Post by Tosca on Jun 15, 2007 5:59:19 GMT 9.5
It's up at last. Not sure whether I'm happy with it or not. ^^ I'll change the rating if anyone thinks I should.
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Carnal fervour thawed the icy air that blew in from the sea. In the cavernous depths of Tintagel, the censorious quiet of the night was broken by a shivering cry. And, diminutive and muffled though it was, the palm-smothered sound trickled conspiringly under the cracks of the doors, immersed itself within the air and carried throughout the castle.
Outside, that same breeze slipped amidst sculpted feathers as an owl glided silently over the rugged landscape, its orb-like eyes turning this way and then that, before at last latching onto some unfortunate creature far below. The scream of its victim as those snarled claws crushed down through its torrid body was a sharp, ghastly peal in the chill air. And, more disturbing still, the cry of the owl, soundless, triumphant, as it angled upwards once more, a tiny life dying in its grasp as it wheeled and screamed its silent, blood-lusty joy to the empty night.
And so the two bodies in the humid bedchamber were caught up together. And so nails rent pallid white flesh, and hands clenched against a bed sheet, and whimpering cries escaped under the heavy wood door. And so Mordred moved with a silent savagery against burning skin, and as the owl tore the movement from its prey, so Mordred left the bloody mark of insatiable passion against her arms, upon her breast, that long swan-like throat.
Oh, at first, to be sure, he had kissed those tears from her lashes. At first his hands had worshipped that porcelain skin, fingers gliding so gently, so smoothly, amidst that cascade of black hair. At first he had whispered things he could believe. At first, she had responded. At first, her eyes had held promises.
But it wasn’t there – it wasn’t enough – it wasn’t perfect. He knew it wasn’t perfect because when he peeled away her clothes, she struggled; because when his grip tightened she trembled; because when his lips touched hers they were bitter with the taste of fear. It was wrong. It was wrong, and he couldn’t bear it – that black hair, those shimmering eyes, the heaving chest, the quivering limbs – wrong, all of it wrong. And he wouldn’t bear it.
“Please…” she whispered. Her hand snaked up, treacherously frail, and curled around his wrist, fingers softly imploring him, damp palm driving him on. She had no right to beg him to stop. She had no right to beg him not to. For a moment, Mordred’s flesh shivered. But to give in was to admit his own self-deception. He immersed himself in her worthlessness, buried his face against her tainted skin, consuming, searching, clawing for that trace of purity even as he polluted himself with her sullied touch, her adulterated lips, her mortal body. There was nothing to defile. He would rip her apart to find it.
Still, her breathless voice, wavering, tremulously, meek, uttering that single word – “Please… please…”
He was half-blind with some unformed outrage, half-lucid with an unbridled animalism, and he moved so quickly. Candle light glided over steel, and he pressed the blade against that throat – white, moon-kissed, fragile throat – pressed it there, and held it, and let the blood form in droplets against its keen edge.
“Say it.”
Whimpering. But her face, burning like a light.
“Say it.”
Trembling lips, and those ragged breaths, those helpless, ragged breaths.
“Say it!”
Shaking her, watching the blood run down and pool in the hollow of her throat, his eyes blazing a fury, a thirst, a need.
“You’re…” Closing her eyes, feeling the bite of clean pure iron, drawing a shaking breath. “…You’re my favourite, Mordred.” Her eyes held no conviction. You would have thought she could muster a little conviction. But she didn’t even see the sense of it. She didn’t understand the thrill of emotion he had felt when he first heard those words, didn’t understand how they had echoed around and around his mind, and haunted him ever since. She only understood the reality of her impending death. “…Please…”
He closed his eyes. Disappointment clenched inside, stifling his voice, drowning his thoughts. Still not there, still wrong – and the blade swept across her throat, and blood spattered the wall, and a small gasp escaped her parted lips. A veil passed over her eyes.
Silence hummed inside the bedchamber. It was the silence of the owl, the silence of his kill, the soundless scream of primal satisfaction. But there was no release. And the man who looked upon the spoiled flesh, who shrugged off the slack limbs, who pushed the naked body to the floor, disdainful – did the terrible silence come from him, or surround him? Was he this silent bird, or was he a helpless pawn, trapped, and had he even now condemned himself to his fate?
He shook his head as, apathetically, he dressed himself beside the corpse. Disgust twisted his features as he stared at the drained body. No one would miss her – a worthless slattern – no one would even know of her death. And as if he couldn’t stand the sight any longer, he swept out of the room, leaving in his wake a gust of cruel air. Behind him, the maid’s body curled, her form contorted in death, limbs spilt into themselves, enchantments and illusions faded, and very soon, she had become the shrunken creature that she once was. The room was empty to all prying eyes, and if they saw her – well, then a dog must have proved more useful than usual and for once killed a straying rodent that had grown too bold, that had met a just end.
