Hazy shades of red & white
You're colder in the afternoon and cozier at night
He bleeds like any mortal; in this land of the blessed and benefited, he is a simple, plain creature. Perhaps, once upon a time in a distant land, his flesh of spun gold had meant something, to someone. Any flowers which marred his gilded countenance would have been hacked and burnt away for daring to spill the blood of a Sand Prince. But there had been no laws of fealty or fairness in the desert, and the horrible tricks of nature had torn more from him than stinging lines in his pelt.
Beside this creature of vulcan magma and width and force, he feels much like a daisy in a windstorm.
The music has done little for him but make his stomach turn. It seems much like a funeral dirge, peaking in the wrong spots and hollow and reedy. Now it makes him sweat more than the clinging summer heat; or maybe it is being under those molten eyes. He wishes for Nashira’s cold, silver wit to slap him into shape; or Nathely’s plain, comforting presence. He wishes to feel unseen. He wants to be wanted.
He realizes, belatedly, that this behemoth of vaulted earth has also been injured by his blundering into the foliage, and all at once the rakes in his skin fall away. He feels lesser. He is negligible. He feels fatuous and unconscionable all at the same time. He opens his mouth to apologize profusely for his inexcusable actions and belligerence but he realizes here, under the incense smoke and cumulus perfume of dying flowers, his words are insignificant. Dust in a pungent wind.
He swallows, instead, and fights tooth and hoof against the urge to slink away. He is small and he is stumbling into somewhere he does not belong, some rabbit wandering unwillingly into the maw of the wolf. He feels hunted as this creature, this beast of the old earth spins and turns and circles him. He is a shark and Atlas is some gutted fish. Streaks of red spiral down his left front limb, mimicking the garland of chokecherries spread in arcs from the beams of the distant palace balconies above.
Atlas is ever small, ever smaller. He is nothing. He hates this.
He loves it. Somewhere, deep within him. The attentions of a ravaging devil make his gut curl and his heart pound.
“Perhaps,” he says, finding his voice, a whisper and a waver, “but one can love the roses without braving the thorns.” He swallows. “Though the temptation is there, always.” To reach and grab the bouquet in full palms, gods be damned the consequences.
His eyes are something distant and depraved. Atlas is reminded of his brother, watching slaves tear themselves to pieces. It drags him back to himself, a bit. “I was invited by a friend. Kinship is what I seek, beauty or no.” He tears his gaze away from horns, garish in the moon. “Though there is little of both to be found here, I feel.”
Something loosens his tongue and makes him reposte the demon. “And you? Did you come to gravely upset the florists? I’m sure there’s an interior decorator nearby whose ears are burning.” He forces a smile. He finds it comes naturally.
I have seen the devil and his smile through opened throats. I have lived in a house formed of the blood of his offerings. I am not scared. I am not scared.
Beside this creature of vulcan magma and width and force, he feels much like a daisy in a windstorm.
The music has done little for him but make his stomach turn. It seems much like a funeral dirge, peaking in the wrong spots and hollow and reedy. Now it makes him sweat more than the clinging summer heat; or maybe it is being under those molten eyes. He wishes for Nashira’s cold, silver wit to slap him into shape; or Nathely’s plain, comforting presence. He wishes to feel unseen. He wants to be wanted.
He realizes, belatedly, that this behemoth of vaulted earth has also been injured by his blundering into the foliage, and all at once the rakes in his skin fall away. He feels lesser. He is negligible. He feels fatuous and unconscionable all at the same time. He opens his mouth to apologize profusely for his inexcusable actions and belligerence but he realizes here, under the incense smoke and cumulus perfume of dying flowers, his words are insignificant. Dust in a pungent wind.
He swallows, instead, and fights tooth and hoof against the urge to slink away. He is small and he is stumbling into somewhere he does not belong, some rabbit wandering unwillingly into the maw of the wolf. He feels hunted as this creature, this beast of the old earth spins and turns and circles him. He is a shark and Atlas is some gutted fish. Streaks of red spiral down his left front limb, mimicking the garland of chokecherries spread in arcs from the beams of the distant palace balconies above.
Atlas is ever small, ever smaller. He is nothing. He hates this.
He loves it. Somewhere, deep within him. The attentions of a ravaging devil make his gut curl and his heart pound.
“Perhaps,” he says, finding his voice, a whisper and a waver, “but one can love the roses without braving the thorns.” He swallows. “Though the temptation is there, always.” To reach and grab the bouquet in full palms, gods be damned the consequences.
His eyes are something distant and depraved. Atlas is reminded of his brother, watching slaves tear themselves to pieces. It drags him back to himself, a bit. “I was invited by a friend. Kinship is what I seek, beauty or no.” He tears his gaze away from horns, garish in the moon. “Though there is little of both to be found here, I feel.”
Something loosens his tongue and makes him reposte the demon. “And you? Did you come to gravely upset the florists? I’m sure there’s an interior decorator nearby whose ears are burning.” He forces a smile. He finds it comes naturally.
I have seen the devil and his smile through opened throats. I have lived in a house formed of the blood of his offerings. I am not scared. I am not scared.
SPEECH ! @ERASMUS ! CRIES IN GAYER AND A LITTLE KINKY
