agentofoblivion

Their prophet wept at the sight of her. He knew that he had given up his life for a cause that could never compare to the rapture he would have found in her arms, and it would haunt him for the rest of his days. Those days would be few, as she had already demanded of her legions that his head be brought to her on a silver platter, but that is another story for another time.

The night crept in like a slow setting cancer, and the promise of violence was in the air. It was a night for him to attempt to escape the taint of her splendor, hoping to wash it from his flesh by basking in the filth of his species. If he crawled with the worst perhaps he would free himself of her, becoming too disgusting and too ugly for her needs and wants. He knew inside that it would not work, but it did not stop him from trying. He plunged into the depths of his unwashed brethren, knowing that when he surfaced she would wash away the sins of the masses and enslave him again.

And thus it would come to pass, but not in the three days that followed. He allowed himself to pass an evening in the arms of a former lover, another night alone, and a third night in the arms of an enemy. Each brought him a different crime and a different lie, but none of them brought him the salvation he craved or the absolution from her ways. He was forever lost, and no matter how long she allowed him to run free, she could draw in the leash and remind him of his enslavement whenever she wished. Only death could save him, and he was not willing to die.