Edward Knight (Lucien) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dissonantia) wrote2011-11-04 04:58 am
dissonantia) wrote2011-11-04 04:58 am
Entry tags:
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Warning: Fucked up shit, VIOLENCE, violence against women, violence against witches, owning women, lots of violence, torture, etc.. :/ Listened to THIS :D while writing it. Awh yeah. 8)
Lucien knows. It knows. It knows when Virginia dies.
Nothing but the solid weight of the knowledge as it rips through him, pain and anger in equal measure, and hebecomesit. It.
The werewolf, the monster that tears through the forest, ripping down trees. The trunks remain in his wake. No body to be found. Nothing to be found. She would not give him even that, and it's a howl piercing into the night sky.
Rage unlike he has ever known it before. An immediate weakness followed by an immediate lust for destruction and blood and hungering for screams he will never hear again, hungering for blood he will never feel again, for flesh his handsclaws won't touch, tear apart, rip bare and own again.
She will not win.
Sharp claws tear into flesh after flesh, every breathing, living being in its path. The howl screams from the depths of the hollow chest, fur matted red with blood.
The werewolf smirks. Blood drips from claws and teeth
The screams echo in his head, but nothing is AS LOUD as knowing
knowing
his little bird
Is dead gone and not by his hand (as it should be), not with the claws that tear into pale flesh of someone else in her absence and it isn't right, isn't satisfying-- nothing will be satisfying again because he needs to tear her apart, flesh from bone until white bone is all that remains and he needs to hear
her scream
these screams are meaningless but it won't be satiated, will not stop
The arm tears from the body with ease, look how easily it is to tear living, breathing birds to piece but they're not his like she was, caged and chirping and incessantly squawking away and singing when he broke her wings, when he skinned the feathers from her
what a beautiful symphony then
but the one in its head-- oh, the one in its head the one in its HEAD is an endless violin, played too fast and never slowing
The growl echoes through the castle, the mansion, and teeth sink into the abdomen, pull out the stomach like string, claw slides down the neck pulling forth blood and red
The growl almost sounds like Virginia
Almost
It does not see the son with the sword, would not expect it of the little fuck but the reaction is pure instinct animal monster rage
and the claw tears into Adam but it is not enough
It rips the silver sword from inside of it with a howl of pain, silver burns the hand of a werewolf, tossing the metal aside.
It wants to tear the little fuck apart but death finds it first.
///////////////////
When he awakes, in human form, naked and covered with blood, he is aware of two things
the little fuck will pay
And His Bird (always, always, always his) will not win.
///////////////
It has only been two weeks since Virginia severed their connection. He feels the weakness as apparent as his own instability. It's the weakness that bothers him. She will not win.
Lucien walks up to the home of an immortal servant who worked closely with witches thousands of years ago. He is in an immaculate suit, and he adjusts it accordingly as he walks up to the door and knocks. The witch answers. No one should know that she is here. Maybe that is why she answers with such ease.
There is no freedom, little bird.
As soon as she sees him, her expression shifts to fear.
"You will tell me what I want to know and die quickly or you choose to keep your pretty mouth shut and you and I enjoy each others company until you change your mind." The sword goes into her arm and pins her against the wall. "Let the decision be yours."
It's no symphony.
This bird's singing, the screaming.
It's no symphony.
No one sings quite like Virginia did.
A week later, he leaves the house again. An arm, two fingers, a heart, a corpse, a fire poker, a whip, the fire that takes the house whole, they are left behind, but Lucien steps ahead, away from the burning house.
The front of his suit is covered in blood.
Shewillnotwin.
She will not win.
Lucien knows. It knows. It knows when Virginia dies.
Nothing but the solid weight of the knowledge as it rips through him, pain and anger in equal measure, and hebecomesit. It.
The werewolf, the monster that tears through the forest, ripping down trees. The trunks remain in his wake. No body to be found. Nothing to be found. She would not give him even that, and it's a howl piercing into the night sky.
Rage unlike he has ever known it before. An immediate weakness followed by an immediate lust for destruction and blood and hungering for screams he will never hear again, hungering for blood he will never feel again, for flesh his handsclaws won't touch, tear apart, rip bare and own again.
She will not win.
Sharp claws tear into flesh after flesh, every breathing, living being in its path. The howl screams from the depths of the hollow chest, fur matted red with blood.
The werewolf smirks. Blood drips from claws and teeth
The screams echo in his head, but nothing is AS LOUD as knowing
knowing
his little bird
Is dead gone and not by his hand (as it should be), not with the claws that tear into pale flesh of someone else in her absence and it isn't right, isn't satisfying-- nothing will be satisfying again because he needs to tear her apart, flesh from bone until white bone is all that remains and he needs to hear
her scream
these screams are meaningless but it won't be satiated, will not stop
The arm tears from the body with ease, look how easily it is to tear living, breathing birds to piece but they're not his like she was, caged and chirping and incessantly squawking away and singing when he broke her wings, when he skinned the feathers from her
what a beautiful symphony then
but the one in its head-- oh, the one in its head the one in its HEAD is an endless violin, played too fast and never slowing
The growl echoes through the castle, the mansion, and teeth sink into the abdomen, pull out the stomach like string, claw slides down the neck pulling forth blood and red
The growl almost sounds like Virginia
Almost
It does not see the son with the sword, would not expect it of the little fuck but the reaction is pure instinct animal monster rage
and the claw tears into Adam but it is not enough
It rips the silver sword from inside of it with a howl of pain, silver burns the hand of a werewolf, tossing the metal aside.
It wants to tear the little fuck apart but death finds it first.
///////////////////
When he awakes, in human form, naked and covered with blood, he is aware of two things
the little fuck will pay
And His Bird (always, always, always his) will not win.
///////////////
It has only been two weeks since Virginia severed their connection. He feels the weakness as apparent as his own instability. It's the weakness that bothers him. She will not win.
Lucien walks up to the home of an immortal servant who worked closely with witches thousands of years ago. He is in an immaculate suit, and he adjusts it accordingly as he walks up to the door and knocks. The witch answers. No one should know that she is here. Maybe that is why she answers with such ease.
There is no freedom, little bird.
As soon as she sees him, her expression shifts to fear.
"You will tell me what I want to know and die quickly or you choose to keep your pretty mouth shut and you and I enjoy each others company until you change your mind." The sword goes into her arm and pins her against the wall. "Let the decision be yours."
It's no symphony.
This bird's singing, the screaming.
It's no symphony.
No one sings quite like Virginia did.
A week later, he leaves the house again. An arm, two fingers, a heart, a corpse, a fire poker, a whip, the fire that takes the house whole, they are left behind, but Lucien steps ahead, away from the burning house.
The front of his suit is covered in blood.
Shewillnotwin.
She will not win.