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He smells her. It does not matter if it’s only an echo in his mind. Once, before, he had adored this place, these soaring pillars, these gorgeous pieces of stained treasure reaching for the heavens. It had been his place and his solitude, his throne where he reigned supreme, tinier than he is now, filled with just as much piss and vinegar to spread in his conquest. It had been his gift from the heavens, his domain and his comfort; his masterpiece, divine in the green glow of the grasslands. It had been perfect, once, before. Before. Before her. He scowls as he peers into the pale shadows of the rotunda, for in his mind’s eye, he sees her specter flitting between pillars and shafts of light, just as ugly as she had been in the flesh, angrier and far more spiteful than she had been that dark, wet day. It does not matter that he had driven her away and succeeded in his endeavor to expel her from his halls—because now she haunts him with her rusty, detestable hide and those horrible black eyes that peer into his spirit, his soul, with a calmness that boomed forth in alto. He realizes her scent and how it had pulled at him them—and how it pulls at him now, a mere memory, yet now he understands the message in her odor that he had missed before, that crucial something that distracted him, set him ablaze, took away his reason and his personhood and replaced it with rage, rage, rage. It affects him even now. He feels his blood coursing in his veins, growing thick and hot at the memory of heat and a detestable filly. He is disgusted with the primal, mindless way his body reacts to the thought of her, the idea of her need of a man; he becomes taut and poised, and blood rushes to places that he has no use for, now. A distraction. He cannot condone this enchantment with a filly he d e s p i s e s with every iota of his being. She is not for him to fuck. She is there for him to destroy utterly. And yet, his body craves. He is convinced; she is a witch. His brother’s call is a welcome balm now—the distraction from these distracting things an anchor to the world, to reason and sense and wholesome, male things. His body eases; the blood-rush is gone. And it is only then that he passes the rotunda, to meet his brother at the water’s edge, his hulking brother who has grown just as he himself had, whose dragon shines with scales that have settled beautifully upon her hide. He does not hide the scowl on his features—it is not for Abraham, and his frustrations would be open. “Abraham,” he says, careful not to spit his brother’s name, though his tongue longs for spitting, “This world is full of trash.” He cannot contain his indignation; it leaves him cool and imperious, and yet, the hint of fever does not seem to leave his brow. reginald && abraham the sons of hellion |
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