Experience


Well, I certainly took my time with this one.

Aaaaand, this probably isn't going to be what most of you had in mind when this challenge was first presented to us. To be honest, I'm kinda iffy about writing this, but in the name of experimentation and trying new things…

Sense for this chapter is Touch.


Loathsome – Touch


Loathsome. Vile. Excruciating.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of words danced within her mind, melding into a writhing, twisting elegy of some twisted nightmare, yet none of it sufficing to describe the utter repulsion that seethed within her.

Rough, calloused hands, layers upon layers of dead, hardened flesh. The mark of someone who had spent a lifetime in battle, swinging warhammers and axes until the body learnt to retaliate, forming a cocooned, nerveless shell.

Scars. Torn, healed skin crisscrossing over his entire body, each faded jagged line telling of a wound received, a battle fought, a life taken in recompense. One seared its way across his eye, forming part of the grizzled, deep-set mask that was his face.

To touch, them, running her delicate, exquisitely crafted, perfect fingers across those scars, to coo and flirt and to pretend she was impressed with his weaknesses and frailty (for who but the weak and frail would allow themselves to be wounded in battle?) provoked within her an urge to retch, to scream, to lash out.

But she didn't, of course. She played her part perfectly, keeping up the loving façade, leading the poor deluded fool onwards, making him and his laughable organization dance to the tune of her lord.

That's not to say it was easy. Certainly not. Forcing down the bile in her throat every time he hugged or kissed her – or worse, when she hugged or kissed him – was a difficult affair that never truly got any easier with time. No matter how hard she tried, she could never get past that tiniest stiffening of the shoulders, the smallest flash of panicked abhorrence whenever he felt his awkward, fumbling attempts to be tender, caring, towards her.

Nighttimes were the worst, though. The feeling of his body pressing up close against hers, his hot exertions on her cheek… Even now, a cold worm nestled in the pit of her stomach stirred and writhed at the thought.

She supposed that it was for the best in the end. To grow to accept such horrific imperfection would have signified a debasement of herself, a loss, no matter how gradual, of her perfect nature.

And now she stood before him, golden eyes flaring with delighted malice. His expression was one of confusion mixed with growing anger… and just a hint of uncertain fear.

Delicious.

One gloved hand reached out, almost as if it were about to reach out to stroke his grizzled jaw. "Every moment spent with you, every touch, every caress… it was loathsome!" She spat the last word out, almost as if it were an arcane fireball, letting the hate and venom within her splash out over him. He flinched, jerking back, as if he had struck her physically.

"All for Lord Nergal, all to control the Black Fang!" She continued, gloating, exultant. At last. At last. Free of the shackles that had bound her for so long. No more to play the part of a simpering, foolish, lovestruck idiot who had fallen for a boorish, idealistic fool.

"Sonia! You monster!" The cry of rage distracts her from her thoughts and as reality whirls back into focus she belies him charging at her. Suddenly pain flares, and her fury spikes. That he would dare wound her! The audacity of it…!

Twisting, she reaches up, grabbing onto him with a strength that belies her thin arms. Before the warrior can do anything else, she has pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the steady, regular throbs of his heart, feeling the roughness of the leather tunic. Naturally – he hadn't come expecting a fight, and thus no armour.

She pauses for a moment – an eternal moment, savouring her sweet, sweet victory.

A quick incantation, a flash of searing light, and she lets the body collapse to the floor in the broken heap. Had he whispered something under his breath before expiring? She couldn't tell – oh, well, anything that he had to say wouldn't have been of particular importance.

Behind her, the morph steps forward, her own palms flaring with arcane energy. "Brendan Reed… such magnificent quintessence."

"Be sure to tell him it was I who killed Brendan!" She snaps, not bothering to hide her disdain for the artificial construct. Pain jolts her step again, and she presses a hand to her side, feeling the slick wetness of her blood running through her fingers.

Marked. Scarred. Imperfect. Her golden eyes flashed dangerously as she stormed away. To think that one as lowly as that worm could... But no. No, why pay him any more thought. His had been a long and tiresome chapter in her life, finally closed, thank the stars.

Never again to feel his touch, his kisses… A tight, cold smile played across her features.

Perfect.


Xirysa never said the couple had to be a happy (or even a functioning) one, did she?

Thanks for reading. Please review!