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If I were one for whimsy, I’d keep jars full of all the dying breaths I’ve ever had the pleasure to bear witness to. I’m certain they would create a morbidly beautiful symphony, like seeking the sounds of the ocean inside a seashell.
“I pray when death beckons you home, I am there to witness it,” I rasp tauntingly. He’s choking. It’s beautiful. “I will be the first to dance on your grave.”
“I suggest,” I say with a slow drawl, “you run.”
“What makes you think I want anything to do with a feral creature like you?”
I despise her. I crave her. I will have her.
If this is what it tastes like to die, then there is a reason why I worship the god of death.
“If you think your illusioned free will has not already been preordained, love, then you’re not as cunning as I thought you were.”
“I’ve known of your union long before your births. Be wise to remember that the gods make no mistakes.”
“Have you come all this way to tithe to me, Crèvecoeur?”
“Silly little wolf,” she says darkly, a jeering taunt curled around her words. “Who says I was thinking of you?”
“Well, my ruin, it’s the dawn of a new day.”
“Let me beg for forgiveness for the rest of our lives,” she pleads breathlessly. “Please. Let me tell you every day that I choose you and only you.”
