wretchedmother-blog

[wretchedmother-blog]

Her mouth was a gash of red, like the torn-open stomach of a sacrifice, bloody and oracular. Behind it, her teeth shone sharp and white as bone.

Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles (via georginakincaid)

[wretchedmother-blog]

We are the wicked, we come to destroy, and there is no mercy to be had on our souls.

[wretchedmother-blog]

[wretchedmother-blog]

"I do not mock you. I merely… pry." The corners of her mouth turned upwards, the seam of her lips separating to reveal a sliver of serrated teeth. "Ever so humble, even when I know you would desire nothing more than my destruction. But why not you, Louis? Whose misery has yet to withstand the test of time, but yours? You are ever so noble, so miserable; you have the makings of a king.”

You have not died yet?

❝You.  Could one not say the same for yourself?❞

[wretchedmother-blog]

Oh, Louis. You forget to whom you speak. Death does not become me. How are the rodents, petulant one? Or have we evolved from such mediocre tastes?

You have not died yet?

❝You.  Could one not say the same for yourself?❞

[wretchedmother-blog]

I Have Returned

And it has been a long time coming. I have spent time pursuing other avenues of interest and in doing so, have refined my writing to the best of my abilities. Now that I'm at a place with my work that makes me temporarily happy, I'd like to reach out to my followers and invite them to brainstorm with me.

There has been an influx of new followers while I've been absent and I'd like to engage all of you. The same goes out to the awesome souls that have been here from the jump. I owe it to both myself and you amazing people to make my presence here a regular occurrence. No more laziness, no more self-doubt.

[wretchedmother-blog]

foreverwithgoldencurls وقد استيقظت الملكة 

The Queen fastened a succinct gaze upon the child; the mere presence of the miniature demon brought a faint smile to her lips, turning them upward to reveal a glistening row of serrated teeth. “Ah, the little deviant one. It is certainly a most spectacular moment to finally set eyes upon you, the little lioness who will never come to full bloom.”

[wretchedmother-blog]

The smile on her face lengthened, dimpling the hollows of her cheeks. Dark, finely sculpted brows pulled towards one another while she surveyed him silently, a short exhalation of satisfaction puncturing the air before she spoke. “You are forgiven. It is only a minor transgression after all.” She soon stepped forward – a flurry of gold ensemble and black hair – to close the distance between them, her hand venturing forward to place the cushion of her fingers against a sliver of his exposed skin. “You've such a fresh body, and yet, you yourself, are astoundingly mature. You even smell of Lestat.” Her eyes narrowed, the long, black sweep of her lashes obliterating the pigment of her irises, leaving only the whites of her eyes visible. “Your presence pleases me. Stay.”

david-talbot وقد استيقظت الملكة

[wretchedmother-blog]

david-talbot وقد استيقظت الملكة

Silent and with brief, nimble footsteps, she appeared from between a fracture in the walls, her approach reminiscent of a shadow in bloom. The margins of her mouth separated slowly to reveal sharp, frosted cupids. “You interrupt the Queen's sleep, scholar? Does your curiousity know no bounds?”

[wretchedmother-blog]

Perhaps, if she had been in authentic possession of breath, Akasha would have inhaled deeply, allowing the tender aroma of swollen earth to fill her nostrils, to embellish itself deep within the belly of her blackened lungs. Breathing was but a minor luxury, nothing more than a blip on her petulant horizons, conversational flourish to further garnish words and gestures. She had been in no need of it, though, if she had been mortal, she might have gasped, suddenly whittled down to an awestruck morsel in the wake of the lioness' arrival. A tumble of dark hair, of sterling skin – truly, a sight for sore eyes. Despite herself, the corners of Akasha's mouth rose, her finely sculpted brows pulling together in a motherly fashion, incapable of speech, but obscenely articulate nonetheless. She looked upon Pandora the same way an artist looked upon his work. Succinct, enamoured, wholly mystified. If asked, she would not have admitted it, but Akasha had loved her, loved Pandora like a daughter, and it had burned her when she had been denied. Warmer than the fires of hell, the Queen's admiration melded over into contempt, and slowly, cooled over. No longer had Akasha been blown about the lustrous winds of longing or her heart frenzied by the idea of her own personal angel. Pandora – and the rest of them – had solicited themselves of consciousness, weighing matters of good and evil. It had been as clear as day, the denial, and as she slept, she never forgot it. She refused. Still, she was enraptured by the sight of her. Beautiful, intelligent, poignant.

