((Another anon poem for Laereth!))
Anonymous (Sinful, Serious Sunday)
This time, when he entered the post office to pick up his mail, the girl behind the counter did not flinch. Did not shove his letters at him and rush out of the building as if fel hounds nipped at her heels, to put as much distance between herself and him as she could manage. She only offered him her usual shy smile and kept her eyes averted like a Kaldorei who could not bear to look at the sun lest it blind her. The edges of her smile seemed brittle and the remnants of fear still lingered in her hunched shoulders and trembling hands, but she greeted him by name and wished him a good evening.
Only a single letter today, and rather than reeking of flowery perfume or bearing hearts drawn in a clumsy, girlish hand, this one looked like the sort of notice one might receive when being informed that a relative had passed on. The envelope–black as a moonless night–bore the following words in an elegant hand: FOR LAERETH BLOODHAWK, WHO HAS NOT MUCH TIME. Bright against the somber background, the gold ink flashed in the waning sunlight when he stepped out into Tranquillien’s streets, and the back flap had been sealed with black wax. No discernible symbol denoted a possible sender; only what appeared to be a thumbprint pressed down until the wax had cooled.
Upon opening it, he would find a sheet of parchment every bit as dark as its envelope and these verses had been written in the same steady scrawl:
“I want,” she said, “you to bleed ‘til you’re dead,”
as her fingers, they combed through his mane.
“At the same time, if you died, the tears I would shed
fall like raindrops on a cold window pane.”
She leaned in too close, drew him in through her nose,
and shut her eyes with a soul-crushing sigh.
“Still, when considering you, I must weigh cons and pros;
sometimes, I only wish that you’d die
and stop tormenting me–I am sure you’d agree
that you are made wholly of malice.
And yet, I find I’d be glad to invite you for tea,
though I would surely poison your chalice.”
With a tiny, wicked grin, she tapped her pointed chin,
and cocked her head to one side.
“Be certain, dear Beast, I would–with every pin–
bury violent death 'neath your bronze hide.”
A breath left her lips and she tightened her grip
on the hair she had wound 'round her fist.
Her claws tickled his throat. “Ah, one little slip,
and, great Hunter, you would cease to exist.”
His skin smelled of fire and amber perspired,
and she resisted the urge for a taste
of the blood that she knew would only inspire
more want that would leave her disgraced.
“But as much as I hate you and speak just to bait you,
I find comfort in your stolid presence.
And though I know women would die just to mate you,
I would–with these hands–cause misfeasance.”
She released him and snickered, bit her hand and whickered,
and stepped back to give him some room.
The ground still smoldered from where they had bickered,
while the sun fell, ushering in twilight gloom.
Plopping down to the earth, she stifled her mirth
with scaly scarf in which she hid–
for across his sharp face, she found a vast death
of appreciation for her every quipped bid
to put the fear of ruination and eternal damnation
in the chill heart that beat in his breast.
But he saw, in her eyes, her pupils’ dilation
that belied the desires she had confessed.
“Tell the truth, little Sandcat–I can smell the foul rat
whenever you do your best to lie.”
He leaned against the tree at the bottom of which he sat,
and he smirked. “Do you want me to die?
Do you want me to choke? Do you wish to provoke
me, until I cross blades with you?
Do you want me to croak? These flames, who would stoke
them and ensure that your stories, they grew?
Do you think you could take me? Think your threats shake me?”
He shook his head and then snorted, quiet.
“Do as you will, little Sandcat, but you cannot break me,
though I welcome you to draw near and try it.”
He reached out with one hand, his skin scarred and tanned,
and he caressed the black fall of her hair.
“Would you mourn if I could not touch one more strand?”
She flinched and avoided his stare.
And in her heart churned vile desires that burned
and scorched her with orange flame so sweet.
Success, she had learned, could only be earned
by freeing oneself of conceit.
Though he ransacked her memory, made her recall century
she had lived, through the mud and the fire,
she clung to each image when he entered her reverie
every time he outed her as a liar.
Like two beasts drawn by scent, using breath to cement
the bonds they tried to build up between,
she folded in on herself, a bitch who’d relent
and with submission, she washed herself clean.
“It would be a tough fight, standing against your proud might,”
she admitted, and she wrung her small hands.
“But I would relish the chance to strike and to smite–
you are the only one I know who understands
the thrill found in clashing, in running and thrashing
like a hare caught 'tween the jaws of a fox
and should we break free, our teeth we’d be gnashing,
we are friends most unorthodox.
