Sadistic reverie; he could have witnessed her pain and torment for eons, writhing, shattering, shuddering against the shadowed walls of the cavern, pale and choking for sanctuary, never being bestowed the honor. Through her struggle, he remained resolute and reserved, the callous recherché of his countenance not illuminating the rapture of his cruelty, a cool, reserved, taut, motionless bounty of undulating muscle and darkness, grim, decadent, licentious. How much more would he have to push, press, against her soul until she splintered, severed and clattered to the floor in pieces? In shards of hysteria, in waves of clamorous, shrieking, useless fury? How long would it take to consume a righteous, virtuous soul, how long would it take to divest it of its glory and heart? Did she taste her destruction on the tip of her tongue, thick and swollen with the pulsing blood of her veins, glad to be alive and awaiting the next torturous assault? Did she cherish the air again as he released her, as the noxious blades of his rapier curse, brief but relentless, pilfered back into his lethal existence? Would she do something else for him to strip her of it once more? He grated against the air, harsh and ruthless, the wicked doldrums of his puissance, pernicious and infernal, drifting into the echoing munitions. “No. You will not have freedom.” Not until her usefulness had been fulfilled, not until her feathered body felt like a living corpse, not until her herd demanded for her vigilance and they could relish the mania in their eyes. It was a predator’s promise, a carnivore’s conviction, holstered to his raptorial chords, his stoked, stroked menace. For this was their supremacy, their fervor, their ardent, feverish hold on the earth – to let it slink away before the time was right would be a disappointing loss.
But she is revived – a harpie, a banshee shrieking in the breeze, rattling her chains for another wish that goes ignored. If here were a lesser being, one that admired instead of consumed, he may have found her tenacity amusing, lively, her perseverance a change in the glacial expanse – but instead he finds it foolish, vacuous, inane, and worthless. What was she going to do in her newfound dungeon? In her cruel oubliette? Too weak, too pathetic, too enamored by the noxious shades of his poisonous demolition, too unwise and rash, posturing tirades upon their blighted leader. Would she grant him another excuse to have his enchantments dance upon her toes, the deadly, coquette waltz of the devil’s opus, the lethal, formidable shades of the arcane, of the immoral? Would she lace her anger upon the other femme, would she gnash and grind against the forces binding her, would she ask for him to glide the beguiling treachery over her heart again, make her soul decrepit, wanton, and dissolute? For what Psyche spoke was the truth – he was the shadow she should have feared. In his brewing silence, he waited, patient for the opportunity of another strike, another siege, another assault.
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Pale Princess of A Palace Cracked [Svetlana/Open]
