Rating: K plus
Genre: Supernatural/Horror
Summary: Ursa comes back to the rotted meadow after a while, and finds something new. (Sequel/Companion to The King, Urzai)
The compulsions were growing too strong. She had to go back into the woods.
Dreams of the King and the decay tormented her with their strange new siren song. Every day she grew weary of the sun. Every night she laid wide awake for hours, fighting the desperate desire to walk into his arms and never come back. The trees seemed to beckon her. Every bit of rot seemed to mock her.
It was during the night, alive with visions of death and rot, that she found herself rising. She didn't think she could have stopped herself if she wanted too. The decay was inside her now, and her body begged to go back, and she could not deny herself that delicious, addictive joy.
The edge of the forest, as always, was green and loud with life, cicadas and small animals hooting and calling and chirping their love messages to potential mates and scuttling their way across and through the undergrowth. Ursa paid no attention to the noises around her. The voice inside her, whispering and silky and crumbling, was the only thing she wanted to hear. She wore pants and boots this time, having enough sense to wrestle herself out of her nightgown and into more sensible clothing, and the thorns and branches tore at them as she walked through the forest, heading towards him. As before, her surroundings began to change, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but change they did: from green to brown, from sharp thorns to rotted wood, from loud animals to quiet solitude. Hours of walking, it seemed like, as much as it could seem like hours when time no longer existed.
The meadow, as always, was brown and dark, shrouded from the living world, but now there was something new. A little cottage, rich and luxurious in design, sat in the middle of the yellowed grass and dark mulch. The voice filled her head and beckoned her inside and she followed.
It was cool inside the cottage, with soft carpets and shadows dancing over the furniture. Two bowls waited on the low table, their contents black and rotted, and she drifted over to the closest. A welcoming gift.
She felt a presence enter as she knelt and smiled. "Hello again, my King." Her very own, hers to keep.
The arms that fell on her were heavy and cool, and the voice that spoke in her ear was strong and deep, with the same silky smoothness and soft crumbling as had been inside her. "Hello, my Queen. Welcome home."
Am I doing sequels because I'm running out of fresh ideas? No! What gave you that idea? Who said that?