The brim of his cauldron overflows; the lid blows from the pot of boiling tar and brimstone. It is unleashed, he is unhinged finally, for it must be destiny that he would be so ignited.

She pulls herself out of his teeth; bristling black fur is stuck in-between the long white fangs, her taste lingering far too long against his tongue, clogging the back of his throat, gagging him. He touched her—the touch was supposed to promise the release of this pressure, the agony of this heat within! I does no such thing, and worse, she’s speaking again, things flying from her mouth in a display of useless stupidity, fiery insolence. He had thought they were passed this willfulness of a slave girl—what sort of pride does she expect herself to hold? For she belongs to him, and he did not ask for her words; here they tumble, and she is away from him, where she should not be, where the seeping fire of his belly cannot reach her, claw her, reel her in its devastating, agonizing blaze of black smoke--

“SHUT UP!!” he finally shouts, unable to keep the roar sealed behind his lips: he hates her. He flies at her again, and this time his rage will not be denied: hooves flail her, teeth bite at her, tug her skin, endeavor to spill the blood and taste its mediocrity. Kicks are thrown and her body is pummeled with the strength of his rage, blind and wild—and none of it helps, none of it eases the pressure in his breast, the bubbling of his gut, the rising levels of something that will surely explode if he doesn’t do—if he—

It is finally Nature’s hand that steps in and saves the black widow’s life—for he had been working to end it, such was his frustration, his wrath and the need for something that he does not understand. It is a small hand, cool and porcelain, that caresses the broken mind of the Grey-Eye’d prince—twists it under quick and knowing fingers, long and gentle against his consciousness, forming a plot, an idea that strikes him as it has never struck before. He stops trying to maul his mistress, trying to close her mouth once and for all; he leaps at her, onto a back that slopes gracefully toward a well-formed quarter etched from obsidian. His body is lost from all control, and Nature’s hand wields it as a puppeteer masterfully wields the strings and wires of their grey-eye’d quarry, bending some, twisting others, flexing and arching the wooden cross to fulfill the sacrament of every mortal being, etched into stone since the beginning of time.

He is not a gentle creature.




@[Jorogumo]
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