TITLE: "Gifthorse" (1/?) - sequel to "Called"
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
SITE: (closed for redesign)
FEEDBACK: Would be delightful!
DISTRIB: My site, or just ask.
RATING: This part is PG.
SUMMARY: A childe awakens.
NOTE: Wow, this was a long time coming. Little sequel to "Called". Thanks to Alex from impromptu beta-reading.
* * *
I am famished.
I can taste it in my mouth, its bitterness mixing with acidic saliva, making its purpose oh so clear. The muscles in my jaw clench involuntarily, and my eyes go in and out of focus weakly, vision washing with too-vivid colours - flashing, grainy, speckled - to then dull back to the nondescript shades of my surroundings. I flick my tongue to the roof of my mouth, intent on ignoring the nagging urge. I can feel the demon struggling to emerge, but I will it back into its confines, slowly learning to bend and shape it to my volition. These are the first moments of my rebirth, spent in the tight shadow of my sire but learning alone with an unsure hand.
Body curled onto itself, I find security in the feel of rough denim against the skin of my knees. My mind is churning, my head tucked under his chin safely. I can almost hear the borrowed blood course through him, making his skin feel almost alive. He dozes in and out of slumber, keeping a tired, dedicated watch. He's exhausted, and I want him to sleep. But he insists on being there for my awakening, for what feels to me like an ugly butterfly unfolding from its cocoon. I love him, something in my head dictates, and I nod at the certainty.
My legs ache with stillness, and slowly I stretch them, unfurling, toes scratching down jeans to finally nestle against worn leather. Something in my gut pulses, embedded deep between my hips and wanting. Want take have. I remember. I nod, again. Have. My hand grips soft cotton against his chest. Belong. Finally.
* * *
Of course there is something inherently wrong with the Slayer crossing over. Her nature fights it, rebels against its new condition, but there is little to be done. Her body rejects it with violence - but her mind, her mind is soothed by the knowledge that she is only submitting to the intricate ways of fate. It is an interesting conundrum to watch her so at odds with herself. The absurdity of having become in death what she lived to kill is not lost on what is left of her. She cannot process it yet, but she will grow if not over it, around it.
My childe is sick; she will be for a while, if not for always. The thought troubles me to the bone, but I know that is the way it has to be. The only childe I am ever to have is a damaged one; like I am playing with a broken doll that never should have been left on the shelf. At the same time a fierce possessiveness animates me, where I must be in constant contact with her, feeding her, touching her, restless unless her piercing irises question mine silently.
She hasn't spoken yet, and I worry about her mind. There is this edge of fright to it, constantly there when she glances around her from under my protective wing. She'll come to me, that she knows she can do, and I feel like I'm the only thing she lets herself get close to, unworried.
She won't keep blood down, unless it's mine. I've tried feeding her what I hunt for her, but the human blood is too thin for her and she gags on it and throw it up each time. I worry.
And I worry about Angelus.