Fire. Light. Blood. Lightning. Fire and blood. Bleeding. Burning for her. Silent as darkness. But bright as sunlight.
Illuminated in his golden irises. Beating like drums behind his eyes. Where once there was that razor blade of a headache slashing back and forth, there was suddenly no pain, as Drane became encased in the Force.
Maybe it was Cheriss who had opened the door. His companion of champion. Cheriss the Champion. His Sith. His woman. Might be that was how he had finally found the might in the light, in the dark, in the corridor stretched before them, yes, this floor of madness.
Yet, if this was a dream, then maybe that too might explain how he had it within his grip, that power over tutaminis and lightning, even if only momentary, where it otherwise should not exist for a mere Sith Champion like him. This was…different…like he was asleep…or simply…dead.
Then again, maybe it was the combination of her pain and rage mixed with his; an amalgamation of strength that kissed their opponent from Drane’s fingertips, powered by Cheriss’ lips as they twisted into something vicious, and her man found it to be his mountain in the moment.
Whatever it was, well, it didn’t matter. If this was hell then so be it, let the Force turn into a perversion of magic. As far as Drane could tell, they had all but teleported into that kitchen to begin with. Two Sith. A man. A woman. Whatever this is…
“Ha” Yellow Eyes had said. “Hm” she had beckoned. Drane had glimpsed no visage, sensed no resemblance, yet if in familiarity there was a sense of memory to Cheriss then she had yet to mention it. Whoever that woman was, she was nothing but dust the next second.
That fire that burned in them both? It had burned in her, too. Cheriss cast flame from her hand, and it roared across the floor, yet it was met with silence. Only fire in the darkness at the end of the hallway, there where sunlight burned bright in the form of the Force enraged in a blaze.
Whatever the effect of this, if it rendered that unwelcome woman asunder, Drane could sense her presence no longer. No, then again, he never sensed it to begin with. None of this. Not the intruders to their kitchen, not the macabre monsters of hunger in the hall, not the puppet on the bicycle, not even the walls.
What is this? It beckoned the question as Drane gave Cheriss his attention, feeling her fingers on his cheek, seeing her smile weakly, as exhaustion came upon this woman. So be it. I cannot carry your burdens, Cheriss.
“Don’t thank me.”
He might have said you’re welcome. Even Sith could express and return gratitude. It was a myth that they were such miserable creatures, hellbent on deception and corruption. For many, feeling brought them to this moment, as it did with him. Take Anakin, for instance.
Passion, that’s what it was. A warrior of light, the Black Swordsman, one of the sons of the red sun, burning bright at his shadowed core. He could swing his sword, a blade to scream in the wind, in the echo of the Thyrsian in the void, in a voice whose maw was raw.
“Never thank me, Cheriss.”
He lifted her chin. His vision shifted into each of her eyes, and never mind the iris, for his black pupils were like balls of fire that burned into hers, and penetrated her soul like swords.
But I can carry you.
“Just kiss me.”
Aurlyn.
That was her name. Once upon a time. On Thyrsus. And maybe the moment caters to the memory, like the sip of fine wine on a boat at sea, drifting endlessly, with only a man and woman to keep each other company.
Yet all he sees is Cheriss, all he hears is her breath into his, as the man takes her lips upon his and seals the moment for time indefinite. A whisper that is infinite, like a sliver of time ripped from a bottle whose liquid once flowed like wine, only to be turned to sand the next instant.
Wherever they were, in this labyrinth of twisted denizens, a maze of madness, Drane closed his eyes as if none of it even existed. Only him. Only Cheriss. Only this moment. Only her lips on his. Her skin, as his fingers reached her cheek, as she had gripped him, and his fist was given to bliss.
Never thank me, Cheriss.
She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
She would, could and should just slip into the sentiment, relinquish her flesh and bone to him, just as they had intended. Like two old spirits frozen in time, petrified like stone, unbroken this moment.
Cheriss of old stones.
Maybe there was a poem in there somewhere but, well, who the hell cares? Drane was too busy kissing his woman, fingers curling into her hair, and damn hell. He would let it burn with her, that other woman in the distance, whose screams were silent amid a sudden vision.
What...is...this..!?
Drane's headache, like madness fractured into a thousand scattered pieces of glass, pangs of sadness, fit for a Sith of broken emotions, though it only made his lips tighten, his grip tighten, as he took Cheriss into him. This was their moment. Like it had been in that kitchen before they were interrupted.
