Pomegranate

All he had known was summer – the tickle of ripening wheat as he ran his hands over the tips, the wind sighing as it rippled through the endless golden fields, the heat beating down on his shoulders in warm glorious rays from a cloudless sky.

Then one day the ground cracked open at his feet and the world shattered.

He had stood wide-eyed as a chariot burst thundering forth, drawn by four black mares with mad rolling eyes and spoiled foaming mouths, a well-built man with bright cruel eyes pulling hard at their reins. He saw that wherever their hooves landed, the grass and wildflowers would wither, frozen to ice crystals. He could not remember much of what came after. The rest – the violation – he remembered only in flashes; the burn of frost as he was pinned to the ground, the act itself a horrific agony ripping through him, and the tears stinging his eyes as he screamed his voice raw.

And now all he knew was darkness – cold, clammy and quiet.

He learnt of the touch of leather-clad hands brushing stray locks of hair out of his eyes and running cool fingertips down his naked flesh. He learnt that kisses could be sweet if he was yielding, vicious and full of teeth if he wasn't. He learnt of pain most acutely, recognising the gnawing emptiness within himself to be that of longing. Longing for home, for the earth and sky and everything in between, he had thought, but he knew better now.

Longing was a snake which lay slumbering in the bitter winters of his heart only to rear on itself in the absence of his captor. It was a heat which uncoiled and melted his senses into something else, something alien and frightening. Once astir, he found that it would not be quelled and it would not be ignored. It only lay smouldering in the plains of his scorched barren soul until he could bear it no longer.

Burrowing deep into the furs heaped to his bed – which had been a gift since he was always so cold here – he reached, trembling, for his treacherous need.

His hand flew to his neck, fingering the tender bruises left there by suckling lips and nibbling teeth. He wrapped his other hand around himself, fancied that he could feel the tug of leather as he was milked, gasping and writhing, at a rapidly mounting pace, toes curling into the soft rabbit pelts. His knees spread and fell apart of their own, remembering the heat and hardness which had stretched and filled him so impossibly there… oh how he longed for it again!

"Hair the colour of wheat and eyes the colour of a summer sky…"

Words spoken in a gentle lover's murmur.

"…if I am Hades, then you are my Persephone."

As he brought his stained trembling hand to his lips to lick at his seeds, he let out a desperate but pleasured sob. He had allowed himself to be consumed. He was lost.


A/n: Somewhere along the line I lost the thread of things and here we are.