the elephant king

Had the Elephant seen the sudden fear, the terror, in Mauja’s face when his faltering proffer rent the air between them, he would have stopped. He would have withdrawn his massive, destructive horn from the spotted, silken chest and replaced it’s sharp point with his warm muzzle smoothing over displaced hair— dark lips brushing away the pain and fear he was causing this man. And the Elephant would have held him, then. Tightly, silently apologizing for even thinking of driving his horn into unwilling, warm flesh; attempting to atone for the cold tears that slipped from Mauja’s ice blue eyes.

But, as it was, the bowed head and downcast navy eyes did not see the crystalline rivulets that decorated ink-spotted cheeks. And the dark ivory, spiraled shaft of his horn did not feel the gentle splash of those tears against its hard length. Gleaming and clear, the fearful droplets left streaks of moisture on the long black horn whose tip pressed gently on soft, giving, willing flesh.

“Will it hurt?” The whisper, nearly missed in the clear chaos that reigned in the Elephant’s mind, resting on a throne of heat that pulsed a staccato rhythm just beyond his horn’s tip, fractured through the roar of of own pulse in his ears. “What doesn’t?” His equally hoarse, tangled whisper replied, nearly lost to the cliff’s white stones and scrubs. For what hadn’t hurt the two men in their time together? In the length of time they had known each other, they had been avoiding pain, only to be overwhelmed by it time and time again (both physically and emotionally).

So, perhaps Mauja the Frozen Light was right to seek it out. And perhaps Tembovu the Elephant King was right to give it. For, if pain was inevitable, then seeking it from ones we love was, perhaps, the kindest pain of all. At least that pain, that hurt, could be smoothed over with remorseful tears and repentant whispers.

At least that pain ended in love.

And it was these knotted, confused thoughts that drew a sharp intake of breath through the man’s black nostrils. It was this twisted tenderness that tensed his thick neck as he started to push in. He felt the soft pop reverberate in the bottom of his great chest as his horn ripped through the thin skin that separated its length from the warm, pulsing heat in Mauja’s chest.

Another, shaking breath to steady him, to strengthen his resolve, pulled into shaking nostrils. And then in; in he plunged his horn though hot flesh. He felt the muscles tighten around his the length of his horn, resisting the invasion of hard, black ivory into the soft tissues. The contraction of the brawn guided his horn south in it’s journey to the man’s heart, and he felt the hard click of horn against bone as the thick shaft clipped sternum.

“I’m sorry,” the words were a whisper, maybe not even real.