some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
He should have known they were twins. Somewhere a part of him does, somewhere deep within his conscious that whispers of death and being remade. They each threaten him, one with death dripping as drool from her lips, the other as she places the blade of her tail to his shoulder and presses, presses, presses.
Leonidas feels the way the blade presses in, its edge whispering to his skin to break. It is a compelling, quick question, his body thinks. Its answer needs to be swift too. And, with the fast answer of synapse, his body yields. The blade sinks and his blood rises at its call.
Art stings. It is agony and delight. But he does not smile, he does not look to himself to see how she seeks to turn him into art and whether he becomes it or not. Already the feral boy’s body is a canvas upon which the wild wood has painted. But this girl seeks to turn him in to new art. Something altogether more magical, more wicked and dangerous. Blood beads out of the miniscule cut and crawls like spiders across her blade. The gleam ruby bright, red as a warning to any who dare to touch. Then, the broken skin begins to move, opening and closing and falling away into wings as butterfly moths red and white as bone emerge from the strange wound.
Leonidas lowers an antler to her in answer. He presses a tine to her cheek. It is the tip of a gilded blade. The metal of it flashes menacingly in the light. The rest of his tines reach like groping fingers (sharp and lethal) for her throat, her eyes, her jaw. Beetles run where he presses, he follows their path across her skin.
He tilts his head to watch from where he presses against her as beetles paint her, spiders bleed from him and crimson moths fill the air with the metal scent of blood and death.
@Danaë
