The cool demeanor of his existence still continued its ambient chill, the scythe in the sinister coils of sedition, insurrection, and calamity, crooning acrimony with the silence of his command, intimidation, virile, treacherous malice. Svetlana, once cherished lead, shuffled away, broken, despondent, muffled bits of misery stuck to their glacial expanse, tufted in the bounty of her wings and feathers, and he remained between her and salvation, gathered in the taut curves of his muscles, blackguard and sculpture in the rapier bliss of his immoral onslaught. Destruction, corruption, condemning the eager virtues to the unsung follies of sin and Tartarean wiles, watching as the curse, the gift, the blight, the blessing, of his entity stretches its nefarious snares around the prowess of horror and mayhem. He would have stayed, frozen, alluring marble decadent and danger carved into the whims and fancies of devilish, heathen pursuits, until she’d withered and decayed in the splendor of frost, become one with the snow, gelid and rimed, skeletal carcass of ice and melancholy. Instead, his attention is drawn elsewhere, to occupants harkening the threshold of the maintained oubliette, and the pernicious foil of his rapacious, carnivore contortions whispered, forced him to lace his piercing gaze upon the first creature.
Recognition dawned immediately, the meticulous formation of his thoughts, of his schemes, of his guile, hadn’t forgotten the features of a trespasser, of an interloper that attempted cruelties upon a realm he once shielded, of a soul he’d almost damned. The ferocity of his stare loomed upon her now, studying the mottling of ivory, the capricious tides she’d enamored and collected – why did she appear so content in his presence (for no one ever was – they were wary, even in his best moments)? Why did she relax? Why did she remain tranquil, pondering the exchange between prey and predator? He had half a notion to show her the meaning of his terror again, in these deserted corridors there was no sibling to save her, no dreadful sister that choked the life out of his sovereign; just the wilderness, vast, uncertain, tied to the cold, winter battlements of his design. He could bury her and the Pegasus amongst the rubble and ruin of the ice, forgotten until spring’s thaw, yet, he continued the reign of his indifferent, apathetic nonchalance, hissing the harsh candor of his behemoth grace. Maybe then he’d be left alone to watch the earth perish around him. “I am not kind.” But she knew that, was fully aware of his vicious sentiments, his raw power, the finery of his detachment. So why was she here, in the wake of his malice, contempt and loathing? Did she wish to be stolen from life all over again? His final words, harsh, grating, caught from the web of his sibilant tongue, didn’t embark on his confusion, but sealed the tension of their prior encounter. “I know who you are.” The other, some stallion, was ignored altogether, unthreatening, not worth his time or concern, wafting along the blood tassels of daft Ophelia, drowning in the chords of her own curiosity.
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