Hand at its own will left the arched back for the slim fingers to bury in the black locks of hair. It was a whim, no more. There was no love, no hate, no gut-wrenching absurdities polluting the mind. It was clean and blank, willing to take in the new boundaries designed by the new deity on top of him. I mean, what else could the crushnik be? He broke the most arrogant of creatures that dared to defy even death in its right to rule the brute’s fate. What could there be beyond the master of the food chain but not the thunderous god, wrathful yet merciful? Though the crushnik felt no different than flesh and bone of others’, the brute force that animated it could not have been of this earth. And Dimitri was willing to believe that, willing enough to conceit to his fate as the humble servant of the legendary champion of human existence if only to keep away from the burning flames of the deity’s fury. The desire to live never ebbed away.
He gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. If he’d remember, there was no doubt spite in him would speak. But if he did not, then words would be left unspoken, though they would linger behind the thin lips. But Dimitri honestly couldn’t remember any longer the language Leopold spoke. His native tongue was dominating with its rolling r’s and softly spoken s’s. The vampire’s clutch of the raven locks tightened as the other’s teeth graced his ear, yet he was no longer thinking of the present predicament. Instead the lips moved in last farewell of the old life to mouth the names of past friends, comrades, lovers. It pained to say, but they would all have to leave for him to live in peace with the cannibal. Alas, forgetting was not easy, thought Leopold was lightening his burden with the hot caresses.