aromatic, unfurling curiosity. Another glance to his partner is a notion onward, soundless but just as gentle as its former command.
Who don't believe in anything
♤♧
@Official Dawn Account @Euryale ; Euryale and Erasmus are taking the moonlit path.
sorry it took me so long, and again thank you sid <3!
