Morbid Inclinations

III: Dominic Mortengal

The girl in his arms was bleeding unconscious weakly limply hanging in his arms, he smelt the blood hear the breathing of the man that he left on the floor, his hands stained with blood, mixing the blood red. The wall had been blank was it—no not still anymore. Think—clear he wrote he wrote on the wall why did he write on the wall? Does it matter -more, no. No he needed to go home. Get to the castle, the girl was not breathing good—she wasn't going to die, no not going to die, couldn't die like he couldn't die. But she was weak—small pale weakly—what could she do there that was enough to keep her? He—bring her but he shouldn't—they can't know that he did. He can't leave her—brain is foggy—she was like him now, he wanted to be with someone like him—not alone. Leave her—leave her here-they can't-won't they won't approve. She feels so cold— her breath is chilled— skin, her skin-like that of the deer.

No. I am not leaving— not leaving her.

She is mine.

The castle loomed above him and his passenger, the moon casting a eerie glow over the stone building. No other creatures dared to be out at this hour, the danger radiated from the man and the castle strong enough to chase away all the previous inhabitants of the forest surrounding.

He looked down at the girl— the sense of dread and foreboding almost causing him to cast her from his arms— but he saw her pale, calm, colorless eyes half open up to him. The life was drained, ebbing away, clinging stubbornly to her body, but her eyes could only speak to him in a primitive language. He felt the desperation of the unsaid, unthought words—no, he could not let her go, could not even hardly look away once he met her gaze.

She was his.

The door that he used only for himself was small and hidden in the back of a watchtower, he entered here, knowing that she could not be seen of by the others in his army. Only his eyes would meet hers—yes only he would see her. She would be his—just his.

He walked up the stairs that he has climbed for centuries, his pale-white eyes looking into her pale-white eyes.

The fog from his mind cleared-some- when he stepped into his quarters, the bathing room—a large pool cut out of stone of the mountain the castle was built into- was where he set the girl down, laid her onto the polished stone floor with gentle care. Her blood stained his forearms and torso, had run down his stomach to the sharp angles of his hips, still more of it had smeared unto her pale body, a cascade of shades of red-black that shaded her white skin with unnatural hues.

Her neck was the most strikingly injured.

The tendons were torn—slowly knitting—and the skin had all been ripped away. He saw the shining black cavity of her chest, pumping, gaping and gasping as if the wound were the maw of a fish held up from the stream. He bent over her body and began licking the blood from the wound, stimulating the healing with his saliva. Her fingers curled weakly in his hair, which draped in a knotted mass over his side.

The taste of her blood was sweet in his mouth.

He left a hand on her stomach as he reached over to turn the metal tap that released the spring's water into the pool.

Her body quivered under his fingers, drawing his attention back to her face, her mouth agape, eyes pleading, her neck was a mix between fresh, pale skin and black, bubbling blood. The muscles and ligaments had reformed, letting her lift her head off the floor a few inches.

He watched her torn skin slowly heal, one hand hanging down beyond the edge of the pool, feeling for the frigid water to reach his fingertips, the other hand he caressed the skin of her abdomen with.

This was the most tender he had been toward another creature, it disturbed him—he felt the coldness of the water seep into his skin and moved to grab her once again in his arms.