HOLDING ON TO YOU
12-21-2014, 04:19 PM
note to staff: lucius will not make it to the two week mark.
relief encompasses the deity as the nubile physique of her carmine beauty manifests within the threshold of their cavern, frayed lips quirking with the faintest hint of a contented grin. yet the expression withers from her features as another cataclysmic convulsion surges through her distended abdomen, extracting a pitiful whimper from the depths of her larynx. “just… stay,” the elysius instructs, mismatched gaze pinpointing her consort’s own sanguine with an intensity unrivaled -- as if to plead. though her pupils’ fixation is broken as pain prevails, forcing her eyes to clench shut and her dulled nails to grapple with the terrain beneath as if such desperate actions would alleviate her suffering. there is no preventing the expulsion of her unborn { her prodigies } from the confines of her womb; the deity can only succumb to their tacit urges for release. instinct demands she push, a cacophony of muted whimpers and guttural snarls cascading from gaping jaws as she abides to this primal inclination. and as the first of presumably many emerges from her womb and into the outside realm, the elysius pursues its miniscule form with a rasping tongue, breaking its enclosing film with the fervent licks of a fledgling mother. yet even as the babe { whose pale flesh resembles that of her own } is freed from its sack, an eerie and foreboding silence prevails. yet the newfound mother is oblivious to the rarity of such an occurrence, an infantile mirth radiating from pallid pores as she nudges the child’s limp body in the direction of her teats. but as the cruel realization strikes her { this babe is rigid, cold, dead }, insurmountable dread writhes into her psyche. “fia, fia --” the deity panics, incessantly and desperately prodding the stillborn with leathery nostrils as if to revive what had never lived. as if she could. “fia…” the mother of death laments, turning a dejected gaze upon her scarlet consort before it returns to the lifeless bundle at her paws. however, there is little time to mourn as the second wave of contractions persist, forcing the elysius’ skull to wrench away from the deceased as she continues to expel the remainder of her incarcerated children from her poisoned womb. tears well within amethyst and silver eyes -- a product of agony and sorrow -- as the second whelp surfaces -- alive. pride swells within the tyrant’s breast as she gazes upon her firstborn son, nudging him { successfully } towards the warmth of her abdomen. “my son -- odysseus,” she bestows upon him: he the first of the newest elysius generation, he the prodigal son. the survivor. and she, his sword and shield. alas, the deity’s womb remains occupied. but this birth is noticeably less strenuous -- less grievous -- a fragile runt the reward of the tyrant’s efforts. and despite the babe’s diminutive physique, he is an elysius nonetheless, and therefore, a glorified treasure in his mother’s eyes. “my lucius,” she blesses him, a tentative smile worming across abhorrent features as she examines her first litter with a keen eye, lingering momentarily upon the stillborn female. perhaps such a tragedy was warranted due to she and her carmine beauty’s assault upon the secretuan trio. or perhaps such was the way of life -- ruthless, unforgiving. |
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