Not your everyday playground {Griffin;Aloes/Lilith}

The witch's heart is a patchwork of coronaries weaved from corn-husk. It beats the loudest near midnight, when the demented melodies of the netherworld rise from the ground below and foul spirits dance alongside her shadow. 

The witch's heart is cold and rotten. 

She's phantasmagorical, a being born of the umbrage, an extension of death. She watched as a spear left a hole in Asha's throat and laughed as his knees and the kingdom he's built crumble to the ground. 

She has a heart, but it is not a human's. 

When Aloes came forth for a second war, dark amusement slithers across Lilith's features.

“Oh, cousin.” Her tone is saccharine, but what underlies it is poison. “I don't play.” A finger picks up and toys with a strand of her hair, golden like the flowers that survived the winter's hunger.

“But, I want to see if you bleed the same red as me.”

It happens like thunder and lightning — brisk and merciless, vicious and unforgiving.  

Lilith Lumiere frees the wooden stake she hid in her black satin blouse and

tries to draw blood from her own blood. 

She can see the determination in Aloes's eyes, burning like the splinters of an inferno, raging after triumph ecstatically. 

And, it makes Lilith even more ravenous to destroy, to rob what her heart desires because she is, and always had been, a wicked girl. No rest for the wicked, or so the saying goes. 

“I think we both remember exactly what my or your blood's like.”

Of course, she remembers. She could recall each scene with supernatural vividness — how their swords bit each other as rabid dogs would, how she drew crimson, and how she defeated her.

Yet, she feigns oblivion and plays pretend. It's more entertaining that way. 

“I am ancient, Aloes. I need a memory jogger every now and then.”

She remembers and still holds on to the hatred she has for them — the princes and princesses, with golden pedestals beneath their feet, hair like the stars that the darkness has yet to devour.

“Be a darling and bleed for my spirits.” Her palm wrapped around the wooden stake retreats, whilst the other free one reaches out for the blunt on a nearby rack.

Each serrated teeth of the weapon lunges for the girl like a starving creature. “Perhaps, being a blood sacrifice will bring some worth to you.”

Silence pervades and she disturbs it with the crack of a bone — the spiked blunt's iron blooming lilac on Aloes's collarbone. All of this violence sounds majestic, rousing the creatures and the ghouls within her heart. She hungers for more.

But, a surge in the heart blinds her for a mere moment and the girl uses it to her advantage. She sees the sword but she is slowed by time.

Its kiss of silver draws a scream out of her.  

“You foolish girl!”

Posthaste, Lilith makes a safe distance between them, hand clutching at the wound. The red bleeds into the black, and it would seem morbidly poetic to her if she isn't so furious.

Fingers move, a sleight of hand, and guide the sharpened tooth of her wooden stake home. Aloes bleeds again, and it's a sweet, sweet sight. 

Her vengeance roars.