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Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees that fateful moment. That moment when everything changed, seared into the back of his eyelids. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it, not for a single moment.
It was the most beautiful thing Sinclair had ever seen. Perhaps it was the first thing he had truly seen.
He had yet to hatch before that very moment.
At the time, he’d been so distraught. He’d been fooled. He’d been wracked with grief at the loss of the things he’d considered his family.
But his family had been gone the entire time. Replaced by posers—metallic imposters acting as his family. It had taken him too long to realize that.
He would always be eternally grateful to his partner. His saviour. She had taken him in as just a little hatchling and showed him what the truth really was.
Heretics must be cleansed. And he couldn’t let Kromer do that alone, could he? Not when his wife had such high hopes for him.
He opens his eyes.
She is there, beautiful as always. The sun sits behind her head, the only halo befitting her splendor. Her radiant smile lights up his ever-dark world. She is waiting patiently for him, beckoning kindly for him to take her hand. He looks up at her, mirroring her smile. There is something missing, something not quite there in his expression. The light is gone from his eyes.
Neither seem to notice nor care.
He places his hand in hers. Her smile grows. There is a madness apparent, barely restrained below the surface. It is her love, her ever-growing love. No matter what, he is hers. And she will always love him.
He is a dead hatchling, remade and molded in her design. He is a dead hatchling, and she breathes her own life into him.
She is hungry. She is always hungry, but she insists that his presence is sating enough.
He hears it in the silence. Hears the writhing of unquantifiable arms. Hears the ripping of flesh and bone. He hears her moans.
He sees it in the darkness. Sees the mad grin on her face. Sees the small bursts of blood stain her body. He sees her pleasure.
She sees him through the door crack. He doesn’t move.
Her smile grows at the sight of him. Her moans get louder. She doesn’t tell him to leave.
She wants him to stay. He knows she does. She seems happier that he’s here. She’s overjoyed.
Her meal continues. Her lower mass writhes in pleasure. He sees a severed arm peek out, and another still-attached (to her) arm pulls it inside her. There is a huff of satisfaction.
She is done. He makes a note to start feeding her.
Sometimes, he tends to his outfit. The blood from his countless crusades does not, will not wash off. That is fine. It is a reminder of his humanity and the lack thereof within the heretics he purges. He will never question if he is wrong. Such questioning is foolish, and only further proof that she is right. It necessitates further purification, as he should never allow any uncertainty.
She can tell. She knows when he hesitates. Yet she is ever forgiving. Ever loving. She soothes his mind, reassures him that it isn’t his fault. He will always be her beloved, she reminds him. It works. It calms him.
Sometimes, he tries to have some fun with this. He counts the sinners he purges each day. Ponders on whether it’ll be even the next day. Whether it’ll be less, whether it’ll be more. She likes to bet on it sometimes.
She always bets on more. She always wins her bets.
He once asked her if she wanted a reward for winning a bet. She said she didn’t need more; his purge was her reward. He’d almost been fine with it, but a bit of boredom had pushed him to ask again anyway. She thought about it for a moment, then asked him to look at her.
That was her reward, she’d triumphantly declared. Having him lay his eyes on her form.
It was his reward really: to be able to grace his eyes with her splendid form. To see the pinnacle, the most pure, most whole human form. And that ever-perfect being is smiling upon him.
He is filled again with euphoric pleasure, a madness that has never left him. He loves her. He would, and does kill for her. He will purge—he must purge—and he will do it all for her. For what purer form of love is there?
There is none, he decided—and still decides now—and thus he shall continue.
There is never a moment of rest. His eyes never do close for long. That moment always follows him. Haunts him. His dreams are no better. He dreams of times before he met her.
His nightmares terrify him. The feeling of being trapped in that false warmth is terrifying. He utterly loathes it. He does his best to avoid it. Yet, it is there whenever he sleeps, like a sprawling, growing forest he is forever trapped in.
He does not sleep anymore. He cannot.
He lies awake every night. She is there. She is asleep. She holds him in her two arms and her countless arms. He is enwrapped by her embrace. It comforts him. It is his salvation.
He does not sleep anymore. He rests in her embrace.
He does not sleep anymore. All he needs is her touch.
Yes, all he needs is her touch, and he is saved forevermore.
She is The One Who Grips. He is the One Who Shall Grip. He is her partner. She is the one who gripped his heart. He would not have it any other way. He could not imagine it any other way.
He loves her. Her form. Her lust. Her smile. Her warmth.
There is nothing else to live for but her. There is nothing else to do but to go forth and accomplish her goal.
His world is one of darkness, one full of filth and impurity.
There is but one thing he knows. One thing that guides him. It is her word, her single command.
It is the whistle that pulls him from the brink. The whispering voice that restates her wish.
All heretics shall be purged, as his light has dictated.