(no subject)
Title Concubine
Author skull_theatre
Rating PG
Word Count 506
Prompt 015 - Rasputina's "Transylvanian Concubine"
Characters/Pairing (if any) Drusilla, Angel, Darla
She was kneeling in a pool of blood and bile and lymph. Her thin, elegant hands pressed palm to palm, her beautiful face tilted upwards, her lips drawn back from dripping fangs and she was murmuring.
My eyelids close like two heavy curtains, snick snack, drapes taut. Pull them shut. The light hurts our eyes, Father. Heavenly light sneaks in on four ratty paws, it does, and scratches at my seeing bits, the bits that bring me the world, sail the world into this sea of head. My head head head. It aches me so. Where’s mummy to lay a cool cloth across my brow, her hands were so soft, like butter that I churned myself. Sister wouldn’t help, her arms are twigs, you know. She’s not strong the way I’m strong. Churning all that lovely cream into butter. She’d want some on her fingertip, she would, dip it into the churn when I was done, her hand swallowed up, all swallowed up, by that hungry churn. Buttery cream hungry hungry for the toasted bread. Put it on your tongue and let it slip away, the body of my Lord, he put it on my tongue and I tasted the son. And drank the wine, bitter water tastes of soured milk. Not at all like blood. Swallow it down. And you’ll be saved. That’s what he said.
“Angelus,” Darla was exasperated, wiping the corner of her red-smeared mouth; she turned to the vampire and traced his full bottom lip with her bloody fingertip.
“Mmmm,” he stood entranced, watching Drusilla praying in the coagulated remains.
“I don’t think this girl-child is ever going to become a,” she sighed, “daughter of the night.”
“’Daughter of the night?’ Why Darla that’s almost poetic.” He caught her wrist in a quick gesture and fed her finger between his lips and sucked hard. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she gasped.
“Since when,” the tip of her tongue touched her lip as he took another finger into his mouth, “my boy, did you start appreciating poetry?”
“Not sure I can say I do, but even a prater like myself can see there’s some sort of poetry in taking a daughter of Christ and making her a daughter of the night.”
Darla’s eyes snapped open and she pulled her hand back. “She’s not getting it, Angelus. Every time we feed, every single time, we have to,” she waved towards Drusilla, “listen to this, this, is it, is it praying? Is she praying, Angelus?”
“She’s praying, Darla,” he smirked. “It’s familiar to her, don’t you see? The blood and the body? The eating and the saving? The drinking and the becoming? But she’s not a bride of…”
Drusilla had grown quiet. The murmurs silenced. She was looking at him across the dark. And he stopped talking. Slowly she stood, brushing at her blood-soaked skirt.
“Let’s get out of here,” Darla growled and held out a beckoning hand.
“She’s a, now, she’s a…”
“Concubine,” Drusilla whispered to him as she took Darla’s outstretched hand in her own.
Author skull_theatre
Rating PG
Word Count 506
Prompt 015 - Rasputina's "Transylvanian Concubine"
Characters/Pairing (if any) Drusilla, Angel, Darla
She was kneeling in a pool of blood and bile and lymph. Her thin, elegant hands pressed palm to palm, her beautiful face tilted upwards, her lips drawn back from dripping fangs and she was murmuring.
My eyelids close like two heavy curtains, snick snack, drapes taut. Pull them shut. The light hurts our eyes, Father. Heavenly light sneaks in on four ratty paws, it does, and scratches at my seeing bits, the bits that bring me the world, sail the world into this sea of head. My head head head. It aches me so. Where’s mummy to lay a cool cloth across my brow, her hands were so soft, like butter that I churned myself. Sister wouldn’t help, her arms are twigs, you know. She’s not strong the way I’m strong. Churning all that lovely cream into butter. She’d want some on her fingertip, she would, dip it into the churn when I was done, her hand swallowed up, all swallowed up, by that hungry churn. Buttery cream hungry hungry for the toasted bread. Put it on your tongue and let it slip away, the body of my Lord, he put it on my tongue and I tasted the son. And drank the wine, bitter water tastes of soured milk. Not at all like blood. Swallow it down. And you’ll be saved. That’s what he said.
“Angelus,” Darla was exasperated, wiping the corner of her red-smeared mouth; she turned to the vampire and traced his full bottom lip with her bloody fingertip.
“Mmmm,” he stood entranced, watching Drusilla praying in the coagulated remains.
“I don’t think this girl-child is ever going to become a,” she sighed, “daughter of the night.”
“’Daughter of the night?’ Why Darla that’s almost poetic.” He caught her wrist in a quick gesture and fed her finger between his lips and sucked hard. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she gasped.
“Since when,” the tip of her tongue touched her lip as he took another finger into his mouth, “my boy, did you start appreciating poetry?”
“Not sure I can say I do, but even a prater like myself can see there’s some sort of poetry in taking a daughter of Christ and making her a daughter of the night.”
Darla’s eyes snapped open and she pulled her hand back. “She’s not getting it, Angelus. Every time we feed, every single time, we have to,” she waved towards Drusilla, “listen to this, this, is it, is it praying? Is she praying, Angelus?”
“She’s praying, Darla,” he smirked. “It’s familiar to her, don’t you see? The blood and the body? The eating and the saving? The drinking and the becoming? But she’s not a bride of…”
Drusilla had grown quiet. The murmurs silenced. She was looking at him across the dark. And he stopped talking. Slowly she stood, brushing at her blood-soaked skirt.
“Let’s get out of here,” Darla growled and held out a beckoning hand.
“She’s a, now, she’s a…”
“Concubine,” Drusilla whispered to him as she took Darla’s outstretched hand in her own.