by catch » Thu May 23, 2013 7:19 am
He had expected terrible things to come to him. Terrible happenings. Terrible beings. All was promised by the Pride-demon, the Thing Clayton had become, powerful, inescapable, terrible. His words were a cage, an iron cage to bind a fae, a molten pour of golden blood.
Nothing came for the Fae, huddled broken under his tree. He made it so. What was Pride to him, who was Pride itself? He was beyond Pride. A term, a human-term, mortal-term. He was the shadow in the trees, the tall, broad man, with eyes of blue, his bronzed skin, shadow-kissed, naked of all cloth. His great head was bent, blond curls swept across his cheek, and those eyes - sky-blue, absent of emotion - watched the Fae as he slept, huddled, drifted in and out of consciousness.
The air stirred the white fur of the wolf-skin about his throat, the skull thrown across his shoulder, eye-sockets shrunken and empty.
At the coming of the constable, the naked man lifted his head, but he made no move, no sound.
He was a King of Bugs. His vengeance was a patience. He could wait, a little longer, to let himself be known.