And Then The Darkness Came

Chrezabel | before

White flames cackle as their scorching tongues reach high into the darkening sky—

Chrezabel watches through the gaps of her matted golden hair, the fire glinting as it reflects off her deep violet gaze. Too blue, they had said, once. Her eyes were too blue—a blessing she rejoices, and a curse she can never escape from. Blue is the color of gods, the beginning and the end—lacking the vibrance of those things in-between. Blue is the color of decay.

She closes her eyes and takes a slow breath through her nose, her nostrils flaring. Flame and smoke, death and shadow—everything and nothing, living and dying—existing one moment and gone as soon as she opens her eyes again. This is the world—just a hollow, broken bone.

And then, as if an answered prayer, He is standing before her—

The Creator smiles, and the flames might as well be consuming her flesh instead of the fallen world to her back. Heat surges through her—in her veins, between her legs—molten, hot, an all-consuming sort of lust.

Some say their master is gentle and kind, but she has never known that creature. She only knows the dark thing that He tries so hard to hide behind those gentle eyes. They hold star-speckled galaxies inside the body of a monster—

Adonai, she greets Him. "I've done what you've asked of me."

He never takes His eyes off of her, but that smile grows a little more serpentine, a little too evil for something so holy. A snake in a tree, offering her everything and nothing.

"You have done well," He says, and His voice is a song sweeter than the flames' death hymn. "Thank you, my most precious one."

For a moment she wishes it were true, that she could be His brightest, shining star—that He craves the curves of her body as much as she yearns for His. Just to feel Him, to live in His perfect sin—just once, to be torn apart and pieced back together by that power, becoming more divine with each thrust, each gasp, each plea.

A strange noise escapes her throat. She tilts her head back, running a finger along the slender column of her exposed neck. Those violent violet eyes watch her God with primal hunger. She is fierce and feral, chaos and destruction—and needs to be tamed.

"Soon," Adonai tells her. He takes a step forward, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of her messy blonde hair. He yanks it back, hard—her head tipping back further as a cry of pain and pleasure echoes through the desolate, flame-riddled tomb of the world that once was.

Please, Adonai, she pleads.

"How shall I reward you?"

Just the hum of His voice is enough to make her thirst.

She presses herself to Him, begs with her dark, seductive gaze, her pristine teeth, her tongue.

More, she says, and later, as that power slips into her, something awakens, and she sees with absolute certainty what this union will cost—

Because all things great and terrible began in sin, sugarcoated with divine, silver-lined lies.