Fill: CorruptionsternflammendenDecember 11 2012, 07:03:02 UTC
He draws a hand down his wife’s face, noticing with satisfaction the ripeness and blush of her cheek, the firmness of her young flesh, and as his desiccated fingers wander down her neck, he rests them on her throat, feeling the tantalizing throb of her pulse. The king is not amazed at such things; in his long life he’s seen much, far too much, it seems somehow. It’s amusement that drives him, the dry chuckle that he stifles in a drier throat his only seeming concession to humanity. It’s not that he feels any desire for the child. He has long since surpassed such things. It’s curiosity that entrances the Horned King as he beholds his new bride, pleasure in the freshness of her youth. Pleasure in its frailty.
She shudders, and he allows his hand to linger for a moment longer, and then draws it away.
When he rises, looming over her in his robes, Eilonwy quails, and the tears that have threatened to start in her eyes spill over, a single drop traversing her cheek, marring the smooth pinkness.
He is displeased, and it shows in his iron grip when he pulls her to him, drawing her up from the bed, dragging her limp body into the darkened corridor.
“There is no need,” he says, his voice harsh in the gloom, as a strangled sob catches in her throat.
They make their way down sinuous hallways, no torch, no light, no respite, the king’s eyes glowing faintly red in the shadows, the only hint of his queen the jagged hitch of her breath as he leads her way by treacherous way to the dungeons where his other prize awaits.
The pigboy lies in filth, as betokens his calling, the bruise on his cheek visible in the dimness of his cell. When the king takes a torch from a wall sconce, illuminating his broken form, he shies away from it, arm raised over eyes unused to such light. And when he adjusts to it, he lowers his arm, and the expression on his face still has the strong lines of defiance writ large.
The king laughs again.
“You should be pleased, pigboy, for I’ve brought you a prize.” And he releases Eilonwy, shoving her to the filthy flagstones, watching from on high as the boy, Taran, attempts to comfort her despite the heavy chains that bind him, the atrophy that has filled his limbs in his captivity.
He shields her body with his as best he can.
“What would you do with me, my lord?” his wife asks, eyes downcast. “Is this to be my bridal chamber?”
The king nods. “For a time. For you see, I will need an heir. We will need a son.”
And he stands with arms crossed as the implication sinks in on both of their faces, young faces, unlined, vigorous, the hatred so obvious, their flighty feelings so unsubtle, so alien. It will not be long until they begin to wither, to rot, to decay. But in the meantime, he has this sport to amuse him until such time as he will revel in their decline and the corruption that will twist their lovely young forms into crabbed age.
The king smiles as best he can, sharp teeth in a fleshless face, and gestures to his prizes.
“Why do you hesitate so?” he says, his voice almost kind in its gentle admonishment. But it is soon hardened. “Begin.”
She shudders, and he allows his hand to linger for a moment longer, and then draws it away.
When he rises, looming over her in his robes, Eilonwy quails, and the tears that have threatened to start in her eyes spill over, a single drop traversing her cheek, marring the smooth pinkness.
He is displeased, and it shows in his iron grip when he pulls her to him, drawing her up from the bed, dragging her limp body into the darkened corridor.
“There is no need,” he says, his voice harsh in the gloom, as a strangled sob catches in her throat.
They make their way down sinuous hallways, no torch, no light, no respite, the king’s eyes glowing faintly red in the shadows, the only hint of his queen the jagged hitch of her breath as he leads her way by treacherous way to the dungeons where his other prize awaits.
The pigboy lies in filth, as betokens his calling, the bruise on his cheek visible in the dimness of his cell. When the king takes a torch from a wall sconce, illuminating his broken form, he shies away from it, arm raised over eyes unused to such light. And when he adjusts to it, he lowers his arm, and the expression on his face still has the strong lines of defiance writ large.
The king laughs again.
“You should be pleased, pigboy, for I’ve brought you a prize.” And he releases Eilonwy, shoving her to the filthy flagstones, watching from on high as the boy, Taran, attempts to comfort her despite the heavy chains that bind him, the atrophy that has filled his limbs in his captivity.
He shields her body with his as best he can.
“What would you do with me, my lord?” his wife asks, eyes downcast. “Is this to be my bridal chamber?”
The king nods. “For a time. For you see, I will need an heir. We will need a son.”
And he stands with arms crossed as the implication sinks in on both of their faces, young faces, unlined, vigorous, the hatred so obvious, their flighty feelings so unsubtle, so alien. It will not be long until they begin to wither, to rot, to decay. But in the meantime, he has this sport to amuse him until such time as he will revel in their decline and the corruption that will twist their lovely young forms into crabbed age.
The king smiles as best he can, sharp teeth in a fleshless face, and gestures to his prizes.
“Why do you hesitate so?” he says, his voice almost kind in its gentle admonishment. But it is soon hardened. “Begin.”
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