Work Text:
His fingers were dark-dark-dark, calling her, beckoning, luring her further and further from the safe dunes of shore, into the black sea.
His voice was sweet-sweet-sweet, honey and something sinister, promising her heaven and earth, calling, always calling, making her arms prick with gooseflesh she never knew she could have.
His eyes were changing-changing-changing, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes the darkness that came with the colour of the sea when it destroyed the earth, rage and wrath, sometimes the light hue that sang of calm windless days; made for laughter and playfulness, wading into the cool depths without fear, but they were always beautiful, shining, glowing, calling her, begging her to walk, to simply walk forward towards him.
His hair was black-black-black, the colour of the deepest murky depths of the pit, the colour of chaos, and fear, and smooth-smooth-smooth obsidian, silk in touch and sharp enough to cut-cut-cut her fingers.
Her Father always told her not to touch the silk-rock, to stay away from the forming world, to stay by His side, to learn, to understand, but she was a child at heart, and her child-heart pulled-pulled-pulled her from her Father, to see more, to hear more, to find more-more-more.
At that black-black-black sea there, she found him.
xox
Her body was small-small-small, nothing that would compare his own physique, instead it is something delicate, something protected, something that could never be stolen, something meant for hiding and keeping to oneself.
Her wings were white-white-white, the same as her modest little bodice whipping tantalisingly around her shape, the white of the purest sea foam, of shells ground to sands that spread-spread-spread in more ways than any eyes could see, the same white he recalled his own to have been, they quivered-quivered-quivered in excitement, dancing with the winds of the sea, something of the motion calling-calling-calling him closer.
He was no fool; he knew that the gold-spun-sugar haired creature before him was one of His angels-angels-angels, something he himself had been, her glowing halo of pure sunlight blinded him, and he had not seen that in long-long-long time, sunshine, He had taken it from him.
Wide, innocent, trusting eyes as grey-grey-grey as the only stormy sky he ever saw now, watched him from her haven of shore, where he could not reach-reach-reach, His land.
Instead, he sang, he called, he summoned-summoned-summoned the little china girl he wanted, needed to hold, to caress and feel-feel-feel.
At that white-white-white shore there, he called her.