Black Morass toward salvation

there is bliss. momentary joy as he is held in the arms of his sister. as he breathes in her scent. as he thinks of what could have been—what almost was, but could not be.

she pulls away and all remains is the coldness in the lack of her. thantos eyes harden momentarily, looking down upon her face, and he speaks through a tense jaw. he holds land. he says. so he is better than the last.

and he leaves it at that, because then a seductress appears from the vines. the sashay of her hips like a whisper of promise, a beckoning finger that thantos hardly can resist. eyes move from her hips to her eyes in slow motions so that she has time to notice how he gawks upon her.

it is then he decides he shall stay.

i am thantos. his accent a smoky mix of his father and mothers. the entangling of spanish lilt and greek sword. and what do they call you? it is jarring how quickly his attention can switch between women. ione is mounted by another man now—not that she ever really, truly allowed thantos the opportunity—and so he must turn his eye upon another!

thantos does not mourn what is lost.