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To him, I am simply…Elysia
THANATOS
What I loathe is that barbarous glint in Mordere’s eyes that I wish to mark for an early grave. How I long to reap his soul. But I can’t interfere.Not yet.My chest tightens.
My only consolation is how my ultimate claim,ourultimate claim, will destroy and annihilate his. He is but the mere thin rim of mine and Neo’s double-sided coin, balancing precariously before it will tip in minutes. What I love is how his pride has indeed gone before destruction. My claim will murder his.
The dark knowledge is my only comfort.
What I loathe more is how every step she takes accompanies her tearing another piece of fabric. As if she is breaking pieces of her throne, of her crown of gold and stardust bit by precious bit.
What I love is how her subconscious still wars. From her flaring breath from the wings of her nose to the corners of her mouth to her fierce brows plunging so low to turn her eyes to a deadly seduction. No haughtiness. No contempt. Pure righteous fire. Even if Mordere did get the opportunity to take her to his bed, I’m confident he would lose far more than his tongue. He’d lose something he could never grow back, something no healer could ever mend. It’s almost tempting to permit her to emasculate him, to stab her angel teeth to destroy his member with her heavenly fire. But I would never subject her to such needless trauma.
What I loathe is how he steeples his fingers up to his lascivious mouth that dared pillage hers. My heart slams against my rib cage with the need to break those fingers, one knuckle at a time.
If I interfere now, Neo’s harem girls are as good as dead. She would never forgive me.
What I love is how, with every fabric piece she chucks to the ground, her Halo light grows, breeding along her flesh and scintillating from her glorious crown-fall of curls. This is her battleground. She wields her holy Halo weapon with perfect precision. Soul hammered and tensioned. The keenest of all edges. Beautifully balanced.
I will protect you from Mordere, Elysia.
At the base of the staircase, she pauses in nothing—but her chemise—and peers around. She heard me. Whether she is aware of my identity or not, sheheardme.
What I loathe is how Mordere’s bloodthirsty mob surrounds her, forbidden to act, but Mordere permits them to rage, to salivate over her, to taunt her with their lust.
What I love is how Elysia treads on the eternity of a moment, her eyes circling the theater…hunting.
I smile because I know she’s heard me. I know she’s searching. Only Death can hide from everyone in the theater, including her.
She takes a deep breath, tears a long piece of fabric from her chemise, and makes her way to Mordere.
Once she ascends the staircase to the dais directly before his throne, I understand why she burns the remaining material from her skin. My warrioress of light will not give Mordere the satisfaction of removing anything from her body. She will not give him the satisfaction of touching her. As if she knows the claim belongs to one being and one alone. I harden the muscles in both hands and curve my fingers in anticipation.
Mordere may not touch the flames she’s wrapped around her figure like a gleaming robe. Mantled in holy fire so none may view her body.
What I loathe most is how she kneels. How her lips tremble when she opens her mouth to pledge her love for Court Mordere. I can scent the undercurrent of fear, but I can also hear the breath prayer in her mind that whispers of Noralice. A distress signal—for me. Crying out to me for aid, for deliverance.
Mordere dares to touch one finger to her chin, war-smoke eyes hoping to debase her.
What I love most is how he will never have the chance.
Mordere rises.
* * *
ELYSIA
Clothedin deathly frost and robed in shadows,heappears. He captures my hand, raises me up, and promises, “Yours.”
Every last vampire in the room flees from his presence, abandoning the theater altogether, knowing they will lose far more than their heads. Even Mordere has no choice but to sit back on his throne.
The entire theater darkens. Thousands of candle flames turn to frozen patterns of pure crystal. A deep and luxurious fog drapes every surface to make love with the shadows. Everything patterns in a crystalline frost. All becomes a quietude because Death silences everything.
“What?” I whisper in the stillness, lost in the explosion of stars in his eyes. Something about the simplistic word seems so different but so right when it slips from his lips, from the perfect, beautiful lips of this ethereal being clothed in an infinity of black robes.
The Prince of Death traces frost along my spine and places three icy fingers under my chin to lift it so I may face him like the equal I am when he professes, “Mysoulis yours, Elysia. My love.”
I will protect you from Mordere, Elysia.
