Post by Incapability on Jul 23, 2007 5:21:04 GMT 9.5
Well, here it is. Not quite the evil plotbunny I had intended to whisk out of my sleeve, but evil and of a bunny-ish nature anyway.
I'd call it an answer to the Drabble of Doom Challenge, given the pairing that, though not as improbable and revolting as others, might well fit into the category of the done-to-death topics. Sorry 'bout that. The reason it's not quite a drabble is, as you have surely observed, that it is rather ten drabbles, or maybe a short one-shot. Though I'm not sure I like it. I think I don't.
Ah well, enough rambling, on with the show.
*******
From the moment she’s let him touch her, she knew it was a mistake. The Old Days are gone, were never there for the violent man in her arms. No more need to tie the warrior to life on the night before his greatest battle. And yet, she could not turn him away. The old rhythms are still beating strongly within her, and she knows that tonight, she could not even have refused the lowest soldier. She keeps telling herself that she did this for many men as they were looking in the face of death, and, knowing that this might be the last, clings to the thought that it will not mean more than it ever has.
He tears the ridiculously frail silver armour away from her and drops it to the ground, completely ignorant of any value it might have to the owner, instead turning back to that woman before him, that woman who fancies herself a Goddess and who is looking at him with sadness and regret, and he senses that she does not feel them for him. Deep inside, he feels a stab, right there, at that spot that always hurts when he swallows yet one more emotion. With an angry snarl he presses his mouth to her throat, to that frail, shining creation. He thinks of Angels for a moment, of those shining Beings full of goodness and innocence that his Christian men sometimes speak of, and that this throat could surely belong to one. But he discards the thought quickly. Surely she has had as many men as the next whore. And he sneers in his mind as he thinks of Angels and innocence, continuing to bite in fervour at that skin that any other would have kissed and worshipped.
He digs his hands into that skin that looked so icy-cold that he almost expects it to feel warm and smooth, and is greeted by frozen marble. Wherever he touches, he is met by a chill that seems to arise his deepest desperation, and he lets his hands wander, searching, yearning for a shred of the warmth he expected to find in her. He feels her hand in his hair, her sharp nails scratching his head, and her breath next to his ear. And there, finally it is. Warmth unlike any he ever felt before. Subtler. Weaker. And yet all the more comforting.
He leaves her breast alone, going for that cruel mouth instead, and he dives in, tries to rip it open with his lips and tongue so he can lose himself in it, tries to bite her face away so that all of him can reach that warmth. And with each second, his desperation grows, and the sob forming at that raw spot of his’ wanders further up his throat.
He pushes her back onto his bedstead with the strength of a brute, scratching at her, his breath increasing with each moment to a point that makes it almost pathetic, and she feels furs pressed into her bare back. How fitting. No blankets, soft objects made by caring female hands. Instead, the tokens of his strength, surrounding him with death and slaughter even as he rests.
But now, he is shivering, and she can tell that it is not from the cold winter air.
‘Touch me,’ he whispers in the short moment that he breaks from that violent thing that none would call kiss anymore, and the words are torn from him in a sob before he buries his face in her shoulder.
And so she runs her hands up and down his back, and so he resumes his clawing, losing himself in the sea of desperation and doubt and weakness that he never allowed himself to feel before.
His head is rushing with thoughts, images, but he drives it all away to feel nothing but that tiny speck of warmth as her mouth glides over his face, and her hands press his own back to her breasts, as cold as ever, making him realise for the first time what deep down he always knew and feared. That the next time he draws his sword with them might well be the last. And so he clutches at the cold, soft flesh with even more desperation, shivering, as cold as he never felt before.
He realises with a hopeful shudder that the warmth is within her, that he must be buried into every inch of her to get rid of the chill that gripped him. He never thought that he could feel such fear. Fear had always been for others, for those kneeling before him as he blew their lives away.
For a moment he wonders if it is her work, if it is the touch of the fairy Queen that brings to surface all that which he has ever hidden, and he drags her hands away from him, holding them over her head as he resumes his search for a way to get to the warmth.
He will tear her open and break her chest rip for rip if he has to, if that means that he can hide, for once in his life, from the world, from battle and from the cold.
Later, before she returns to her kingdom, she casts one last look at the now sleeping king and remembers how he cried in her arms, cried like a child, chased by fears he had never known he had, grasped by the icy shadow of Death. ‘So cold,’ he had whispered over and over again. ‘So cold.’
