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Her heartbeat traveled like velvet through his realm. Continuously, deliberately and alive. Where time doesn’t flow and space is unstable, the life that lingers is one that will die out very, very soon.
How it came to be that this child (and he knew, she was such – what else?) had entered his realm after the man that held such wretched intentions to destroy his own, he could not bring himself to understand. But humans as they were never walked with right or reason, never chose what was correct.
And when the forsaken son of God can tell you this – the one, banished upon creations for violence that festered in his throat like thorns of roses – then it would be known that there were issues in need of solving.
(Dialga and Palkia should thank him for saving them from the demise they were about to bring upon the world at the hand of a simple human. They should seek his forgiveness, for messing up as badly as they had when he was supposed to be the worst of the worst. Father should claim him as his greatest creation, for he saved the world he so foolishly formed.)
The girl had followed before the blonde woman had. He knew this, for he felt their every move – their presence. And wasn’t that just a little bit tragic?
But this was his world. Not theirs. What they decide is right or wrong means nothing.
--Why she did it, he wouldn’t know for certain. To save that man with hatred in his gaze didn’t seem plausible – was a foolish idea, if ever there were such a thing. And he couldn’t believe it to be so, for he had witnessed her fight him even within this realm that she held no place in.
Brave, yet stupid. And that stupidity had earned her a permanent stay within his home.
Pity.
… However, he couldn’t stop watching her. With bruises upon her skin that were something he himself hadn’t adorned in thousands of years – with her hand, continuously cupping her left shoulder as though she needed to keep it in place. He knew there was blood that stained her knees under a flimsy skirt and coat, yet it brought all the more appeal to her tiny physique.
So small, so fragile.
--When was the last time he ever saw such a thing? He himself never bleed – could not, would not. Yet she did and the iron scent was prominent through his home no matter where he traveled, no matter how far away or how close.
She was everywhere and nowhere and he could not let his eyes off her for long. Graced the sky and space of shifting surroundings, called for her in echoes that bubbled like laughter within his throat which only prompted those same bruised legs to pump into a run. Frantic. Frightened.
It was delightful to watch her.
For her suffering was one of her own doing… Not his. He had not trapped her with him. He had not pulled her – only the man.
The little lamb only had herself to blame.
So as days turned to a single week, was it so odd that a being as delicate as a human would start to wither? As a flower (something that could not flourish within his domain, no matter his attempts in bringing those things about) deranged of soil and sunlight and water – cheeks would hollow and limbs would be less likely to carry their weight.
--He often would find her curled up, knees that would not heal against her chest as Pokémon she thought to be guards took turns in keeping an eye on her. Stood and waited, to alarm her of his presence whenever he dared get too close.
It didn’t deter him, it truly didn’t. It was, however, amusing that she thought herself capable of defending herself against him.
It was laughable to think she could escape his grasp once he had a hold of her young, small body. Laughable, to think that he would not touch her if given the chance – would not drink in the sorrow that clouded her eyes in waking hours as though it was honeysuckle that would bring him nutrients he so desperately needed.
It was laughable that she thought she wasn’t his. That she thought herself to be her own person, when she clearly – oh, so clearly, belonged to him.
And he would have his taste of her. As one week turned into two, she was alone most of the time. Curled up, moving between homes stolen from worlds long past. Crawling when her limbs would not carry her weight – passing out, as the minimum of nutrients she still carried within her packing slowly disappeared. With each sip of aged, lukewarm water, the worse she faired.
It was beauty in its most tragic form. And each breath she took, seized his own.
When she slept for longer than was acceptable – he would cry for her to hear. To spur her, keep her as long as was possible. During nights, he yearned to be close. To feel her breath against scaled skin.
(Oh, how wonderful it would be.)
--The little thing rarely spoke. A terribly, terribly unfortunate thing that was. For when he listened to her, when she heard her cry in misery for safety – “It hurt, I want to go home please, please please please someone-“ – he felt nothing but sinister, rotten and reprehensible arousal and need.
How he came to enjoy her so much was a mystery.
Yet her body would not hold on forever. He knew death was approaching as bones prominently protruded from her shoulders. As eyelids became impossible to keep up and only twitches of fingers signaled life within the skeletal shape of a girl he came to desire.
--Could he let her die? Of course. She would become but a memory in his domain – a stain of the oddities that already sit prominent around them.
Another foreign object in a land of mismatch timelines.
The question however was; would he let her die?
The serpent would steal her that night. Carry her in tendrils that should do nothing but harm. Took her to where the humans had once exited and knew – if he wished for it to be so – that she could leave as well. But as her back came to rest against the cold, harsh stone that so sparsely decorated the surface, she already laid dead.
Gone.
--And she had never looked more beautiful. For he did not mourn, did not cry (impossible, foolish and ugly) for the shift in gravity rightfully should’ve crushed ever bone in her body in his quick ascend.
Perhaps he should’ve been more careful. But that was not in his nature.
Instead, he lowered himself against her. Caged her small frame in with his massive one and sought to find where the last of her life lingered before the wretched ghosts would steal her away (was that how it worked? Did humans share the fate of their more powerful counterpart? He feels as though he should know this – but what about them did he truly know?)
When he found an inkling of her soul – he selfishly hoarded it for himself. Kept it, nurtured it – and gave her what she had so unluckily lost.
In a last act, as darkness enclosed her and kept her with him – he would mark her.
A kiss, and she will never be anything but his.
‘Come back to me soon, little lamb. I’m waiting.’