the cost of my desire
He imagines their souls, their hearts, dissolving into one another in a language only they might know. Tangling like roots through the dead earth made of lovers' corpses. It is with an intimate hush, and ardent prayer, that his lips tangle through her pale, bone-white hair as he breathes in her holiness, her candor. His ardor for her deepens, when she lifts her tailblade to his face, and begs him come closer so that she may spill his blood unto the earth—he wants her war, her music, her Armageddon, to send him crashing into her Hell where an earthly tomb awaits his arrival—
O, but he'd pull her under, too, with his smouldering passion, with a hunger so raw it could take her breath away. There is hunger and ache and violence within him, as chaos and madness, writhes their slick, serpent forms in the core of his lean stomach. Her nearness draws a hiss along his lips. When he murmurs into her hair, and when she curls into him, he can only drown further into her softness, her beauty, her own echoing breath of hunger. It is husky and sensual, when he speaks, and his words rumble like thunder in his throat, before they caress hot against her skin. "That has never stopped me before," Is all he says, as she leaves, and takes the moonlight with her, so that the night may ache and follow after her with a wretched abandon.
But when she leaves, when her slender figure is swallowed up by the thickening fog-spell, he watches her cut up the earth in the wake of her graceful departure, as though she leaves a string of web to follow—
And it is within the secret place between spoken prayer and hidden command—between the holy light of her goddess-skin and the saccharine purity of her darknened innocence, that taints him and carves his heart with a hideous longing. The memory of her skin on his lips leaves an aftertaste—it is an echo for the wanting of more, more. As the silken scent of her hair, her lips, her neck, and the whirring of her tail, tangles like violent roses and wild poetry into his heart. Arawn will remember her as intimately as he remembers the earth beneath his flesh, as the fires that kissed and ravaged his skin. And even as the darkness gives, swallowing him whole, she still takes pieces of him—her light leaves with her, and her flowers fade into the foggy deluge, like a ghost-ship writhing along haunting, black seas.
Left alone now, the same roaring rumble bellows like a wolf crawling hungrily from his throat. It aches to tear free. To follow her. To hunt her. To chase her and run her down into the earth, where they may tangle in not blood, but heat and nearness and a hundred other things only the earth may know. Arawn rears, tossing his skull upward, flaying the dirt beneath his hooves, as he commands his hounds with a rough, echoing snarl. When she takes her tenderness with her, he is only left with his violence—and his violence, makes him a wild man unhinged. The heathen, the red stallion, gallops away into the night, with only his ragged growl upon his jaws, and the memory of her lips lingering like scripture carved into his skin.
@Danaë