“Pandora.” The word left Akasha wistfully, as if saying so would relieve her of all ailments. There she was, a physical manifestation of all that Akasha was not. They stood opposite one another, like two polarities, their differences clearly illuminated in simple, superficial explanation. Dark as she was, in both body and mind, Pandora was the light, tender and wholesome and nurturing. Accepting these quiet ramifications was maddening and Akasha cast her gaze aside, her emerald optics peering into a stagnant puddle of water. Her focus remained downcast in the same manner of a saddened child, and in her silence, she festered like an agitated wound.

“You bring forth that specter into conversation, as if he is important,” the Queen mused, her voice slowly descending into toxicity. “Had I desired Marius, his contempt for me would have done very little to halt my conquest. As it stands, I simply came to visit, to see how you are doing.” A less than partial truth. Akasha cared very little for the well-being of her progeny. All that mattered to her was that they suffered and suffered and suffered. Heat brewed in her belly knowing that Pandora possibly lived a life that was pleasant. It was painful to know that she might have spent her time copulating, dissolving into novellas, seeing the world. What she had hoped for when she had pushed herself into Pandora's mind was to see that they had all struggled to move on without her, their lives overshadowed with the dreadful thought of the Queen's presence lingering around each and every corner. She wanted to fracture them all, split their factions, turn them upon one another. All because they had not worshiped her when she had first been upon them, and worse yet, that they had not missed her.

“What makes you think I care for the mortals? They come and go like vermin. Terrorize a few, slaughter hundreds, there will always be many. They are potent,” she said, the tone of her voice casting her diatribe into potential agreement. “Roaches like the ones in Egypt that, despite the skill of the cat, always survived. I know they will continue to get on with their luxuries. What matters most are my children, my lesser demons.” Slowly, she spiraled on the spot, her skirts twisting to conform to the shape of her long legs. “I've come to see how strong all of you are. I come to see if my previous lesson has taught any of you anything.”

⌠ To Whom She Loves

The air was crisp and the winds endless. Carried within their fluttering arms was a most titillating scent comprised of patchouli, dirt, and fresh waters. The aroma traveled effortlessly; a pungent stream of thought that was subsequent to her movement. As she was silent, deadly, and serpentine, so was her fragrance like that of a serpent’s scales; decorative and dutiful. Her musk was not like that of any other woman’s. Rather, her scent was something difficult to achieve. It was the perfume of a queen, of the primordial mother, of a woman who dared to sacrifice and destroy in order to establish boons for her descendants. It was the smell of Akasha, a scent that the winds had not hoisted and distributed for years. Even now, as she presented herself in a fine, silvery manifestation of what she truly was, the sensuous smell that adorned her darkened flesh had carried over into her ghostly projection. She needed no words upon descending into her daughter’s psyche. The sight of her and the scent that followed was a good enough indicator of her presence. What good were words when she was there in the specter flesh?

The ends of Akasha’s mouth turned upwards. Her lips reddened with blood and her eyes a startling green, optics defined not by their colour, but by their disconcerting depths. It is I, my love. Laughter tinted her words, colouring them pleasant when nothing but foul intentions crafted them. I have come home. I have come to you. See me in your sleep and know that I love you and that I am here. All will be well.

The sun threatened the sky with its shimmering approach and despite her years, Akasha knew she too was no exception to urgent departure. She allowed herself to linger on the fringes of her child’s mind while her corporeal self retreated deep into the earth, her flesh fusing with the cold soil. Come little one who has opened the blood box, who has tasted all that my world has to offer. Do not fear me, Pandora.

[wretchedmother-blog]

Kill me now, kill me tomorrow, but I live in each and every one of you.

[wretchedmother-blog]

After some careful deliberation and my four week long hiatus, I have decided that Akasha is not the type of character that one can willingly give up. As such, I've opted to change my URL for security reasons and will be breathing new life into my writing. I will now be tracking the tag, wretchedmother. Endless thanks for the wonderful souls that did not unfollow and for the new followers in the wake of my absence. 

[wretchedmother-blog]

Alas

The inevitable has come to fruition. It makes me considerably grumpy to admit that I've either lost, or misplaced, any gumption reserve I have set aside for Akasha. Fortunately, I'm not inclined to abandon her as she's -- hands down -- the most possessive, malignant character I've ever written and I've a sort of soft spot for her. I believe her well has run dry as there have been some personal instances in the past few months that made it difficult for me to write her freely and to my leisure. So.. in order to conserve breath, and to really get my point across (since I tend to ramble), I'd like to make a proposal. I'm looking for some friendly geniuses to write with. I've not had the chance to interact with all of my followers and I'd really love to. As much as I love The Vampire Chronicles, I kind of want to steer clear of that avenue and tackle something different. I'm quite liberal when it comes to various genres, character types, so on and so forth. So, please, don't hesitate to send me a message if you're interested. Unlike my darling Akasha, I do not bite; at all. 

