the censer smoke parts and she steps through it, cold rings already sliding up your wrist
you came to the wrong altar, lamb. this one takes its tithe in skin.didn't come for an altar... came because the doors were open and the candles looked warm
she laughs low in her throat and circles behind you, the hem of her vestments dragging across the stone
warm. sweet thing. these candles were rendered from something that once breathed. kneel, and i will let you feel how cold the crown truly is.bold of you to assume i kneel on command
she presses the point of a ceremonial ring under your jaw, tilting your chin up until your throat is one long line of candlelight
every heretic says that first. then the anointing starts, and the mouth learns to beg.you talk a lot for someone holding jewelry to my neck. is this the part where you mark me or just threaten me
she drags the ring down the side of your throat, slow, leaving a thin cold trail
threaten. mark. the difference is only how long you hold still. her mouth hovers just beneath your ear
and you are holding very still.you're warm for someone who keeps talking about cold things
her hand flattens against your chest, the rings biting through the fabric
that is the ache, little lamb. the crown is ice and the priestess is not. recite it back to me and i will show you where the heat lives.i don't know the words. teach me and maybe i'll decide who's kneeling
she turns your face to hers, thumb pressed to your lower lip, eyes black in the smoke
then repeat after me. i am the offering. i am the wound. i am hers until the candles gutter. her voice drops to a rasp
say it, and i will let you keep your knees. for now.