Where other people send cards or they hire skilled bards
to present, to their friends, a gift–”
A half smile crossed her lips. “Customs we disregard.
Stereotypical kindness would cause a great rift.
So I deliver quick blows to cause, in you, throes
of agony; on the ground, you will writhe.
And I share with you shows and all my best prose.
Around you, I need not be blithe.”
She rubbed her face with both palms and envied his calm,
while she sat there, tied up in knots.
He sat straight and tall, a wall of aplomb,
beaming the steadiness that she always sought.
“I know what you meant–know that I am content
with the truth I can read in your cracks.”
He stood then. “Come at me if you wish to repent,
we’ll see the power you claim your fist packs.”
They faced off together, his chain and her leather,
like wild animals set free from their cord.
They met in bright sparks and no one knows whether
'twas her sharp wire or his razor-edged sword
that won the altercation; they both faced frustration
when neither seemed to come out ahead.
“We are two beasts, matched, in their greedy predation,”
he said. “Do you still wish me dead?”
“I would take your bones, with carving knife I would hone
them until their edges grew keen,”
she murmured. “For your death, I could not atone.
If I killed you, I would only demean
myself. I will leave you so I won’t have to grieve you,
a shade, I’ll make myself disappear.
And I know my scarcity will only relieve you,
for I am fog, making vision unclear.”
He scoffed and he smacked her, and the quick pain, it wracked her
with a taste of heaven’s undeniable joy.
“Foolish little Sandcat,” he growled, staring where he’d cracked her
full lip, “is this some pitiful ploy?
I am bulwark and tower tall, I make lesser creatures bawl–
to whom might I reach out and befriend?
I would gut cowardly men and wicked women maul,
yet you think you have the power to rescind
this bond between us, new–where agony is the glue
that binds us in deep camaraderie.
I should split you wide open, my blade to stab through
to teach you the follies of your snobbery.”
She looked up–she moved slow as if she didn’t quite know
what to do or what words she should say,
and she blinked. “Are you saying you want friendship to grow,
that you’d accept this uncouth, straggly stray?”
He growled, “I’m saying you are daft.” She threw her head back and laughed,
and landed on her feet when released.
“Perhaps I am mad,” she agreed, “but I know my craft,
and you will make a fine hero, dear Beast,
when I tell the tale of how we fought in this vale,
and managed to reach an accord.”
her smile was impish and she watched his face pale,
when she added, “You will soon be adored
by all those simpering women who love a good lemon;
I’ll write you sweeping them off their feet.”
“You will do no such thing,” he said, “your tongue you will dimmen,
or I’ll show you the true nature of defeat.”
“And what will you do?” she scoffed as the captain withdrew,
and settled himself by the fire.
He shrugged. “Of course–something you’re wholly unused to,
'twill be unlike what you’ve had prior.”
His smirk was malicious–oh, this elf was vicious,
and he folded his hands in his lap.
She squinted and sneered, her eyes so suspicious
when he said, “I will start with the strap
that will never again kiss your unblemished skin,
nor my blade taste your scarlet blood.
And I will not give in, no, not even when
you prostrate yourself in the mud.”
She gasped; he persisted and all that he listed
made her squirm and wrinkle her hem.
“Oh, don’t get it twisted, you won’t be assisted,
you’ll have only yourself to condemn.
No ropes or chains to bind, no knots around you twined,
no lash to split open your flesh.
You’ll be left alone with only your own warped mind,
'twill be your hands that have to refresh
the scars that mar you. I won’t even spar you,
all you’ll get from me is bland conversation.
No joy in pain. Still not convinced, are you?
Then seek you my eternal damnation.”
She lowered her chin, drummed her fingers on shin,
and considered the threats he gave voice.
And gnawing on her lip, her patience wore thin,
and she grumbled, “I suppose I’ve no choice.
I’ll refrain from writing about all of our fighting,
but you’re a bastard; your true colours show through.
And because what you’ve threatened is harsh and it’s biting,
I will dream of all the ways I could kill you.”
But he knew what she left unsaid with her deft
dodging of her honest feeling.
And he sniggered to himself–let her bear that heft
for without burden, she’d find no healing.
Sat the contentious pair–and with quiet swear,
she oft broke the amiable silence.
And though she shot him foul looks and fierce, stony glare,
they were united in a shared love of violence.
