08-02-2010, 11:27 PM
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He wanted nothing more than to live within her arms, and yet he knew that he could not. Adoration was his madness, for he could only love one, and one that he could not have. The world outside was bleak and gray, and held no affection to or from the crimson-eyed man. Inherently, he was destined solely for madness, and greatness. He was meant to shred the world to pieces, and yet he did nothing more than pick the weakest of the weak from the shadows, leaving no greater impression behind. Happiness was not meant for him. Contentment lay only in scattered entrails and weeping flesh. Blood dripped from his clawed hands—the kill abandoned behind him in the street. He killed for nothing. He killed solely for pleasure and some dim, vague desire to hear the Angel once again. The voice had fallen silent. He could not live without either of those that he lived for. Scars twisted across his flesh, both self-inflicted and torn into his skin from the ragged, desperate throes of a dying soul. He was the whore—the fallen devil descent from grace. His gaze sought the sky and the woad-marked woman perched so precariously in the tree. She smelled of blood. He’d smelled the blood long before he’d smelled the she-wolf and realized her presence above him. He leaned forward against the bark, pressing his nails into the wood while craning his head upward toward the creature. “I dreamt of a raven,” he said, remembering her and remembering their promise. |