ABSENT PILLOW TALK
09-23-2013, 10:45 AM
The archfiend approached Caede, and as he did she began to mirror his movements. After she had finally convinced her lower half to rise off the floor, she gradually backed into the cave, the net of her gaze searching for him, seeking his figure. As her tailbone caressed the back wall of the cavern, the mouth of doom swallowed her. She had no where to flee to, evading Morte was not an option. A little light spilled in from the mouth of the cave, flickering faintly like dying fireflies, yet even immersed in darkness she seemed to emanate her own lambent bioluminescence, as if a pale moon on a cloudless night. She could not conquer her crowning fear - yet she fought the obscure urge to touch him, to feel the heat brewing in his skin, to confirm that he was wholly present in the flesh. Someone from her past had materialized, a small gift from above to remind her that she was not crazy, but it was a tantalizing thought that she disregarded immediately. How dare her conscious mind lead her into such outrageously wrong deeds. The doe knew better, she knew that these feelings would multiply - breed like festering insects - into something sinful, into a desire she wished not to recognize any more. The fiend in front of her evoked immorality, and it was painfully genitive. Internally, she waged war on her emotions, praying to the deities for salvation from this hot and sticky confusion, to save her from feelings of wrath and lust. But they remained silent, her faith deteriorating as every fleeting second her counterpart came closer. And it finally occurred to Caede that her Gods could be punishing her. They were forcing young Caedena to realize her responsibility, reminding the female that abandoning her duties as a follower in Heaven was immoral. She was supposed to lead Morte into the light, redeem him for the unfaithfulness he had shown through the years. Caede was the vessel. She silently recognized her mistakes, acknowledging her tests in faith and purpose. The games of make-believe were at an end. She was sure that her infernal pheromones remained unknown to the enemy, covered and hushed like warm, unspoken secrets. "Morte," his name came effortlessly, gently, and too familiar for her to feel comfortable. "What do you want from me?" Her song-like voice was a tame plea for sanity. |
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