[M] I threw us into the flames

Ezekiel de le Poer · 06-29-2012, 12:01 AM

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(404) that just happened. quote is from Paradise Lost by Milton.

Piece by piece, he was stripped down to his core. Away fell obligations, away fell needs and demands, and with his armor and his chains gone, the proud eagle was made mortal. Ezekiel had suffered great wounds long ago by another man, and that first wound—that ultimate and terrible fear of death—it had been forced into him by way of a demon king, crow-wolf, father of a woman who served as slave unto these very lands. He had looked, as a boy, to others to guide him, to save him. Now as a man he had nowhere to turn but inward, and inside of him lingered a deep and terrible chaos made of darkest night and hungry, burning eyes.

Hell was Inferni, and now that he was free of it, Ezekiel walked with the damned in Purgatory. The impure suffered and relived their sins, waiting, silent, until the angels and their Lord saw fit to allow them into the arms of the divine. Once, he believed he lived with grace. If he had been holy then, he had fallen. He didn’t feel holy anymore. He just felt hollow.

Yet it was that damned self control that still fought him, still refused complete surrender. The savage would not accept anything less. While he felt something solid against his own head, and another, moving to his heart, his own traitor hand moved like a viper. It struck his own face sharply, hard enough that the sobs were cut off in a breath of hot air. He panted, eyes wide, muzzle twitching in a half-snarl, and that madness held him completely for a moment more as his body sank, with some resistance, to the floor. The snarl-smile on his face did not hide the sickness in his eyes, which reflected the moonlight and glowed in the dark under his white-blonde hair.

His back arched up against Sirius and he twisted his body, untangled his legs, allowed himself to be pinned even as his mouth showed his teeth and tongue. There was a fight within him still. There was hate in his eyes, but not for Sirius. Even now, he hated himself for this. He hated himself for the surrender and the knowledge of what he was about to do.

“Abashed the devil stood,” his voice came, low and throaty. His fingers twisted themselves into dark tendrils, needy, demanding. “, and felt how awful goodness is.”

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