The only thought Mordred gave to the scene he was leaving behind him was that the air inside Tintagel was suddenly cold again.
---
Carnal fervour thawed the icy air that blew in from the sea. In the cavernous depths of Tintagel, the censorious quiet of the night was broken by a shivering cry. And, diminutive and muffled though it was, the palm-smothered sound trickled conspiringly under the cracks of the doors, immersed itself within the air and carried throughout the castle.
Outside, that same breeze slipped amidst sculpted feathers as an owl glided silently over the rugged landscape, its orb-like eyes turning this way and then that, before at last latching onto some unfortunate creature far below. The scream of its victim as those snarled claws crushed down through its torrid body was a sharp, ghastly peal in the chill air. And, more disturbing still, the cry of the owl, soundless, triumphant, as it angled upwards once more, a tiny life dying in its grasp as it wheeled and screamed its silent, blood-lusty joy to the empty night.
And so the two bodies in the humid bedchamber were caught up together. And so nails rent pallid white flesh, and hands clenched against a bed sheet, and whimpering cries escaped under the heavy wood door. And so Mordred moved with a silent savagery against burning skin, and as the owl tore the movement from its prey, so Mordred left the bloody mark of insatiable passion against her arms, upon her breast, that long swan-like throat.
Oh, at first, to be sure, he had kissed those tears from her lashes. At first his hands had worshipped that porcelain skin, fingers gliding so gently, so smoothly, amidst that cascade of black hair. At first he had whispered things he could believe. At first, she had responded. At first, her eyes had held promises.
But it wasn’t there – it wasn’t enough – it wasn’t perfect. He knew it wasn’t perfect because when he peeled away her clothes, she struggled; because when his grip tightened she trembled; because when his lips touched hers they were bitter with the taste of fear. It was wrong. It was wrong, and he couldn’t bear it – that black hair, those shimmering eyes, the heaving chest, the quivering limbs – wrong, all of it wrong. And he wouldn’t bear it.
“Please…” she whispered. Her hand snaked up, treacherously frail, and curled around his wrist, fingers softly imploring him, damp palm driving him on. She had no right to beg him to stop. She had no right to beg him not to. For a moment, Mordred’s flesh shivered. But to give in was to admit his own self-deception. He immersed himself in her worthlessness, buried his face against her tainted skin, consuming, searching, clawing for that trace of purity even as he polluted himself with her sullied touch, her adulterated lips, her mortal body. There was nothing to defile. He would rip her apart to find it.
Still, her breathless voice, wavering, tremulously, meek, uttering that single word – “Please… please…”
He was half-blind with some unformed outrage, half-lucid with an unbridled animalism, and he moved so quickly. Candle light glided over steel, and he pressed the blade against that throat – white, moon-kissed, fragile throat – pressed it there, and held it, and let the blood form in droplets against its keen edge.
“Say it.”
Whimpering. But her face, burning like a light.
“Say it.”
Trembling lips, and those ragged breaths, those helpless, ragged breaths.
“Say it!”
Shaking her, watching the blood run down and pool in the hollow of her throat, his eyes blazing a fury, a thirst, a need.
“You’re…” Closing her eyes, feeling the bite of clean pure iron, drawing a shaking breath. “…You’re my favourite, Mordred.” Her eyes held no conviction. You would have thought she could muster a little conviction. But she didn’t even see the sense of it. She didn’t understand the thrill of emotion he had felt when he first heard those words, didn’t understand how they had echoed around and around his mind, and haunted him ever since. She only understood the reality of her impending death. “…Please…”
He closed his eyes. Disappointment clenched inside, stifling his voice, drowning his thoughts. Still not there, still wrong – and the blade swept across her throat, and blood spattered the wall, and a small gasp escaped her parted lips. A veil passed over her eyes.
Silence hummed inside the bedchamber. It was the silence of the owl, the silence of his kill, the soundless scream of primal satisfaction. But there was no release. And the man who looked upon the spoiled flesh, who shrugged off the slack limbs, who pushed the naked body to the floor, disdainful – did the terrible silence come from him, or surround him? Was he this silent bird, or was he a helpless pawn, trapped, and had he even now condemned himself to his fate?
He shook his head as, apathetically, he dressed himself beside the corpse. Disgust twisted his features as he stared at the drained body. No one would miss her – a worthless slattern – no one would even know of her death. And as if he couldn’t stand the sight any longer, he swept out of the room, leaving in his wake a gust of cruel air. Behind him, the maid’s body curled, her form contorted in death, limbs spilt into themselves, enchantments and illusions faded, and very soon, she had become the shrunken creature that she once was. The room was empty to all prying eyes, and if they saw her – well, then a dog must have proved more useful than usual and for once killed a straying rodent that had grown too bold, that had met a just end.
The only thought Mordred gave to the scene he was leaving behind him was that the air inside Tintagel was suddenly cold again.
