crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd

Sirius Revlis · 04-03-2012, 02:51 AM

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Word Count » +3 :: <3

The tigress had few natural enemies. She was a proud creature, a strong creature, a fatal creature. Her fangs were sharp, her claws in the like; Her eyes quick and her mind cunning. She was nature's harshness manifested, the bite of cruel winter, the fire of rash summer. She burned and she froze, and she did so with the beat of warm blood, with the decisiveness of a creature born to kill.

And yet one drop of his venom would immobilize her, would bring her to heel. He was not an eagle, like Ezekiel, and he did not soar above her flames; But he, the serpent, did prevail in the dark shadows of the word and of the mind. The fear of him would linger on, long after his presence ceased to. She would obey - He would give her no other option.

The fur beneath his fingers was soft, soft and swollen. His touch was gentle; a claw traced the small scar, too lightly for pain, yet near enough that the hairs along the wound might feel the sharp tip grazing past, and rise in alarm. Her words found tall ears in a voice made rusty by the rawness of her throat, and his harks flattened slowly. "No," He said, and his voice was harsh and barbed, hand falling from her face as though in distaste, "You did not."

For a moment, his face was a stern portrait of command, and an old anger leapt and sizzled in the bubbling acid pools of his eyes. But that, too, elapsed into a false weariness. With a sincerity he did not feel in his cold dark heart, he allowed the anger to slip into gentle frustration, personal hurt. "How can I forgive you for this?" It was a breathy question, asked rhetorically of himself. His hand rose again, now to cup her bruised cheek, the action filled with plastic tenderness. "Do you see the trouble and pain you have caused me?"

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