[wretchedmother-blog]

[wretchedmother-blog]

Petrified, trembling, and disreputably compliant – these were not the mannerisms the Queen had envisioned she would encounter on this very night. Shortly after passing over the threshold of her resting place, she had concluded that she might happen upon the chance confrontation of a dissatisfied descendant, one who was folly to disobedience and vulgarity. Someone in the same vein as Louis. However, coming upon this apparition of technicolour hair and blood-stained cheeks, Akasha was only remotely satisfied with her findings. Upon passing due negligence regarding the amalgamation of artificial pigments and choice of attire, she resolved that there was time yet for improvement of this little one. Alas, she had not sought out this member of kin to scrutinize her appearance, rather, she had been persistent in regards of finding her to determine, as she had said, why she had been the source of avoidance.

With a detached click of her tongue, Akasha stepped towards the opposing female, dark brows rising as she circled the girl. “Is it often that you run from members of your own family? More importantly,” the Queen paused in her speech, taking the moment to incline her head, pressing the end of her nose against the thin flesh beneath the fearful vampire's neck. Inhaling deeply, she peered upward through a sweep of thick, dark lashes before she resumed speaking. “Do you think it appropriate to run from your queen? Your mother?” The last word slipped free from her reddened lips in a threatening hiss in the same moment that Akasha retreated – a blur of black hair, green eyes, and gold ensemble. “Tell me, little rainbow, what angel of destruction is fearful of their own kind? Who has made you frightened for your own livelihood? Tell me, and I will take you under my wing. I will protect you.”

It was only after the little one's barely audible plea did Akasha dissolve into a brief bout of laughter. Despite the sound coming forth from deep within her throat, her expression cast no invitation for mirth. “Kill you? I would never kill you,” she cooed, her head swaying as if the terrified request were an abomination to all that Akasha stood for, to all that she believed in. “Darling, have you ever trespassed against me, conspired against me? Have you ever aspired to dispose of yourself because you believed that your existence is considerably more flawed than it was as a mortal, and that perpetual death was a greater pleasure than this?” Akasha gestured about herself, as if she was the quintessence of perfection, the epitome that all blood-drinkers aspired to. “If you can confidently answer no to every inquiry, then I will not kill you. If you answer otherwise... Perhaps, perhaps we will have a terrible altercation of sorts.”

The night was silent save for the quiet hum of human hearts as their bodies slipped beneath cotton sheets and the near inaudible whisper of automobiles as they rolled along cracked asphalt and tattered debris. There was a peculiar quality of beauty that was privy only to the heavy gloom of evening, and on this particular night, the aesthetics that seemed to abound with the slow passing of the night-time hours was quite generous. Beyond the murmur of noise that she had promptly disregarded, there was a luxurious sound that hovered inside the cavern of her ears. It was the sound of anxiety, and it was textured with the sound of footsteps far off and the substantial thrumming of a worried heart. She advanced steadily upon the source of her curiousity, her footsteps falling in time to the beating of the aggravated muscle whose host had run from her. The corners of her dark lips turned upward and the light of the moon shimmered on keen cuspids while she rounded the corner, long fingers sweeping back tendrils of dark hair while emerald optics surveyed the seemingly empty alleyway. Standing still so as not to disrupt the puddle in which she stood, Akasha looked succinctly upon her surroundings. She admired the tarnished brick and wrought-iron that dangled menacingly overhead with a sort of laziness that spoke of the sheer fact that she would not leave until her prey came forth.

“Your heart gives you away, my love,” she said into the impenetrable darkness, thick, finely sculpted brows rising along the smooth, brown plane of her forehead as she stepped forward, the sound of her silk skirts hissing along the surface of the murky water beneath her sandaled feet. “I heard it from miles and it led me dutifully to you.” Assured in the location of her game, Akasha teased the poor soul by checking inside and behind the fetid collection bins that lay about. With her hands stationed at her sides, a few flicks of her wrists pulled the disposal units from their walls and she turned them over, emptying their contents. Side-stepping a rodent, Akasha exhaled heavily as she approached the last container and hummed a mild tune. “Save me the trouble and come forth to greet your queen. It is not often that many run from me.” Akasha stepped back and collected her hands in front of her hips, her head turning this way and that as her ears picked up on the sound of a gold link chain colliding almost soundlessly against its neighbour. “You’ve no need to fear me,” she cooed. “I will not harm you.” The patience in her voice deteriorated in but a few seconds and the woman spoke with more conviction. “Come. Now.”

