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07-23-2012, 10:17 AM
She stands, an effigy made of rust and iron, moonlight pooling into her silver eyes like puddles of holy water. There is no movement, no quaver of heartbeat nor rasp of breath, just her presence; a haunted thing in this big dark forest.
There is emptiness in those eyes - but there is also the hint of anger, a vicious glint. It runs through her blood, pumps through her heart - she takes a breath - she can smell it in the air like expiration. It sings in her veins, this primal hate.
He lays before her, an ugly assembly of bones and half-consumed muscle clothed in scraps of grey fur. This cannot be not him, her father is tall and black and strong; he is alive, he fought for her and she can taste his blood on her tongue, can feel their love with every beat of her heart. With a look of revulsion, she nudges his cheek where the line of shimmering teeth ends and where frayed slate skin reveals dry corroding meat. This does not smell of forest, he does not smell of Father, the corpse smells of fear and spilled blood.
The girl runs her tongue tenderly over the congealed gore at his throat and pauses. It is him, the one who saved her from darkness and rain. She finds herself longing hopelessly for the warmth of their hollow tree. How could he lead her through oceans and deserts and forests just to find his rotting body? How can she even be sure her magic is correct?
Breathing heavily, the daughter turns her face from his sight, but his smell permeates through the air. It is the heady smell of rot and blood. She tears from his side to find a half-wilted flower which shines pure white in the moonlight. Picking it gently, the sad angry girl places it on his face like a sacrifice, for was he not her god, her father?