@Sicadorito (@Cheriss Ktrame)
Illuminated in his golden irises. Beating like drums behind his eyes. Where once there was that razor blade of a headache slashing back and forth, there was suddenly no pain, as Drane became encased in the Force.
Maybe it was Cheriss who had opened the door. His companion of champion. Cheriss the Champion. His Sith. His woman. Might be that was how he had finally found the might in the light, in the dark, in the corridor stretched before them, yes, this floor of madness.
Yet, if this was a dream, then maybe that too might explain how he had it within his grip, that power over tutaminis and lightning, even if only momentary, where it otherwise should not exist for a mere Sith Champion like him. This was…different…like he was asleep…or simply…dead.
Then again, maybe it was the combination of her pain and rage mixed with his; an amalgamation of strength that kissed their opponent from Drane’s fingertips, powered by Cheriss’ lips as they twisted into something vicious, and her man found it to be his mountain in the moment.
Whatever it was, well, it didn’t matter. If this was hell then so be it, let the Force turn into a perversion of magic. As far as Drane could tell, they had all but teleported into that kitchen to begin with. Two Sith. A man. A woman. Whatever this is…
“Ha” Yellow Eyes had said. “Hm” she had beckoned. Drane had glimpsed no visage, sensed no resemblance, yet if in familiarity there was a sense of memory to Cheriss then she had yet to mention it. Whoever that woman was, she was nothing but dust the next second.
That fire that burned in them both? It had burned in her, too. Cheriss cast flame from her hand, and it roared across the floor, yet it was met with silence. Only fire in the darkness at the end of the hallway, there where sunlight burned bright in the form of the Force enraged in a blaze.
Whatever the effect of this, if it rendered that unwelcome woman asunder, Drane could sense her presence no longer. No, then again, he never sensed it to begin with. None of this. Not the intruders to their kitchen, not the macabre monsters of hunger in the hall, not the puppet on the bicycle, not even the walls.
What is this? It beckoned the question as Drane gave Cheriss his attention, feeling her fingers on his cheek, seeing her smile weakly, as exhaustion came upon this woman. So be it. I cannot carry your burdens, Cheriss.
“Don’t thank me.”
He might have said you’re welcome. Even Sith could express and return gratitude. It was a myth that they were such miserable creatures, hellbent on deception and corruption. For many, feeling brought them to this moment, as it did with him. Take Anakin, for instance.
Passion, that’s what it was. A warrior of light, the Black Swordsman, one of the sons of the red sun, burning bright at his shadowed core. He could swing his sword, a blade to scream in the wind, in the echo of the Thyrsian in the void, in a voice whose maw was raw.
“Never thank me, Cheriss.”
He lifted her chin. His vision shifted into each of her eyes, and never mind the iris, for his black pupils were like balls of fire that burned into hers, and penetrated her soul like swords.
But I can carry you.
“Just kiss me.”
Aurlyn.
That was her name. Once upon a time. On Thyrsus. And maybe the moment caters to the memory, like the sip of fine wine on a boat at sea, drifting endlessly, with only a man and woman to keep each other company.
Yet all he sees is Cheriss, all he hears is her breath into his, as the man takes her lips upon his and seals the moment for time indefinite. A whisper that is infinite, like a sliver of time ripped from a bottle whose liquid once flowed like wine, only to be turned to sand the next instant.
Wherever they were, in this labyrinth of twisted denizens, a maze of madness, Drane closed his eyes as if none of it even existed. Only him. Only Cheriss. Only this moment. Only her lips on his. Her skin, as his fingers reached her cheek, as she had gripped him, and his fist was given to bliss.
Never thank me, Cheriss.
She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
She would, could and should just slip into the sentiment, relinquish her flesh and bone to him, just as they had intended. Like two old spirits frozen in time, petrified like stone, unbroken this moment.
Cheriss of old stones.
Maybe there was a poem in there somewhere but, well, who the hell cares? Drane was too busy kissing his woman, fingers curling into her hair, and damn hell. He would let it burn with her, that other woman in the distance, whose screams were silent amid a sudden vision.
What...is...this..!?
Drane's headache, like madness fractured into a thousand scattered pieces of glass, pangs of sadness, fit for a Sith of broken emotions, though it only made his lips tighten, his grip tighten, as he took Cheriss into him. This was their moment. Like it had been in that kitchen before they were interrupted.
@Sicadorito (@Cheriss Ktrame)
