Heir of Beasts

Ch. 6.7- The Exorcist's Feast

I know this took me forever to write, but it's fifteen pages long, if that's any consolation. First things first: this is a MATURE chapter. NSFW. If you are young and innocent, I don't know why you're reading this story, but avert your gaze lest you be corrupted. I'll put a clean summary at the end of the chapter for anyone who wants to stick with the story but isn't sure about the *ahem* ~spicy~ content. 

This is the end of part 3. Part 4 will be significantly shorter.  We're nearing the end of this absurdly long, convoluted saga. And I'm psyched. 

And as always, thanks for reading.

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I do what he says. It's easier not to look at him anyway. The darkness of my own eyelids is a comforting blanket, a barrier between me and a world that seems unbearably sharp and ever intent on making me bleed.

He lets go of me and I stumble, beginning to panic. It's like his touch was a tether, and now that it's been cut, I'm going to float away. Or maybe not away- maybe inwards, sinking helplessly into the emptiness at my center.

O'otani... I'm not sure you know who you are. I'm not sure you've ever known. I could drown in that, couldn't I? In absence as unfathomable and deep as any stretch of open water.

"See only through my voice," he murmurs, brushing his fingertips along my lashes, "and let what I speak be true." The touch is a whisper no stronger than a breath. His words, though... his words are certain. They're wide and deep enough to lean on. And in this moment, I understand why people have followed him off of the cliff of tradition: his voice showed them the other side. A leap of faith reduced by the alchemy inherent in his words to a step on solid ground. No risk, just reality.

Maybe risk is the reality. And maybe... maybe I just need to press my eyes shut tighter and listen to the honey flowing from his full, rich lips.

"It's high noon, and the summer sun beats down on your hair, bringing out every shade of rich gold within it. You burn like a brand, or a beacon. Maybe both." As he narrates, his hands twine through my tousled waves, mimicking the touch of the sun's rays. And, to my infinite horror, he's right.

I burn. That is the risk and the reality. No, I correct myself bleakly, that is the truth.

"The wind sets the strands to dancing around your face like a halo of silvery light."
"I thought it was golden," I can't help but say.

I can hear the smile in his voice. "The light burnishes your hair with the warmth of gold and the coolness of silver, O'otani. I should know; I've watched it often enough."

Don't watch me, I want to snarl. Don't look at me, because you'll see too much. You already do. You've guessed the truth and used it to wrap me around your finger like the ring you forced onto my own. Damn you, you blond bastard, you've turned me against myself, against my family, against reason... against everything but the sound of your voice in my ear, the tug of your fingers tangling in my hair.

And damn me, I add, damn me to the furthest reaches of a cold hell for letting you do it. May the buzzards pick my bones clean. Maybe he'll accomplish it first. He's already consumed so much of me, taken so much without even asking-

"You're thinking instead of listening."

"One can do both," I reply tartly.

"Some can," he clarifies. "But you're not one of them. You asked me to show you how things could be, and to do that, I need you less tense. Inhale my voice like it's warm spring air; feel my hands brushing against you like a cool breeze the next moment..."