The aether has never questioned or consecrated the acknowledgment of gods and kings, and Erasmus, forever an agnostic creature, had never had the humility to accept their dominion. Two halves of a contemptible beast formed a whole of unruly consequence – a creature of wilderness, of instinct, of appetite. Each fiber wound the flesh with mannerisms of what could be described as otherness, of otherworldliness, of elsewise and contrary, unsettling and strange to the decisive eye. Whether it was the lacking genuine expressions or the misplaced gestures, or the feline smoothness of movements that could ever only be explained to glide, as if by phantasmic persuasion, exotically and horrifically beautiful. Their terror was in the lack of control that seemed so inexplicably effortless – as if each gesture, step, and twitch was by graceful accident.
Yet, they were not perfect. And in those imperfections were the most dissuading of all comfort in the matter that they were wholly predatory, almost reptilian, which set him apart. The flicker of half moon eyes, the flash of fang, the roll of reticulated spine which, uncurling from the shoulder, bore with it a languishing softness that honed all moments of sharpness. What is a god or king that is not such power, sharpness, wildness, and flaw? And yet, could be a thing so godless?
There is no part of him that bows when Vercingtorix does speak like a God, though the tight grin in its curve may bear a shadow of closeness. It is too cutting, too kneading against his lips, too revealing of its cruelty and too uncivilized to mimic the courtesy of such a gesture. It does not know it then because it is a thing that only knows hunger, but such is the unraveling of arrogance, of restless abandon, of an unwillingness to yield. And there is more, so much more, but it does not know enough to pursue the depths of what is left in the shadow of one emotion drawn to the next – it only knows that it curls meekly at his chest, in his gut, and threatens a growl at the pit of his throat.
Erasmus looks to Vercingtorix through slitted pupils like daggers raised, half-lidded speculation, the thick curve of his neck drawn back taut against his shoulders. With me, curls around a many unspoken words left unconfirmed while his eyes persuaded their way around the rest of the library, though were not kept to any particular thing. Erasmus watched, undeterred, shadows curling along the length of his spine, gathered like webs beneath the frays of his mane. Waiting patiently, pondering what stayed in the space that followed “with me” or continued on restlessly, where one may end and another may begin.
With me, he says, as though the propriety of Novus and the purpose for which he was willed here could be explained by one story alone.
For a moment it thinks, no, it does not begin with you, with a golden boy, a vagabond, a handsome creature who speaks with the ethos of a forgotten king. But why couldn't it then, why couldn't the beginning of anything begin with pretty young vagrants with eyes as open and proud as the sea? So he says nothing for a length of time, nothing but to observe in the grace of silence.
At least, if you would like it to be the beginning of something.
There is more left unsaid, or there is more that he cannot help but insinuate that follows and pervades what has been spoken, and he doubts his own intuitions humbly. But when he waits for more, nothing comes but the quiet of the library, full and still, hanging between them with the promise of something. Something more, something else, something less, but something nonetheless, patiently regarding one response or another. “I would,” he purrs after a time, the sound resonant and deep like a wolfish whisper from the bottom of a dark well. Like a voice from the other side of a confessional veil. Like a breath unearthed from the depths of a woodland tomb. His expression darkened, grin loosened from the taut edges of his curving lips, though still carved by the same predatory sharpness as ever before.
Yet, they were not perfect. And in those imperfections were the most dissuading of all comfort in the matter that they were wholly predatory, almost reptilian, which set him apart. The flicker of half moon eyes, the flash of fang, the roll of reticulated spine which, uncurling from the shoulder, bore with it a languishing softness that honed all moments of sharpness. What is a god or king that is not such power, sharpness, wildness, and flaw? And yet, could be a thing so godless?
There is no part of him that bows when Vercingtorix does speak like a God, though the tight grin in its curve may bear a shadow of closeness. It is too cutting, too kneading against his lips, too revealing of its cruelty and too uncivilized to mimic the courtesy of such a gesture. It does not know it then because it is a thing that only knows hunger, but such is the unraveling of arrogance, of restless abandon, of an unwillingness to yield. And there is more, so much more, but it does not know enough to pursue the depths of what is left in the shadow of one emotion drawn to the next – it only knows that it curls meekly at his chest, in his gut, and threatens a growl at the pit of his throat.
Erasmus looks to Vercingtorix through slitted pupils like daggers raised, half-lidded speculation, the thick curve of his neck drawn back taut against his shoulders. With me, curls around a many unspoken words left unconfirmed while his eyes persuaded their way around the rest of the library, though were not kept to any particular thing. Erasmus watched, undeterred, shadows curling along the length of his spine, gathered like webs beneath the frays of his mane. Waiting patiently, pondering what stayed in the space that followed “with me” or continued on restlessly, where one may end and another may begin.
With me, he says, as though the propriety of Novus and the purpose for which he was willed here could be explained by one story alone.
For a moment it thinks, no, it does not begin with you, with a golden boy, a vagabond, a handsome creature who speaks with the ethos of a forgotten king. But why couldn't it then, why couldn't the beginning of anything begin with pretty young vagrants with eyes as open and proud as the sea? So he says nothing for a length of time, nothing but to observe in the grace of silence.
At least, if you would like it to be the beginning of something.
There is more left unsaid, or there is more that he cannot help but insinuate that follows and pervades what has been spoken, and he doubts his own intuitions humbly. But when he waits for more, nothing comes but the quiet of the library, full and still, hanging between them with the promise of something. Something more, something else, something less, but something nonetheless, patiently regarding one response or another. “I would,” he purrs after a time, the sound resonant and deep like a wolfish whisper from the bottom of a dark well. Like a voice from the other side of a confessional veil. Like a breath unearthed from the depths of a woodland tomb. His expression darkened, grin loosened from the taut edges of his curving lips, though still carved by the same predatory sharpness as ever before.
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