bleodswean (bleodswean) wrote,

LJ comment-fic fill

Myth, Hades/Persephone (Modern Dress), running shirtless through a field of flowers

He had first seen her in a field of flowers. Merc had bid him come. You’re not going to believe this girl, he’d told him. Drunkenly, but Merc was more often altered than not. There are no words in this pitiful language to describe her, he’d said. Beyond language.

We don’t have the same taste, my man, he’d answered. Spare me your idea of Beauty, eh?

Monday had been tucked up under his arm, as was her wont. All curved crescent shape of her body, all glinting silver jewelry and waist-length pewter grey hair, spectacular dye job with the black of her true colour beckoning beneath. 

He remembered she had cast a tragic look at Merc. The bar was dark, but he knew he’d seen it. It piqued his interest. Monday was the way he measured his days, told time, and he paid attention to her moods.

The next morning, he was standing meadow-edge, watching Merc handholding a Hasselblad of all the bougie damned things and directing the girl. He’d had to put his doctored java down on the hood of the car and bury both his hands deep into his trouser pockets just to steady himself. Girl, woman. Neither was correct. She was Maiden, through and through and he had never, not once, in his life, been as mesmerized by another body, another soul, as he was in those first moments. He wanted to break free of the earth, overwhelm her, scoop her up, disappear with her, in his arms, forever and ever. And thensome.

Who on this blossoming earth was she?

He stepped closer to the field of flowers that seemed to be her domain. That was it, he nearly snapped his fingers, slapped his forehead. Queen. She was a queen.

Merc had no idea what to do with her. Like this, he was saying. Like that, just like that. Don’t move.

No, he said quietly. His voice commanding, over and around Merc. Move, he told her. Move like the wild thing you are. Run. He whispered, you had better run.

A diaphanous skirt, bared feet, and ropes of necklaces. She had unbrushed hair and a slow, crooked grin. She lifted the cropped and tie-dyed tank over her head, braless, of course. The untried doe spooked by the imposing rack of antlers, she fled, looking over her shoulder, not at the camera but at him.

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