She had been right from the beginning, she thinks as she briefly gazes at the fading bruises on her wrists. It was a mistake. And it does not mean anything more than it ever has.
I'd call it an answer to the Drabble of Doom Challenge, given the pairing that, though not as improbable and revolting as others, might well fit into the category of the done-to-death topics. Sorry 'bout that. The reason it's not quite a drabble is, as you have surely observed, that it is rather ten drabbles, or maybe a short one-shot. Though I'm not sure I like it. I think I don't.
Ah well, enough rambling, on with the show.
*******
From the moment she’s let him touch her, she knew it was a mistake. The Old Days are gone, were never there for the violent man in her arms. No more need to tie the warrior to life on the night before his greatest battle. And yet, she could not turn him away. The old rhythms are still beating strongly within her, and she knows that tonight, she could not even have refused the lowest soldier. She keeps telling herself that she did this for many men as they were looking in the face of death, and, knowing that this might be the last, clings to the thought that it will not mean more than it ever has.
He tears the ridiculously frail silver armour away from her and drops it to the ground, completely ignorant of any value it might have to the owner, instead turning back to that woman before him, that woman who fancies herself a Goddess and who is looking at him with sadness and regret, and he senses that she does not feel them for him. Deep inside, he feels a stab, right there, at that spot that always hurts when he swallows yet one more emotion. With an angry snarl he presses his mouth to her throat, to that frail, shining creation. He thinks of Angels for a moment, of those shining Beings full of goodness and innocence that his Christian men sometimes speak of, and that this throat could surely belong to one. But he discards the thought quickly. Surely she has had as many men as the next whore. And he sneers in his mind as he thinks of Angels and innocence, continuing to bite in fervour at that skin that any other would have kissed and worshipped.
He digs his hands into that skin that looked so icy-cold that he almost expects it to feel warm and smooth, and is greeted by frozen marble. Wherever he touches, he is met by a chill that seems to arise his deepest desperation, and he lets his hands wander, searching, yearning for a shred of the warmth he expected to find in her. He feels her hand in his hair, her sharp nails scratching his head, and her breath next to his ear. And there, finally it is. Warmth unlike any he ever felt before. Subtler. Weaker. And yet all the more comforting.
He leaves her breast alone, going for that cruel mouth instead, and he dives in, tries to rip it open with his lips and tongue so he can lose himself in it, tries to bite her face away so that all of him can reach that warmth. And with each second, his desperation grows, and the sob forming at that raw spot of his’ wanders further up his throat.
He pushes her back onto his bedstead with the strength of a brute, scratching at her, his breath increasing with each moment to a point that makes it almost pathetic, and she feels furs pressed into her bare back. How fitting. No blankets, soft objects made by caring female hands. Instead, the tokens of his strength, surrounding him with death and slaughter even as he rests.
But now, he is shivering, and she can tell that it is not from the cold winter air.
‘Touch me,’ he whispers in the short moment that he breaks from that violent thing that none would call kiss anymore, and the words are torn from him in a sob before he buries his face in her shoulder.
And so she runs her hands up and down his back, and so he resumes his clawing, losing himself in the sea of desperation and doubt and weakness that he never allowed himself to feel before.
His head is rushing with thoughts, images, but he drives it all away to feel nothing but that tiny speck of warmth as her mouth glides over his face, and her hands press his own back to her breasts, as cold as ever, making him realise for the first time what deep down he always knew and feared. That the next time he draws his sword with them might well be the last. And so he clutches at the cold, soft flesh with even more desperation, shivering, as cold as he never felt before.
He realises with a hopeful shudder that the warmth is within her, that he must be buried into every inch of her to get rid of the chill that gripped him. He never thought that he could feel such fear. Fear had always been for others, for those kneeling before him as he blew their lives away.
For a moment he wonders if it is her work, if it is the touch of the fairy Queen that brings to surface all that which he has ever hidden, and he drags her hands away from him, holding them over her head as he resumes his search for a way to get to the warmth.
He will tear her open and break her chest rip for rip if he has to, if that means that he can hide, for once in his life, from the world, from battle and from the cold.
Later, before she returns to her kingdom, she casts one last look at the now sleeping king and remembers how he cried in her arms, cried like a child, chased by fears he had never known he had, grasped by the icy shadow of Death. ‘So cold,’ he had whispered over and over again. ‘So cold.’
She had been right from the beginning, she thinks as she briefly gazes at the fading bruises on her wrists. It was a mistake. And it does not mean anything more than it ever has.