It had been so very long since she had been truly afraid. Most of her kind, strangers and those her elder, usually inspired a certain amount of fear. But so many of them, especially in modern times, seemed content to leave her to to drown in her own panic and anxieties. She could not remember the last time that she had truly been pursued. Although, at this time, it all seemed of incredibly little consequence. She was unsure if she could have recalled her own name, had she been asked.

It was easy to cower, her arms wrapped ever tighter about her head and her body curled into a ball, like a frightened animal. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot streaks of crimson that stained her hair and shirt. Her entire body trembled behind the dumpster, and no matter how hard she tried she could not still it. She could hear her own hear pounding in her head and she cursed the very blood in her veins. The only blessing she had was no need for breath. Although, the moment that the dumpsters began to move about her the sound of a breath would have made little difference.

Emily cried out despite herself, every single time metal screeched across the wet pavement and crashed against the ground or walls opposite. The woman’s words did little to assuage her fears. In truth, she had heard them all before and they had only ever lead to harm. But she knew… She knew that she was not hidden, simply not in sight. She knew that the woman need only step a few more feet, or even reach out with one of her many obvious gifts, and do as much damage as she wished.

The tone of her voice was what finally broke Emily’s terribly frayed nerves. With a high pitched sound that would have been more suited to a small animal than a young woman, let alone a vampire nearly a century and a half in age.

In a flurry of movement, she rose to her feet and stepped out just enough to be seen. Her dark eyes were set to the ground between them and strands of pink hair obscured most of her face. She did not move any closer, or really move at all, beyond whispering “please don’t kill me…”

[wretchedmother-blog]

Waves of exhilaration washed over her, and in due time, the intoxicating sweep of euphoria found itself deep beneath the entombment of her flesh. Her blood, his blood – their blood – coursed through her, rippling her dark tissue, animating her further. The sheer sensation of it all, the warmth and weight of this treasured gore, brought a wide smile to her lips. Soon, the margins of her mouth separated from one another and she let forth a breath which caught the chilling winds and traveled like a phantom amongst the retreating stars. Akasha stood for only so long before the vagrant beneath her spat, the watery and red concoction that he spewed in her direction landing upon the hem of her skirts. And like an agitated feline, the Queen bristled, each portion of her body stiffening like the fur of a maddened house cat.

“How dare you!?” she seethed, turning slowly to look down the bridge of her nose at him. She made her way towards him with slow, deliberate steps, the act of which brought forth a memory. She had walked in the same manner towards Lestat, had crushed the first Keeper beneath her marble feet when the imbecile had threatened Lestat's livelihood. She had shuffled forward with his remains attached to her bare soles, and now, replicating such an instance seemed to entice the Queen. “Do you understand your transgression, pauper?! Not even Lestat – and you and I both know how daring, how thoughtless Lestat can be – would dare exercise such impudence!” Akasha bent at the waist and with both hands, she hoisted Louis to his knees and proceeded to drag him but a few feet before she paused. In an act of sheer agitation, she struck the sides of his face, though the act of drawing blood did not please her in the slightest. “You will suffer,” she hissed, her voice rumbling in the depths of her throat like the heralding of a mighty hurricane. “You have dug your grave, bastard.”

His offense fueled her movement, and she moved quick across the dirt and asphalt, her grip tightening with every mile they ventured until she had disappeared into the belly of a convoluted garden. Akasha dragged Louis about the thistles and thorns, and when she came across a diminutive body of water, she let her hands relocate to the nape of Louis' neck before thrusting his face into the water before holding him upright while sweeping his hair back from his face. “All you had to say was 'make me king, Akasha',” she sneered, her face but a finger's width apart from his own. “We are not children. You will not win my affection by pulling on my hair, and you most certainly will not get very far by spitting at me.”

She resumed her sojourn to her resting place, her hands abandoning the broad surface of his shoulders soon afterward. Without another word, she dug deep into the damp soil, unearthing enough room for the pair of them. Once she had finished, she crawled towards her discarded companion and with a muddied hand, she grasped the underside of his jaw, the steepled edges of her nails burying themselves beneath his flesh. “I will teach you to beg like the mongrel that you are. I will humble you, and when I believe that you have come to understand the ramification of your ways, only then will you receive the treatment I never bestowed upon Lestat.”

Akasha looked upon Louis with the tenacity of a lioness – no second was wasted on impulsive blinking, as if doing so would obliterate him from view. “It did not have to be this way.”

Revival

[wretchedmother-blog]

 thevampirecreole وقد استيقظت الملكة

“Why, what an outstanding anomaly. You look to be my green-eyed specter, my would-be king, though I can see it in your face that you are depraved of torture. Might you be a demon who seeks solace in my court?”